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damneddamsy · 4 months ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part vii)

FREEFALL FUNCTION—Descent governed by forces outside one's control.

summary: After a disappearance shakes his world, Joel finds himself craving home, touches that promise, hands that stay.

a/n: I was in a really bad headspace, and that's why I wasn't replying a lot to your sweet comment (I've read them all, thank you so so much), or responding to messages. I just needed to get this chapter off my chest, because it's been building up to this, and I've been coming back a lot to fix this specific part so a lot of WARNINGS please: vague mentions of rape, lotsa violence, trauma, action, and just a fuckload of angst. also, LOVE. SO MUCH LOVE. hope you've got your hearts ready and some bandaids.

Joel was making a list.

A real mental inventory of all the fucked-up shit that had gone sideways since last night.

He had to. Otherwise, his head would be a mess of rage and regret, spinning in circles, getting him nowhere but down. And he needed to focus.

First, the crap he’d spewed at Leela—words he couldn't take back, words he didn't mean, words that sat like rusted nails in his gut. Sharp, corroded, poisoned with his own damn pride. He should’ve known better. But meaning didn’t matter. It was what she heard that counted. And what she heard had been enough to make her go quiet on him. Worse than yelling. Worse than anything. He’d rather she cussed him out, swung at him, anything but this.

Second—fucking Tommy. The son of a bitch dared to leave him behind on this run. Rode off without so much as a glance back, like Joel was the one being difficult. Like he was the one who needed space. Like he wasn’t the one who’d been fighting tooth and nail to put things right. And now he was playing some game of keep-away like Joel didn’t deserve to be part of it.

He clenched his jaw at that. He didn’t like being shut out, especially not by his own damn brother.

Third—his back. Christ. Riding non-stop for the past hour had him aching fiercely. His lower spine felt like it was grinding itself down to dust, and every bump in the trail shot pain clear up to his skull. He was too old for this endless shitwork, but stopping wasn’t an option.

And then—Leela. Because out of everything in his life that was spinning out of his control, she was the one thing he wasn’t willing to lose.

He hated it. He hated this helplessness. The desperation to know that she was alright. This madness was a product of his own idiocy.

Right. That was the list.

And now, this—this goddamn trail. Because like clockwork, the next thing to add to his tally of frustrations was creeping up on him before he saw anything.

The Colten Bay trail had started to look familiar—small bends in the path, the way the trees arched overhead, creating a canopy of shifting shadows. He'd been riding for two hours, maybe more, the passage of time lost in the churn of his thoughts. He wasn’t as good as Tommy at navigating these woods, not yet, but he wasn’t blind either.

The ruined road into the small town had gone quiet—too quiet. No wind whistling through the broken windows, no birds, no distant scurry of wildlife picking through the remains. Just silence, thick and suffocating,

He took it in as he rode in slowly, scanning the hollowed-out husk of a town that had been left to rot. Storefronts with shattered windows, doors hanging off hinges, sun-bleached signs dangled by rusted chains. Rusted-out trucks half-buried in overgrown grass. A rust-colored stain smeared across a brick wall, years old, but still dark enough to make something curdle in his gut.

Joel pulled up short, dismounting without taking his eyes off the wreckage. His boots hit the pavement with a dull thump, the heat of the sun bleeding into the soles of his feet.

It was even worse up close, but nothing he wasn't used to. He'd seen worse. Nature had started creeping back in—vines curling over stone, weeds splitting through the pavement—but it wasn’t enough to hide the bones of what had been left behind.

He adjusted his grip on his rifle, raised and cocked to take aim, his every sense straining for something—growls, clicks, rifles, shoes, anything.

Then he heard it.

A voice. Then voices. Faint, distant. Threading through the ruins.

Tommy. More specifically—his shitty brother’s loud-ass laugh.

Joel exhaled sharply, stock perched tight into his shoulder, trying to shake the tension curling through him. Tommy was laughing, which meant the dumbass wasn’t dead. Which meant there was no immediate danger.

Still, Joel pushed forward carefully, stepping over debris, keeping to the edges of the street.

And then he spotted them.

Tommy, standing outside a withering old appliance store, leaning against the frame with his rifle slung loose over one shoulder. Ellie was a few steps away, arms crossed, leaning on her rifle like she was already bored.

Ellie—fucking Ellie. What was she doing here? Did nobody think? Did nobody use their goddamn heads? She hadn't even been down this path before. Kid was going to get herself killed.

Joel barely had time to process it before Tommy caught his movement. His brother tensed immediately, his hand twitching toward his gun, already halfway to raising it before recognition hit.

Joel threw up a hand. “Jesus Christ, Tommy, it’s me.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, lowering his rifle. “Son of a bitch—”

Joel didn’t let him finish. “The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out low and edged, riding the line between frustration and relief, still fueled by the panic that had been burning through his veins for the last two hours.

Tommy gave him a flat look. “Right now? ‘Bout to blow your goddamn head off.”

His pulse thundered, but he forced himself to keep steady. “You were goin’ off alone? Did you want to get your ass kicked?”

Tommy scoffed. “Toldja, not a tough job. In and out.” He tilted his head toward Ellie. “And I’m not alone. I’ve got the kid. And the whizkid.”

Ellie grumbled. “How am I still a...? Ugh.”

And as if Leela even counted as a backup. How the hell was she supposed to protect anything? What was she gonna do—build a goddamn time machine? Throw a wrench at danger? Jump in a fucking toolbox? She could hardly walk without wincing half the time, always too lost in her head, too quiet, too—

Joel exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand down his face before turning to Ellie. She barely acknowledged him, arms still crossed tight, scuffing her boot against the pavement like she was already tired of waiting.

He huffed, stepping over, and giving her shoulder a firm squeeze. Just checking. Just making sure. She was real, breathing, safe, alive.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Ellie rolled her eyes, glancing up at him. “Relax, old man. No one's dead yet.”

Joel's jaw ticked.

She jerked her chin toward the store. “Your girl’s back there. Still scrounging up stuff.”

Joel stalked forward without another word to her. The place within was dim, slats of dying afternoon light slanting through the busted-out windows, casting long, jagged shadows across rows of overturned shelves. The air reeked of stale plastic and mildew, and somewhere, a strip of metal dangled from the ceiling, creaking with the breeze.

He stepped past a shattered washing machine, careful with his footing, ears straining.

His fingers flexed around the stock of his rifle, irritation already flooding his focus. Stupid. This was so fucking stupid.

Leela was nowhere in sight. Just more and more metal shelves stripped bare, and the soft creak of something shifting toward the back.

He found her there—half-hidden behind the last row of shelves, grunting as she wrestled with the handle of a rusted cart already stacked high with shit he didn't know the names of—gears, belts, maybe the guts of an old dryer. Heavy-looking. Useless-looking.

Joel barely stopped himself from cursing out loud. “Jesus, darlin'.”

She glanced up then, catching sight of him, eyes flicking to the rifle still in his hands. He saw the brief tension in her shoulders, and the slight narrowing of her eyes, before he wordlessly slung the weapon back over his shoulder.

“Joel,” she greeted, a little surprised but didn’t care enough to show it.

Just Joel. As if he hadn’t spent the last two hours riding like a maniac through the woods, as if she hadn’t left Maya alone like she hadn’t done the most reckless, mind-numbingly foolish fucking thing she could’ve possibly done.

There were so many things he wanted to say. To lay into her, to yell, to cuss her out, to tell her what a fucking idiot she was.

For leaving Maya alone. For coming out here, unprepared, with Tommy of all people. For not thinking—despite whatever had happened between them—that she could have left the baby with him. Because that was how it worked. That was how relationships worked. Or would have worked. If they had ever thought to address what the fuck they were. Too friendly neighbours? Co-parents? A friend he really wanted to belong to for the rest of his life? Just two people who knew each other too well?

No, but she looked fine. Which would've been great if it didn't piss him off even more. As if she hadn’t made him lose his goddamn mind these past few hours.

His jaw ticked as his gaze flicked down, scanning her, frustration mounting as he catalogued every stupid decision she’d made today.

She’d put on a nice windbreaker—for once—yet she was completely underdressed for the trip. No flashlight strapped to her pack. No holster. No decent boots. And for the love of all that was holy—where the fuck were her pants?

She was in nothing but those annoying tiny shorts, legs all bared for the claws or teeth of a clicker, like she thought she was going out for a fucking morning stroll instead of a dangerous supply trip with Tommy.

Joel exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. Stupid, stupid girl.

And she was looking at him like she was waiting. Like she knew exactly what was coming.

Proving her right, he took a slow step forward. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?”

Leela didn’t flinch. She just looked back at him, even, hands tightening over the handle of the cart. “Didn’t realize I needed permission from you.”

“Ain’t about permission. It’s about sense.” His voice dropped lower, biting. “Somethin’ you seem to be lackin’.”

Leela didn’t rise to it. She never did. It seemed to be this ongoing habit of hers. She just let the words settle between them, let it fester, before she turned her focus back to the cart like she’d already decided he wasn’t worth arguing with.

And that? That made something in Joel snap.

“Y'know, you're always thinkin’, but you don’t think, do you?” His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists before he could reach for her, shake some goddamn sense into her. “You’re out here, in the middle of this—” He gestured vaguely at the abandoned town, at the dust, the dried blood smeared across the floor, the risk that was so apparent to him and not to her, “—and you don’t even have a fuckin’ gun on you.”

“I have a knife in my bag,” she defended, but with not as much fight.

Joel let out a sharp, bitter scoff. “Is that gonna do much good against a clicker? Maybe they’ll take a step back, let you go ‘cause you've got a real nice set of kitchen knives in your pack.”

Leela’s expression didn’t change. “But, Tommy has a gun.”

Joel let out a humourless breath. “And I guess everyone else has fuckin’ daisies.”

She shrugged. “Ellie has a gun, too.”

“Oh, ain’t that perfect?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, his chest rising and falling harder now. “So, what, you’re just trustin’ everyone else in the goddamned town to keep you alive? You think that’s how it works?”

Leela didn’t blink. Didn’t react. Just stared at him, quiet, unmoving, in that way that had always fucking unnerved him. She wouldn't fight back for him.

And that silence? That refusal to defend herself, to say anything, to at least try to justify the absolute recklessness of what she was doing—it only pissed him off more.

Because if she didn’t care, if she wasn’t afraid—then what was he even doing? Why did he even bother?

Joel threw his hands up, biting back the string of curses burning the back of his throat. His patience had already been worn thin, sanded down to raw edges.

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping away like he was physically forcing himself to let go. “Do whatever the hell you want. I'm done.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch as he turned sharply on his heel, raking a hand through his hair, his pulse still thrashing out the remnants of his irritation.

She could've spared him a little fight. Snapped something cutting, something sharp enough to match the anger buzzing beneath his skin. But instead, she said quietly—

"I think that’s how trust works."

The words landed deep, right in the place where things stuck—where they burrowed and festered before he could shove them down.

It should’ve been just another one of her quiet, cryptic remarks. No, this felt undeniable.

That’s all she’d ever wanted from him, wasn’t it? From the beginning, it was for him to trust her. For her to trust him. To trust that she could handle herself. That she wasn’t this fragile, breakable thing that needed to be caged for safekeeping.

And him—he’d been too fucking blind in his own haze of anger and anxiety to see it.

Leela didn’t wait for him to say anything. She just turned, dragging the cart behind her, grating against the ageing floorboards with a long scrape. Moving forward, focused, methodical, searching.

Ignoring him completely.

Joel exhaled hard, grounding himself, still riding the tail end of his frustration. Because the worst part was that she was right. But he would never admit that.

A sudden, violent crack split the air. The sound of wood splintering. The groaning of something old, something giving way.

Joel’s stomach lurched. His head snapped up just in time to see the floor beneath her buckle, the rotted planks slumping under her weight. Her hands jolted out instinctively, fingers clawing at empty air, a piping scream tearing out her throat.

Then, nothing. She was gone.

“Leela—!” Joel surged forward, reaching before he could think—but it was too late.

The floor swallowed her whole, boards snapping shut like a broken jaw, dust curling up in thick, choking plumes. The sound of her landing—hard, jarring—hit his ears like a gut punch. Then came the whine of shifting debris. The scrape of metal. Her groan strained with effort.

That sound. A sick, inhuman clicking.

Joel’s pulse kicked like a gunshot. His muscles locked, his body firing forward on instinct before his mind could even catch up.

Fucking clicker. It was down there with her.

The thought sent a cold, ruthless and electric prickle ripping through his chest.

Joel barely had time to think. A screech echoed up from the basement, followed by the hysterical sound of struggle, of something heavy slamming into concrete.

He dropped to his stomach over the broken floorboards, rifle braced, eyes straining through the broken planks. His flashlight cut through the dust, the yellow beam sweeping frantically over crumbled furniture, cracked linoleum and rusted-out shelving.

Then the light found her.

Leela was on her back, breathing hard, limbs tangled in broken debris. And above her—

The clicker.

It was on her.

Face sickly split and scarred like some rotting flower from the overgrowth of Cordyceps. Snarling, yellowed teeth dripping, gnashing too close, pinning her down. Hands curled into claws, raking at her shoulders and throat, missing if not for Leela's battling strength. Its body convulsed, straining forward with desperate, single-minded hunger. To feed. To kill. To infect.

And she was holding it off. Barely.

“I got you, baby, I got you,” he whispered aloud, fists tight around his rifle, taking aim.

Joel’s trembling hands steadied, years of muscle memory overriding the blind panic gripping his chest, his heartbeat a rapid-fire hammer against his ribs. His thoughts narrowed into one singular focus: kill the fucker.

But he didn’t have a clean shot.

The clicker was thrashing, too close, too erratic, its face just inches from hers. One wrong move and—his stomach roiled at the thought.

"Hold it there!" he yelled.

Leela didn’t respond—only sucked in a breath and turned her head, her knee jerking up to slam into the thing’s gut, rearing it back an inch—just enough.

Joel fired.

The first shot grazed its shoulder, making it shriek.

The second and third shots went straight through its skull. The fourth one, although completely unnecessary, sparked off from his trigger.

The clicker went rigid, its movements stuttering like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then it slumped. Its deadweight crashed onto Leela, forcing the breath from her lungs in a sharp, strangled sound.

For a long second, Joel didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. His mind was still catching up, reeling from how fast it had happened. One second she was standing there, the next—she was nearly gone. Taken from him. He saw a flash of what could've been if he hadn't made that shot.

His hands were shaking.

Boots pounded against the floorboards behind him, but the sound barely registered until Tommy's voice cut through—sharp, urgent.

“The hell happened?”

“Where is she?” Ellie demanded, rifle raised.

Joel was already moving.

“I got her, I got her,” he ground out hoarsely, twice to himself, barely keeping up with the adrenaline roaring through him.

Without hesitation, he leapt straight down into the hole, landing hard on the basement floor, his knees taking the brunt of the impact. He came up, rifle-first, and his flashlight swept the space—shadows stretching long against the damp walls, old shelves lining the perimeter, nothing but silence now.

Leela had already pushed the dead clicker off her, chest rising and falling too fast, breath coming in sharp inhales, hands clenched into her shirt collar, shoulders drawn tight. She hadn't moved beyond that.

Joel was on her in an instant, pushing her hair out of the way. “I'm here. You're okay.”

But the moment his hands found her skin—

She screamed.

It wasn’t just fear or panic. It was an impulse. It was raw, broken, blood-curdling, a sound that clawed its way out of her throat like she was being torn apart.

She thrashed against him, full-bodied, desperate, her hands flying up, kicking him off, shoving at his chest, nails catching against the rough fabric of his jacket. She was fighting with everything she had, body twisting, gasping through sobs, her strength fueled by something deep and unconscious.

"No—no, please, please—stop!"

Joel flinched.

Not at the force of it. Not at the hit.

At the sound. At the way she said it. Like she wasn’t here. Like she wasn’t seeing him. Like she was still down there in the dark, with that fucking thing clawing at her.

It hit somewhere he didn’t have words for, someplace that made his stomach twist and his ribs squeeze tight.

Because she wasn’t just afraid.

She didn’t recognize him. For a second—a heartbreaking second—he was just another set of hands on her, just another force holding her down, just another compulsion, and the thought of that—of her looking at him and not knowing him—it fucking gutted him.

But he didn’t let go.

“Hey,” he coaxed, his grip firm but cautious, hands bracing her shoulders, keeping her still, not trapping her, just holding on. “It’s me.”

She was still fighting him. Still gasping. Still somewhere else.

His hands moved—one sliding up, cupping her face, fingers pressing into her skin, desperate, grounding, his thumb stroking over her cheek like he could physically pull her back.

"Just look at me," he murmured, voice softer now, voice wrecked.

Her body was still trembling beneath his hands, her muscles locked tight, her pulse battering out a frantic rhythm beneath his fingertips.

And it hurt like shit. Hurt to see her like this, to know that she was still drowning in what he couldn't touch, that she was still lost, still bracing for a fight that was already over.

So he did the only thing he could.

He took her hand. Brought it to his shivering lips. Pressed a kiss into her palm, firm, warm, real.

“It’s me,” he urged.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched against his skin. Her vision cleared. Then she saw him. Finally saw him, those brown eyes focusing.

And in that split second, her body wilted against his. The fight drained from her like water slipping through open hands, leaving only exhaustion, only relief, only the sharp, shaking remnants of fear still rattling in her chest.

Her lips parted, and a single, barely-there whisper fell from them—

“Joel?”

Joel exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath this whole time. Like the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over her cheek, over the damp trail left behind by her tears. Her pulse was still too fast, still too frenzied beneath his fingertips, and that tightness in his coiled harder.

He wanted to tell her she was safe. That it was over. That she was alright. But his voice was too fucking broken to say any of it.

He swallowed hard, still fighting the residual panic gripping his chest. He had to see. He had to know.

“Let me see,” he rasped, his hands already moving, frantic, fierce. “I have to see if...”

His fingers swiped up her sleeves and lapels, moving too fast, running over her arms, his mind slating every inch of skin, checking, counting. No bites. No scratches. No bleeding.

Down her sides. Down her shoulders and neck. Down her thighs. Down her calves—and his stomach dropped.

“Oh, Christ.” The words left him in a breathless rasp, barely there.

At the back of her calf—a deep, glistening wound. Blood ran in a slow, damning trickle down into her shoe.

Joel's inhale caught in his throat. The edges of his vision blurred. His ears started to ring.

No. No, no, no—not like this. Not now. Not her.

His hands loomed over it, useless, fingers twitching, unable to touch, unable to breathe.

The panic surged like wildfire, like an explosion inside his chest, riving through every thought, every shred of calm, reducing everything to one singular, burning horror.

This couldn’t be happening. What could he do? He couldn't stop this. No, this was beyond him. His mind scrambled, flipping through every second of the fight, anguished, reckless, trying to remember—had the thing bitten her? Had it broken skin? Had it—

His pulse roared in his ears, hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.

He was losing her.

His throat closed up. His fingers curled into fists.

He was losing her. He was losing her. He was losing her.

Again, and again, and again.

His vision tunnelled, narrowed down to the blood, to that slow, seeping trickle, red against her skin, a death sentence in real time. He swiped his thumb over the wound, barely thinking, breathing, hoping maybe it'll sicken him too, because he couldn't take another blow, another fight—

And—his finger nudged something hard. Not a claw mark. Not torn flesh. Not infection.

A splinter.

A sharp piece of wood, lodged deep under the broken skin.

Leela flinched, hissing in pain. “Ow.”

His entire world tilted, cracked, and realigned itself in the space of a heartbeat.

And then—he crashed. His whole body sagged, the relief so brutal, so fucking absolute, it nearly knocked him flat. His head dropped forward, breaths rattling back into him, shaking, breaking.

“You're fine. You're okay.”

It hit him so hard, he felt dizzy. Like he’d been standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to fall—and suddenly, somehow, he was back on solid ground.

His hands found her again, gripping her tight, pulling her into him, pulling her against him because he needed to feel it, needed to know she was here.

He pressed her face into his neck, arms locked around her, one palming her head, the other over the edge of her braid, holding on like his body was still catching up to what his brain knew now—that she was okay. That she was still here. That she was still his.

His heart was still hammering, still pounding out a brutal rhythm against his ribs, his breath coming fast, too hard, too jagged. All he could think about was how much he lived for this girl, that he couldn't take another step forward without her, that he'd lose all purpose in this damned world.

He turned his face into her hair, pressing a kiss there, desperate, lingering. He pushed his lips wherever he could reach; eyes, temple, ears, jaw; it didn't matter. As long he could convince himself she was real.

"You stay with me," he whispered, voice muffled into her hair. "You stay."

She didn’t have to say anything back. She just clung to him, hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, her breath still sharp, still ragged, still too goddamn close to slipping away from him.

After a long moment, she pulled away, a little more than uneasy, her hands shaking as she swiped roughly at her eyes, breath uneven, fingers bruised, arms bruised, skin mottled in dark, ugly shades.

Joel saw it all. The marks. How badly she was still trembling. How she still hadn’t fully caught her breath. And something inside him cracked—deep, marrow-deep, where all the old wounds lived.

He couldn’t lose her. Not ever.

Clenching his jaw, he reached behind her way too roughly, into her pack, shuffling things around until he felt it.

He found the knife. And pressed it into her hands, firm, insistent.

"Knife in your hands," he said, voice gruff, still rigid, still devastated. "Not your pack, you hear me?"

Leela nodded shakily, fingers closing around the handle.

And Joel just sat there for a moment, staring at her, still feeling the phantom panic in his veins, still trying to convince himself that she was okay.

That she was here. That he hadn’t lost her.

Tommy wasn’t buying it.

And it pissed Joel off. Piled onto the other—what? Five? Six? A dozen? He’d lost count—things already on his shitlist.

Still, he kept his distance. Kept Ellie back, too, for no reason, discounting the fact that she was immune.

Leela dragged the overflowing cart forward on the dead street, limping slowly. The old thing rattled, wheels stuttering over cracks in the pavement. Every so often, she’d stop—digging through rusted-out trucks, popping the hoods of long-dead cars, arms trembling as she reached in, feeling around for parts.

The afternoon sun beat down on them like a long-suffering punishment. It baked the asphalt and turned the air stuffy and dry. She was struggling. Joel could see it—the slack in her shoulders, the sluggish, tired way she moved, the way the limp in her step was getting worse. She was running on fumes.

He’d managed to pull the splinter from her calf, and cauterized the wound with the searing end of the rifle barrel, just in case. She’d cringed hard, let out a yelp, and gone stiff beneath his hands, but she hadn’t cried. Hadn’t fought him on it. Hadn’t even looked at him afterwards.

He’d bound it up tight with a strip of his flannel, close and snug. And that was that.

But fucking Tommy was still keeping his distance.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, scowling as his brother trailed behind her, still gripping his rifle like he was waiting for the worst. At least ten paces back. Observing for twitches. He wasn't wrong for being cautious, but Leela was seeing it, feeling it, how she was being treated like an inconvenience.

Ellie clucked her tongue from beside him, shifting uncomfortably. “You're such a cruel bitch, man,” she muttered. “She’s probably fine.”

“Probably ain’t good enough,” Tommy answered flatly. “Not takin’ any chances.”

Joel clenched his jaw, tension winding tight in his chest. Since when was his brother, the ex-Firefly, the bleeding heart, suddenly such a cynic?

“Joel?” Ellie shot him a look, voice careful, hesitant. A little afraid to ask. “It wasn’t a bite, right?”

His patience splintered as he bit out through his teeth, addressing his brother instead. “If I say it one more time, Tommy, it’ll be after I break your goddamn rib.”

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head. “Hey, don’t blame the messenger.”

Joel didn’t bother with a response—just slammed his shoulder hard into Tommy’s as he passed, enough to make his brother stumble, grumbling under his breath. Thought it would make him feel better, but surprise, surprise; he should've just tripped the son of a bitch on his ass.

He didn’t care. Not about Tommy’s paranoia, about the way he was still watching Leela like she was a loaded gun with a faulty trigger. It made Joel feel like shit.

Now, he refused to believe in a lot of things, but he believed in his own eyes. And his eyes told him she was not infected.

So he strode ahead, sifting into his pack, and digging out his water bottle. Hadn’t refilled it in two days, but she needed it more than he did.

He reached her side, matching her pace. “Have some,” he said, holding it out.

Leela didn’t look at him. Kept walking.

Joel ground his teeth, his grip on the bottle tightening. “Drink.” His tone brooked no arguments.

She sighed, glancing at him sideways, eyes dull, vacant. “What if I’m infected?”

Joel nearly stopped in his tracks. “You’re not infected,” he muttered, exasperated. “There's no sign.”

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Her voice was thin. She pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead, hard, like she could grind the thought out of her skull. Punish herself with it.

“You were right, Joel. I’m always thinking—but it’s never about the right things. Maya, my research, my home... this is all on me.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy twisting in his gut. "Look, what I said earlier—how I—”

"I don’t care anymore,” she cut in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I deserved that.”

Joel felt that like a gun wound with no clean exit. She said it like a fact like she'd decided this. Could she not stop being so goddamn awful to herself for two seconds? Maybe not lay a bad trip on herself every time something went south?

His grip on the water bottle tightened. He took a breath and fought for patience.

"You didn't deserve shit." His voice was lower now, rough around the edges. "You fought your ass off, and you’re still here. You survived. That’s it. End of story, movin' on."

She didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him.

Joel hated this. Hated watching her walk like that, shoulders hunched, eyes distant, like she was already halfway gone.

Like she wasn’t even trying to hold herself together anymore.

He shoved the water bottle toward her again. “Drink the goddamn water.”

Joel watched as she took the water bottle, hesitating for just a second.

Then she raised it to her lips and gulped down what was left, fast, like she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until now. Water spilled from the corner of her mouth, slipping down her chin, but she didn’t bother wiping it away. Just drank until the bottle was empty until she had to stop and take a breath.

Joel let her have that moment. Then he took the cart handle from her grasp and took the load off her. Leela didn’t argue. Just fell in beside him, silent, exhausted.

It was just then that Ellie's complaints started up. When Ellie's grousings about 'severe FEDRA-level slavery,' got on his nerves, Tommy finally threw up his hands and called for a break.

They stopped at the next street corner, gathering under the shade of a souvenir shop. Tommy passed out rations—peanut butter sandwiches from Jackson, stale at the edges but still good enough. Ellie tore into hers immediately, swinging her boots where she perched on the ledge of the broken storefront window, crumbs scattering at her feet.

Joel didn’t even have to look at Leela to know what was coming. She hesitated, turned the sandwich over in her hands, once, twice—like she was waiting for some spark of appetite that never came.

"I’m not hungry," Leela muttered, setting the sandwich beside her knee before pushing herself up.

Joel watched as she stepped away, moving toward the shop entrance like she was just stretching her legs like she hadn’t been looking for some rest since they sat down.

He sighed and let her go.

Ellie frowned, still chewing. She glanced at the sandwich Leela left behind, then at Joel. "She eat anything today?"

Joel shook his head once. "I don't think so."

Ellie sighed. Then she dusted off her hands and hopped down from the ledge, following after her.

By the time Ellie caught up, Leela was already inside, wandering between toppled racks and glass cases that had long since been looted. Her fingers trailed over warped magazines and stacks of yellowed postcards, her touch too soft, like she was afraid anything more would make them crumble.

Ellie grabbed a few postcards from a rusted wire display, flipping through them. Bright colours, frozen places—little glimpses of a world that didn’t exist anymore.

"Hey," Ellie said, nudging one toward Leela. "What about this? Looks so cool."

Leela blinked like she was only just realizing Ellie was there. She glanced down. A postcard—a sun-soaked coast, palm trees stretching lazily over white sand. Probably reminded her of her before home, her lip twitching up a little.

Leela flipped it over, scanning the faded text. “Mallorca.”

“You been there?”

A pause. And then, a small nod.

Ellie plucked another—this one softer, the colours faded from time, the name written in neat cursive along the bottom. “An...ti...bees. Anti-bees. Never even heard of that.”

Leela didn’t even glance at it, and nodded again. “Antibes. France. Been there, too.”

Ellie studied her, then stuffed the postcards into her jacket. "Shit. You’ve been everywhere. Awesome."

Leela didn’t say anything or smile back. Didn’t brag, the way Ellie probably wanted her to. She continued to flip through the postcards like they were meaningless. Like they weren’t memories at all.

Joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard, his eyes never leaving her. She looked so small in there. As if she could’ve been just another part of the abandoned store—one more thing left behind.

“Joel.” Tommy’s voice cut through his observation, low and careful.

Joel barely glanced at him. Just kept chewing through the sandwich Leela had given him, eyes still on the store.

Tommy hesitated. “What’s the plan if she turns?”

Joel stopped chewing. The words landed like a slow knife to the ribs. He wanted to put a hole through that window just listening to it.

He swallowed, rolling his jaw. “I said she ain’t gonna turn.”

“I know, but—” Tommy exhaled, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Look, I believe you. But I gotta ask, ‘cause if you’re wrong—”

Joel turned to face him fully now, expression hard as stone. Seething. “Tommy.”

“Would you shoot her?” Tommy asked, blunt.

Joel barely chewed his last bite. The bread felt dry in his mouth, sticking to the roof of his mouth like dust, but he swallowed it down anyway, his eyes locked on the store where Leela was standing, a little more life in her eyes as Ellie attempted to cheer her up with her endless supply of puns.

Tommy’s question still stuttered his mind. Would he shoot her? Could he shoot her?

Joel wanted to say yes. He wanted to say he wouldn’t hesitate, that if she turned, he’d do what had to be done. That’s what he was good at, wasn’t it? Putting things down when they needed to be. Bear the brunt of the hard decisions.

But the words didn’t come.

Instead, his mind raced ahead of him, flashing through all the things he didn’t want to see. Leela, breathing hard. Weeping. Pleading with him. He could hear it now, could picture it like it was real like it had already happened. Her voice breaking. That sharp, desperate shake of her head. Those big, dark eyes, utterly empty this time, hollow, her veins crawling black, twitching.

Please, Joel. I don't want to die. Would she fight him? Would she try to run? Would she make him do it?

Or worse—would she accept it? Would she nod, take one last breath, close her eyes and wait for the bullet?

His stomach turned. He knew Leela, even at times like this. She’d make it easy for him. She wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t run. Wouldn’t force him to wrestle her to the ground. She’d just—let it happen. Face his rifle head-on. Make it quick, Joel. I don't want to feel a thing. And that thought was worse than anything.

Joel exhaled slowly, rubbing at the knot forming between his brows.

But it didn’t stop there. Because then came the next part.

Maya. God, Maya.

His throat tightened, his chest constricting at the thought of her alone in that house, waking up hungry, crying, waiting for a mother who was never coming back. Waiting for Leela.

If she was gone—if Joel let that happen—what happened to her daughter?

Would he just hand her off to Maria without a second thought, because her mother's murderer couldn't touch a hair on that sweet head without tainting it? Or would he do it himself anyway, raise her, love her, stay with her in that big white house, tell her about a mother she’d never remember if only through pictures?

Joel inhaled sharply, cutting that thought off at the root. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t let his mind wander any further down that road.

His hand flexed where it rested on his knee, fingers twitching to his pant pocket where the imprint of the little button embossed on his thigh, the one that Maya had picked off the street last night and passed to him with that soul-crushing, gummy grin of hers.

The answer should’ve been easy.

It should’ve been an immediate yes. He should’ve said it by now.

How could he go back to being the man he'd been desperately trying to outrun? He wasn’t one to pull the trigger just because something looked bad anymore.

Because he knew better. Knew what it meant to lose. Knew what it meant to take. And the sheer fucking burden of it didn’t sit right on his soul.

Joel sighed, fiercely shaking his head. “We’re not havin’ this conversation.”

Tommy didn’t push, but Joel could feel him watching. Waiting.

And Joel hated it. The doubt, the uncertainty, the way it stuck to him like blood on his hands. Because the truth was—If it came to that, if she was turning, if there was no saving her—Joel wasn’t sure he could do it.

By the time they reached the lake, the more relaxing route toward Jackson, the day had worn them all thin. Relief was sweet, to Leela more than the others.

They deserved this breathing spell, maybe that's why Tommy took this trail. It had been miles of hot sun, dry wind, and half-dead exhaustion that hardened into the bones. Too many things had happened—too many conversations left half-finished, too many wounds, seen and unseen, still bleeding under the surface.

But here the air was clean, touched with crisp pine and cold water. The lake stretched out wide before them, the mountains cradling it like a secret, their peaks softened by the golden evening light. The cabins stood quiet among the trees, their wood dark with time, their windows empty.

Joel slowed his horse, taking a breath, letting his shoulders drop just a little.

He imagined Maya here, toddling in the shallows, barefoot and giggling, a little bucket hat over her feathery curls, stuffing her tiny fists with pebbles and leaving baby footprints in the wet mud. Happy. Safe. With her parents. The kind of afternoon that should’ve been normal for her.

He missed her. Too, too much. He absently rubbed the button at his pocket, bearing a small smile. Had it been really been the whole day? He couldn't wait to get back home, have her breathe out that panting, hitchy breath of laughter as she came wobbling for him.

Still, it was nice here. Peaceful. And for a second, it felt like they weren’t running.

He glanced over at Leela.

She was staring straight ahead at the lake’s smooth, glassy surface, her fingers slack around the reins of her horse. Not moving, not speaking, just looking.

“Actually kinda pretty, ain't it?” he murmured.

She only let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” she said eventually, voice barely above the hush of the wind.

He studied her for a moment—the way she looked at the lake without really seeing it, the way her voice didn’t match the lightness of her words.

She was doing that awful thing again. Reaching for something just out of her grasp. Trying to picture something that wouldn’t come.

Joel sighed and swung off his horse, moving toward hers. He took the reins, steadying the animal before tilting his head up at her.

“Go on, then.” He nodded toward the water. “Let your hair down for a bit. We're close to town anyway.”

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I'm good.”

“Now, darlin’—”

“Joel.” He heard it then—the edge to her voice. The exhaustion. “I'm not in the mood. Just go.”

Joel clenched his jaw till something popped. He didn’t let the disappointment show and didn’t press the issue. He knew better.

Just nodded once and turned away, walking toward where Tommy and Ellie stood by the lake, rolling out the tension from the day.

The breeze cooled off the water, lifting the heat that had weighed heavy on them. But Joel still burned not just from the sun, but from something else, a displaced load in his chest. He needed quiet.

He let himself wander, boots moving on their own past the cabins. The dirt was loose beneath him, old pine needles crunching, the scent of damp earth dense in the cooling evening. The distant rustle of birds carried over the water, but Joel barely heard it.

He was still too full of her voice. The way it wavered. The way she looked at him, absolutely devastated, before she had sighed.

He willed himself to focus on something else. Just the ground beneath him. Just the sky above him. Just breathe in, breathe out.

Until he saw it. He had to do a double-take, just to make sure he wasn't seeing stuff.

A cabin, the same size as the others, but this one—

This one was burned to hell. The entire thing had been gutted—charred black, the roof caved in, the porch sagging on its last, miserable legs. Windows blown out, the edges jagged with soot. The wood still smelled like it had burned recently, that sick, acrid stench of an electrical fire curling up in the back of his throat.

Joel stopped.

His muscles coiled tight, readied, breath slowing as he scanned the surrounding area.

The other cabins were untouched, not a mark on them. But this one had been burned down to the skeleton.

Something about it didn't sit right.

Slowly, Joel turned his head, looking over his shoulder. Ellie and Tommy were still by the lake, too far away, Ellie skipping rocks, Tommy saying something, hands moving as he talked. Leela was out of sight, hidden by the cover of trees and cabins.

Joel returned to the cabin in the spirit of inquiry, stepping onto what was left of the porch. The boards creaked, soft under his weight, and when he pushed open what remained of the door, the smell hit him like a gut punch—smoke, damp ash, something rotted.

The fire had torn through the inside just as bad as the outside. Everything was gone.

The walls were scorched, furniture reduced to blackened skeletons, and the mattress was little more than charcoal and wire. The space had been stripped of warmth, of life, reduced to nothing but ruin.

“Jesus.” The word barely left his lips before he saw them.

Two bodies.

Scorched. Twisted. Unrecognizable. Stilled in the exact positions they had died. One was closer to the bed, curled inward like they’d been trying to protect themselves from the heat. The other sprawled nearer to the door, obviously in an attempt to escape.

Joel knew that stance. He’d seen it before. Run and burn.

The uniform was barely there—scorched black, peeled away in places, but the collar remained intact enough to tell the story.

He crouched, eyes tracking across the floor, the details unravelling themselves in layers. Former FEDRA, probably. Runaways. Recently turned raiders. Even through the charring, he recognized the insignia on the camo-green collar.

Joel nudged what remained of the skull with his boot, the brittle bone breaking apart, collapsing inward like a dry leaf.

“Probably fuckin’ deserved it,” he muttered. But it didn’t bring him any comfort.

Something was off.

This wasn’t a FEDRA outpost. Wasn’t a checkpoint, a patrol route, or a resupply station. The room was too small, too personal. The furniture—what was left of it—wasn’t a regulation. The scattered remains weren’t military-grade. Yet, the whole place stank of it. Tyranny. Wealth. Power. Drugs. Rot.

Joel’s eyes roved over the wreckage. The fire hadn’t taken everything, though.

There, right by the bed—melted plastic, warped glass. Empty pill bottles and liquor containers. Loose zip locks, some of them still filled with white powder Joel used to begrudgingly peddle back in Boston. Ration packs from the QZ were torn open, contents spilling out like someone had been too impatient to open them properly.

It wasn’t a checkpoint.

It was a hideout. They must’ve holed up here for a while, waiting something out.

His gaze caught on a backpack, half-buried in the charred remains, its contents spilt out like someone had gone through it in a hurry. Charred clothes, a lighter, a flashlight, and utensils.

And a shoe. Small. A size too slight for a man’s foot. The soft leathery edges curled and blackened, but the tag inside was just barely readable beneath the soot.

Joel bent, brushing his thumb over it, knocking away the ash. The letters beneath made him snort. Some fancy Italian brand. Expensive. His mind flicked back—Leela’s house, her endless closets, neatly lined with shoes that didn’t belong in this world.

No wonder. It finally made sense for rich assholes to like places like this. They came out to the middle of nowhere to fuck around, get high, waste their shit on things that didn't matter.

Joel tossed the shoe aside and straightened, moving deeper into the wreckage. His hands brushed the charred edges of furniture, fingertips finding the brittle remnants of things that had once meant comfort—pillows turned to dust, a mirror warped in the heat, a chair crumpled inward.

Then he saw the rifle.

He smirked, his lucky day. Sure, it was smaller than his, the wood stained dark, almost black beneath the soot. Sturdy, thirty calibre, American-made, definitely not the kind of rifle you wouldn't see a FEDRA soldier have. It had been tossed aside near the backpack like someone had discarded it in a hurry.

He knelt, running his palm over the stock, feeling the grit of ash give way to smooth wood. The engraving beneath was faint, hidden in the dark, but as he brushed away the dust, it came through—delicate but unmistakable.

Cherries.

Joel heaved out a breath. His fingers stilled over the engraving, his pulse hammering against his ribs. A tiny mark, burned beneath layers of soot, was almost innocuous.

But he’d seen this before.

A different rifle. A different home.

A cowboy hat. A sunflower. A cherry.

The third missing rifle. One for each member of the family.

His stomach clenched. He could see them in his eyes—lined up in Leela’s living room, the weapons she never used, never even acknowledged. The ones that were hers but weren’t hers. Polished. Preserved. Like artefacts. Like gravestones.

His throat went tight, air pushing through his nose in a sharp, uneven breath. And all at once, his body knew before his mind could catch up.

Someone had been here. Not passing through. Not scavenging.

She had been kept here.

Joel’s body locked up, a sick load clinching in his gut as his gaze swept the room again—now searching, understanding.

The mattress—charred down to its skeleton, coiled metal peeking through, the last stubborn remnants of sheets melted into the frame.

The belt.

His vision sharpened. The straps melted into the mattress frame. The scorched edge of a leather belt, its buckle twisted from heat. The dark stains, layered beneath the soot, soaked deep into the wood. A clean through the knot.

Someone had fought like hell.

Joel exhaled through his teeth, his knuckles whitening where they curled at his sides.

His brain was putting it together faster than he wanted it to.

The burned clothes in the corner—ripped at odd angles, tossed aside like garbage.

The splintered chair—one leg broken, shards of wood scattered like someone had slammed it against the floor, against a body.

The walls—scuffed, handprints smeared past the soot, the echo of someone pushing away, fighting, failing.

That sinking feeling became madness, nausea heaving through him.

On the floor—long, thin, small. A black hair ribbon. Burned at the edges, and melted in places, but the middle of it was untouched. Still soft. Still delicate. Still, something that had once belonged to a girl. He'd seen Leela use it on her braids hundreds of times.

Joel’s breathing went ragged. His pulse pounded in his ears.

It felt like poison in his veins, the slow drip of information into his head.

The way she always kept her back to the wall. The way she flinched—not much, just barely—but enough, whenever someone moved too fast, whenever a shadow crossed her path the wrong way. The way she never talked about before Maya. Maya, god, Maya.

His chest squeezed, he had to press his palm just to make sure he wasn't about to pass out. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

The fire had tried to erase it. But it hadn’t.

The proof was here, in the remains. The belt. The bedframe. The ribbon. The rifle.

Joel turned back, his gaze landing on the scorched, skeletal remains near the door. His stomach twisted, white-hot rage flickering through the nausea.

He looked at them, looked at what was left of them, and felt nothing. No pity. No hesitation. No misery.

Whoever had done this—whoever had burned this place down, made sure it would never stand again—they had done the world a fucking favour.

He could see it then.

He didn’t want to, but his mind pulled it forward anyway, like a dark thing rising from deep water, clawing its way into the light.

The mattress sagging under the force of bodies. The fight. The struggle. The burn of restraints against soft wrists, the sharp crack of something breaking—bone, furniture, someone’s resolve. The walls shaking from the force of it. The air stifling, sultry with sweat, with smoke, with the stench of men who took what they wanted, heady from a trip, and left behind the wreckage.

When the screams began, his gut twisted, nausea kicking up sharp and fast.

Joel jerked back, sucking in a breath like he’d been underwater too long. His stomach lurched.

No.

Joel swallowed hard, his mouth tasting of ash and bile. He got the hell out of there, boots scraping over scorched wood, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His pulse roared against his skull, his stomach rolling, his whole body burning like he’d swallowed the poison of this place whole.

He turned, pushing through the ruined doorway, shoving out into the evening air.

The scent of fire clung to him. Smoke. Rot. The sounds.

He braced his hands against his thighs, head ducking down, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Breathe, he told himself. Forget it. Breathe.

But it wasn’t working.

The memories weren’t his, but they were in him now, crawling under his skin, working their way into the deepest crevices of his mind.

Joel had seen a lot of evil in his life. But this—this was something else. Worse. Something he should’ve never learned. And for the first time in a long time, he wished he had stayed the hell out of it.

So, he kept walking. Didn't look back. Fast at first, then faster.

The burned cabin shrank behind him, but its looming presence didn’t. It clung to his skin, sank into the seams of his clothes, and resigned heavy and dark in his lungs.

His boots pressed deep into the dirt, kicking up dust, dry pine needles snapping underfoot. He didn’t care where he was going, only that he was putting distance between himself and that place—that stain.

But the rifle was still in his hands.

His fingers tightened around it, feeling the soot, the grit, the filth of it digging into his palms, burning like it was branding him. He wanted to throw it. Wanted to drop it, bury it, let it disappear into the weeds, let the earth swallow it whole.

But instead, he kept walking.

Until the sound of laughter struck him. Soft, rolling over the water, tangled in the breeze. It shouldn’t have hit him so hard.

Joel’s head snapped up, breaths still ragged.

Ellie and Tommy stood too close together by the shore, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, swaying, singing—loud, off-key, godawful. The words didn’t even register at first, just noise. Just a sharp, jarring thing that dragged him back into the present too fast.

And then he caught it. The song. Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Jesus.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, and everything felt too abrupt. Disorienting. His mind is still stuck in that cabin, hearing things long gone, breathing smoke that was long gone.

He didn’t know what the hell he was expecting—maybe for the world to still feel like it was on fire. Like he was.

But here they were. Laughing. Singing. Having a great time. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just clawed his way out of hell. His grip tightened on the rifle.

His gaze cut past them—to her.

Leela was still on her horse, watching them, shaking her head. Her shoulders had relaxed, the tension she had carried through the day bleeding away like it had never been there.

And then, suddenly—she smiled. It was small, barely there, but real. The kind of smile that sneaks up on a person, that slips past the cracks before they even realize it’s happened. Her head dipped like she was trying to fight it, but the corners of her mouth curled up anyway. Her lashes fluttered, shoulders trembling from quiet laughter.

Like nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been here before at all. As if she hadn’t been trapped in that place, in that nightmare, in a past she never dared to utter aloud.

Like he hadn’t just seen the wreckage of it with his own two eyes.

Something crawled up his throat, hot and mean. A sick, twisting thing. That part of him wants to put it in Leela’s hands, make her understand what he now knows. To bring it all back despite that being his last intention.

Maybe Leela really had no idea. Maybe she didn’t remember. Maybe that goddamn fog—the one she was always lost in—had swallowed it whole. Spared her.

Mercy on her mind. Whatever void above was repaying her compassion. Or maybe she’d chosen to forget. Decided to ignore it. Or maybe the pain of remembering all the horror inflicted made her lose sight of where it happened. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Either way, Joel didn’t have the fucking right to take that from her.

His fingers uncurled from the rifle’s stock. That nausea crept back in, a slow, curling sickness that seeped into his bones.

His knuckles ached. He hadn’t realized how tight he’d been holding it—like it was the only thing keeping him upright, like it had latched onto him, burned into his skin, clung to him like a brand. It wouldn’t let go until he did.

His gaze dropped to the wood. Soot. Grime. Filth. The feel of it in his hands was unbearable. It sat there, heavy and wrong, its history seeping through his fingers like a sickness.

And there, beneath all the muck—the cherry. Easy. Innocent. A goddamn lie.

Joel swallowed thickly. His pulse pounded against his skull, a deep, insistent throb. He didn’t want to think about what it meant.

Simply let the rifle slip from his fingers. It fell soundlessly into the brush, swallowed by the dark, and disappeared into the damp earth. Gone.

His feet moved forth before his brain caught up. The path blurred beneath him, his boots scuffing against the earth as he veered off, crouching low, hands skimming the damp ground.

He needed—something. Anything to pull himself back, to ground him, to wipe the feeling of fire and metal from his hands. Though, the practical part of his head shouted, asking, what the fuck he was doing.

His fingers brushed against something soft.

A flower. Small. Wild. Purple. Delicate. Whole. Untouched.

It didn’t belong here, in the filth, in the destruction, in the wake of something so goddamn ugly. And yet—here it was. Sharing its likeness to someone he knew.

Joel plucked it without thinking.

And then he was walking again, his boots moving steady, purposive, toward her.

Leela turned when she noticed him walking toward her, her head tilting just slightly, dark eyes flicking up to meet his. A question there. A quiet curiosity.

Joel didn’t say anything. He just held out the flower.

She blinked. First at him, then at his hand.

Her lips parted. The warmth in her expression softened, deepened. For a second, she just looked at him, searching his face, like she was trying to understand something he wasn’t saying.

And then—her smile widened.

Not much. Just a small curve of her lips. But real. Honest. Breaking his miserable heart with that smile that was spoken for in his name.

She reached for it, took it carefully from his fingers, rolling it between the pads of her fingertips for a moment. Then, with the same careful precision, she slid it into her hair, tucking it near her neck. That violet bloomed against her like it belonged.

“Thank you, Joel,” she murmured.

Joel swallowed everything that burned in his throat and shoved it down where it would snuff out sooner or later. He simply managed a nod.

Then he turned, clearing his throat, his voice coming gruff, unduly commanding. “Right, let's move. C'mon.”

Ellie and Tommy groaned, dragging their feet, still laughing, still complaining, still alive.

But Joel was already looking ahead, hands loose at his sides.

He didn’t glance back at the rifle. Didn’t check to see if it had sunk into the brush, lost beneath the undergrowth.

Let it be buried.

Let it stay gone.

The big white house welcomed them back like an old friend, its porch light casting a soft glow over the worn steps.

Joel barely had a second to register the warmth of it before Maya came stumbling toward them, bounding forward, her small legs rushing too fast for her body. She tripped, fell to her knees, and then—“Ma-ma!”

Leela was already there. She caught her before she could hit the ground, pulling her into her arms, holding her tight, like she never wanted to let go.

Joel sighed, sucking a deep breath in. All the warmth of the lights, the faint hint of grease from the basement, the herbs from the kitchen, the white curtains snapping away in the breeze. This was what coming home was supposed to feel like.

Leela clutched her daughter to her chest, her face buried in the dark curls, inhaling deep like she could breathe her in. A shuddering exhale left her, like she’d been holding it in since the moment she left this house.

She had faced death today. And now, she was holding her life in her arms.

“Did you miss me?” she murmured to Maya, oh-so-tender. She smoothed a hand over Maya’s back and scratched gently at her belly. “Yeah? You did?”

Maya giggled, squirming in her mother’s hold.

Leela kissed her temple, her forehead, her small, chubby hands. “I missed you, too, baby girl. Mama missed you so much.”

He had seen Leela exhausted when she was with their baby girl. Distant. Detached. He had seen her shut down, her voice hollow, her eyes unfocused, like she had learned how to live in a way that kept her just outside of it.

But this—right now. She was here. Completely in Maya's orbit.

Maya pulled back slightly, tilting her head at her mother with that childish wonder, watching her closely like she was searching for something—measuring the movement of her lips, the sound of her words.

With slow, wary fingers, she touched Leela’s mouth. She wasn’t just hearing her mother’s words. She was holding them. Keeping them safe. Then, just as slowly, she brought her hand to her own lips.

Joel’s lips coiled upwards. Another trick that Leela had taught her. A way to say 'I love you'. Little smartass was catching on pretty quick.

Leela let out a soft laugh, her nose stroking against Maya’s. “I love you, too.”

He turned away. This moment—it didn’t belong to him. He felt like a trespasser like he had stepped into something too soft, too sacred for his presence. For the first time in a long time, he felt out of place in this big house.

Maria seemed to notice. She rested a hand on his back, voice quiet. “You okay, Miller?”

Joel exhaled through his nose and lied. “Fine.”

Maria didn’t push it, but her hand lingered for a second longer before she stepped away. “You owe me for that shit you pulled today. Nearly cost me a horse.” And when Joel shot her a no-bullshit glance, she added, “And a stupid fuckin' brother-in-law. Whatever.”

Joel nodded, impressed. “Naturally.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she walked out.

Joel followed her to the door, pack still slung over his shoulder. His hand landed on it, ready to push it closed—but his gaze drifted past the porch, past the quiet street, to the house across from him. His home.

He definitely should go. He should walk out, shut the door behind him, and put some distance between himself and everything that happened today for a while. The words he’d thrown at her in this house. The way he had pushed it further at the store. The grim fucking cabin.

All of it should have been reason enough to leave. But he couldn't move.

He took a slow, thoughtful breath. Let the warmth of the house settle into his skin. Then, before he could think too hard about it, he clicked the door shut.

Because he was too fucking selfish to leave.

So, Joel dropped his pack by the door, shrugged off his jacket, and toed off his boots. The big, white house had whispered around him with its scent of candlewax, firewood and warm linens, but not in him. Not just yet.

His gaze flicked up, landing on Leela just as she gently tucked the flower behind Maya’s ear. “Don't you look cute, trouble?” she teased.

A lump formed in his throat.

Maya blinked up at her mother, chubby fingers reaching to touch the delicate petals like she could hold onto them. Her eyes, wide and round, tracked her mother’s face with something close to awe before breaking off to her signature, gummy grin.

Joel had a smile curve up for her in return when she reached for him knowingly. “Hi, baby girl. C'mere, let me have a kiss, too.”

He leaned down, palming her back, pressing his lips deep into Maya’s curls, having his fill of kisses. God, he fucking loved her. She smelled of soap and soft cotton, of warm bathwater and the sweetness of bedtime. Her tiny fingers found his neck, curling into his skin. For a second, he let himself stay there, let her hold him.

Then he pulled away without another glance, stepping back from the moment before it could swallow him whole, giving them some space.

He stepped into the kitchen instead, grabbed a glass from the overflowing drying rack, and filled it under the tap.

Then—the cabin.

It came back, unbidden, curling around his mind like smoke.

The stench of rot. The filth on the rifle, caked in soot and sin. The bones burned into the floor, the pills pressing into the soles of his shoes.

Joel squeezed his eyes shut. Tilted his head back. Drowned it all with a long gulp of water.

Good. Let the fire take them. Let them burn down to nothing, to dust. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have left a fucking trace of those motherfuckers, not even their bones.

A warmth settled on his back.

Joel's every muscle tensed beneath it. Two palms, pressed gentle between his shoulder blades. Silently calling for him.

When he turned and glanced down, Leela was standing there. Maya was gone—tucked away somewhere safely in the living room, her shadow padding across from surface to surface for trouble to cause.

Now it was just them.

“Hey,” he tried first.

“Hi,” she returned.

She was warily watching him. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, fingers twisting together. Obviously, there was something she was dying to say, ask, or do. Without even knowing it, he knew his answer would be a flat yes.

Joel cleared his throat, setting the glass away. “Y'know, I'm proud of you. You did really well today.”

He barely got to finish that last sentence.

Before he could say anything else, she stepped forward and looped her arms around his neck. Utterly winding him.

It wasn't just a hug. This was clinging.

She pressed close and warm, her body tipping forward, her very toes crushing against his own, as though not an inch of skin should go untouched, and he hardly had time to catch her. Her arms wound tight around him, slender fingers sliding up, curling into the back of his longer, greying hair, pulling just gingerly as they dragged against the grain.

She melted into him. Sank into his chest like it was the only place she could land. She was holding on. Staying.

And for a second, Joel just stood there, hands hovering, caught between instinct and hesitation.

Because this wasn’t for him. It was for her. He should pull back. Shouldn’t take something she wasn’t giving him, shouldn’t soak up the heat of her like he fucking needed it.

Then, she shivered. Just faintly. Just enough.

And Joel broke.

His arms locked around her, one gripping her around her waist, the other spanning between her shoulder blades, brushing against her long braid. He held her tight, holding her close.

Her heartbeat thrummed against his ribs, her trim abdomen crushed into his stomach and belt buckle, and each finger of his ruined hand depressed into a portion of her spine. A soft, fragile thing.

She was here. She’d always come back.

Joel turned his face, pressing his lips against the side of her head, breathing her in, his fingers tightening in her shirt like he could keep her there. Like he could hold her together.

The cabin. The filth. The fire—it was all gone. Burned away in the warmth of her, the scent of her hair, the way her fingers curled deeper against his skin.

And Joel, for all his anger, for all his ghosts, for all the things he did and did not deserve—held on.

She exhaled softly against his neck, her breath warm, and uneven. Her hands curled a little tighter against the back of his head like she could anchor herself to him.

“I’m going to get sick and tired of saying thank you, Joel.” Her voice was quiet, a little scratchy, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say it at all.

Joel huffed, barely a sound. His hand flexed against her back. “Then stop sayin’ it,” he murmured.

Leela let out something between a breath and a laugh, her body shifting against his. Finding her fit against him.

Joel felt her fingers at the nape of his neck, brushing against the rough curls there. It sent something tight through his ribs, something that coiled in his chest and refused to let go.

She was quiet for a long moment, just breathing him in.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “If something happens to me—”

Joel stiffened. His grip on her waist tightened like he could hold her in place like just the thought of losing her was enough to make his body rebel against it.

“Don't.” His voice was a warning, a plea, rough with something he didn’t want to name.

Leela didn’t let go.

Her fingers curled against the nape of his neck, grounding herself in him. Or maybe—trying to ground him. Trying to hold him there before she said something he wouldn’t want to hear.

“If something happens to me, I need to know that you'll take care of Maya.”

He knew why she was saying this bullshit.

She was only here by chance. By luck. A few inches, a second too slow, and she wouldn’t be in his arms right now—wouldn’t be pressing against him, wouldn’t be warm, wouldn’t be breathing, wouldn’t be looking up at him with those eyes like she was asking him for something bigger than a promise. Something final.

“Ain't gonna happen,” he muttered.

“Joel.” A soft plea, a tilt of her head.

He shook his head, jaw tight, chest locking up like a goddamn vice. “Christ, Leela. This shouldn't even be up for question.”

But she was insistent, her grip on him tightening, like she was afraid he'd pull away. Like she needed him to hear this. Accept this.

“Then promise me now.” The words barely held together. Cracked down the middle. “Not Maria. Not Tommy or even Ellie. You.”

Joel clenched his teeth, something raw scraping inside his ribs. All these promises he's been making. How were any of those fair on him?

“Joel, I don't have anyone else left. You have to understand how important this is to me.” Her voice was steadier now, but her hands trembled against him. “She’s all yours. She’s always been yours. My home, all my research, my daughter—you'll be there. It's all yours.”

His breaths ached, as if it was inside him, splitting.

This was fucking real. Not some passing thought, not some fleeting worry—this was her laying it out, putting her life into his wrecked hands, trusting him with it.

Maya wasn’t just hers. She was his, too.

She had been for a long time, hadn’t she? And if something happened—if Leela was gone—there wasn’t a damn force on this earth that would take that little girl from him. It didn’t scare him anymore.

“You don’t need me to put it in triplicate,” he murmured. “I'd do it without askin’.”

Leela exhaled sharply like she’d been holding her breath. “I know. Needed to hear it from you.”

Joel lifted a hand, threading his fingers into her hair, tilting her face up just slightly. “You’re both mine. Both of you.”

He made it quiet, severe, but unshakable. A vow, not just to her, but to himself. Because that was the truth. The thing he’d known for longer than he’d let himself admit.

They were his.

Leela let out a small breath—like this was the only thing she’d needed.

But then, after a moment—she spoke again.

“If this is about legacy or—” Joel started, but she cut him off before he could even finish the thought.

“I don't give a shit about legacy, Joel. Look at me,” she said, fierce in a way that left no room for doubt.

Her fingers dug into him, pressing at the base of his skull, as if forcing him to stay his eyes on her. To the sharp edges of her features, the slight furrow in her brow.

She meant this. She fucking meant it.

And maybe that shouldn’t have hit him as hard as it did, but Christ, after all this time, after everything she’d kept close, all the ways she’d pulled away—here she was, giving him this. Not just her daughter, not just trust, but herself.

Not the Leela who brushed things off with an easy laugh. Not the Leela who went silent when it hurt, shutting herself away before anyone could get too close. Not the one who had been worn thin by exhaustion, by grief, by everything this world had taken from her.

No—this was the one who fought. The one who was staring him down now, fire in her eyes, daring him to push back.

It struck him somewhere deep, somewhere below words, below reason.

This was her. All the dimensions. The burden of her intellect, the sharpness of her conviction, the softness that she didn’t let many people see. The mother of his child. The woman he—god, the woman he really goddamn loved.

“I want my daughter with you.” A beat. “With her father.”

Everything inside Joel went quiet, dead still, like his brain had to stop just to catch up to what she’d said.

His throat worked, but no sound came out.

Leela watched him, her hands solid against him, holding him in place. Not backing down.

“Now, I know we haven’t gotten down to talking about it because of everything—” she muttered carefully, “but you accept that, don’t you? That you’re more than just Joel to Maya?”

He should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known.

Because wasn’t this the truth? Wasn’t this what had been sitting there, waiting, just waiting for him to stop being so goddamn stubborn and see it?

Maya didn’t just cling to him—she reached for him. She trusted him in that quiet, simple way children did when they knew, down to their bones, who their people were. Or maybe it had happened even earlier, when he’d first stepped into this, when he’d first decided—without words, without promises—that he wasn’t walking away.

And he’d never fought it. Never questioned it, never thought of her as anything but his. But hearing it—hearing it, out loud, no escape, no walking around it—

It was a thunderclap in his black sky.

His eyes flickered over Leela’s face, searching. Waiting for her to say something else, something to ease the way it was fucking ravaging him.

She only waited, knowing the unspoken.

Joel exhaled, slow, long. His fingers flexed in her hair, at her waist, at the places where she fit against him.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, stripped bare for her to see.

He felt his past pressing against the edges of this moment—Sarah’s wide grin, her hand gripping his as she leaned on his side, in a home full of possibilities before the world had collapsed beneath them. Ellie’s fire, the way she’d fought relentlessly against every part of him that had tried to keep her at arm’s length.

He’d been a father twice over.

And now—now he was being handed the chance again.

But it was different this time. Not just because it was Maya, because she was small and warm and already his—but also that he wasn’t alone in it.

Because this time, he wasn’t clawing through it with only guilt and hard work and grief and stubbornness and separation keeping him going.

This time, there was a warm home. A quiet life. Some room to grow. There was Leela.

Maybe that was the part that really undid him. Not just being a father again, but parenting with someone.

He thought of all those nights when she was too exhausted to function, but still got up anyway, still kept going, because that’s what she did. He thought of the hushed strength of her, the stubborn resolve, the way she had fought to keep Maya safe in a world that didn’t leave room for that kind of thing.

He wasn’t fumbling through it alone this time.

“Yeah,” Leela whispered her answer, as if reading his mind.

She tilted her head up, rising on her toes again—not much, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his jaw.

Joel breathed out sharply.

This was dangerous. This was slipping, past whatever line he’d attempted to keep between them for her sake. He should move. Say something. Break it up and put space where there wasn’t any.

Joel swallowed, hard. A little, idiotic, anxious part of him wondered if it had been that long and the fundamentals of a kiss had changed. There wasn't a textbook to flip here.

He had kissed women before. Had held them, had wanted them, had fucked them, and felt that pleasure only a woman could offer him when he hit the mattress.

Leela was different.

Not just because she was her, not just because she looked up at him like that—like she had never once questioned whether he was worth wanting, like she already knew this was happening, like she had already made up her mind. It didn’t matter to her that he was worn down, exhausted, and probably reeked of sweat and death and whatever the hell else he’d been working through that day.

No—she was different because he was different. Because it had been a long, long time since Joel had let himself want a woman like this.

Want without restraint. Want without thinking about the mess of it, the mistakes of it, the goddamn risk of it.

And she—God, she looked fucking stunning. Just like the first time he’d seen her, only now, it wasn’t from across the street. Wasn’t at a distance. She was here, close enough to feel, close enough to breathe in.

Her fingers curled deeper into his hair, and whatever was left of his restraint snapped like brittle wire.

His head dipped before he could stop it.

The first brush of their lips was hesitating—soft, careful, fucking fantastic, like neither of them were quite sure they had permission. Like they were hovering on the edge of something neither of them could name.

Leela stiffened—just for a second.

Joel felt it. The way she froze—like the reality of it had just hit her. But her hands stayed, one fisted against his shoulder, the other still tangled in his hair, gripping tighter, not pulling away.

A small, shuddering breath slipped from her lips.

Joel swallowed, trying to ignore the way she did that, the way her fingers tensed against his scalp, her lips parted, uncertain, and she sighed against him.

For fuck's sake, she’d never done this before. Not like this. Not the way it should be done, not to be had. She was waiting on him—watching him, trusting him to show her how.

His palm smoothed up her spine, patient, languid. Soothing. Sweetheart, you ain’t gotta be nervous.

Leela inhaled sharply. And her grip shuddered. Tentatively, like she wasn’t sure she was doing it right, her lips moved against his.

He could feel the way she concentrated, the way she was brooding in that shrewd little head of hers, and figured it out as she went, pressing a little too lightly, pulling back like she went too far, or wasn’t sure how much to give.

His chest clenched. Jesus.

She was trying. Trying so hard, even though she didn’t know how.

Joel let his other hand drift up—languid, knowing—fingertips grazing along the edge of her jaw, curving, pressing, tilting her just slightly. Guiding her.

Leela’s breath hitched.

Then, as if that small adjustment had steadied her, she softened entirely against him.

And Joel—yeah, he was fucking gone.

His fingers threaded into her hair, twisting into those wild, thick strands that weaved down into her braid, angling her deeper, letting her have all of him. Because that seemed to be all he could give her. Nothing but himself.

His lips moved against hers, gentle, sure, patient—like he was showing her how.

God, she was so fucking sweet. So nervous, so careful, but trusted him to lead her through it.

Her lips parted, a quiet, breathless sound slipping through—small, barely anything, but fuck, it hit him hard.

Joel groaned, low, deep in his throat, heat curling through his stomach. What he would give to push her up against that counter behind her, to have him pick apart that pretty pearl-buttoned night dress or bite off those bows and strings in those mind-bending backless tops of hers.

The thought only made his hand splay at her waist, pulling her flush against him, fingers pressing into the small of her back. Leela let out a soft gasp, her other hand sliding up, gripping at his throat, and she wanted more.

Well, he was already fucking ruined anyway.

His lips moved deeper into her, more certain, his fingers pressing into the curve of her jaw, tipping, angling—letting her feel it, letting her lead, letting her find her rhythm, letting her take what she wanted at her own pace.

And she did. She deserved that. Knowing she was in control of this.

He pulled back just an inch—just enough to meet her gaze, to give her a second to breathe, to make sure she knew—

But before he could, her lips chased his, and Jesus—

Joel laughed softly, deep in his throat, warmth curling through his stomach, twisting through his ribs. Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you need.

So he kissed her again. More. Deeper. As long she wanted. Till his lips went blue, till his legs went dead, till his brain was fuzzy, till she was sure she'd mastered the art of kissing.

Her fingers trembled against his neck when she eventually fell back on her heels, realizing—like this was finally sinking in.

Joel exhaled against her lips, gruff. “Good?”

Leela nodded—too fast, too eager. “Mhm.”

It was barely a whisper, barely there at all, but her hands were still on him, still keeping close, still wanting.

His thumb brushed over her jaw, soft, reassuring. “You sure?”

She swallowed, eyes flickering over his face, searching—like she was waiting for something. And then, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—

“I didn’t know it could be like this.”

Oh, that knocked the wind out of him. The next time she said shit like that, he'd put his fist through a wall.

His hand lifted, threading through her hair with a tenderness that nearly undid him, coarse fingers dragging through the strands before resting at the nape of her neck. His thumb traced the soft skin there, his other hand smoothing over the small of her back, pulling her a breath closer.

“S’alright, darlin',” he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead, lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Ain’t gotta rush.”

And that—that was it.

That was the moment Joel knew. And Christ, maybe that was the thing he never let himself want—never let himself hope for.

This wasn’t about grief. This wasn’t about making promises in the shadow of something terrible.

This was about life. A chance to do this again, but with stability. With reassurance. With her.

Leela was standing in front of him, alive, wanting, present. All his.

And somehow, despite all the shit they’d lived through, despite all the ways he had shut himself off over the years—somehow, he was too.

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

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melagnes · 3 months ago

Text

The Camping Trip

Description: What starts as a school camping trip quickly turns into something else when you end up sharing a tent with Melissa Schemmenti. The night got colder, and Melissa? She’s more than willing to help warm you up.

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Word Count: 1.9K

This trip was supposed to teach the kids valuable outdoor skills—teamwork, self-sufficiency, survival. You know, all those things that sounded great on paper but, in reality, just meant a bunch of fourth graders crying over bug bites.

Ava, a self-proclaimed doomsday prepper, should have been thriving out here. The woman had a bug-out bag ready to go at all times. But you’d underestimated one crucial factor: her hatred of dirt. You all knew she would much rather be glamping. The second she realized there were no air mattresses involved, she peaced out without so much as a backward glance.

“See y’all on the flip side,” she called over her shoulder, flashing two peace signs before disappearing like a mirage.

Meanwhile, the rest of you were left with the grim reality of sleeping on the actual ground.

Barbara, being the queen that she was, had already staked claim to a solo tent before anyone could protest. That left the rest of you staring at each other, silently weighing your options.

Someone had to supervise the kid’s tent.

Jacob tried to make it fair; he snapped a handful of twigs off a nearby tree and held them out in his fist. “Alright, whoever pulls the two shortest sticks will sleep in the tent with the kids.”

Melissa snorted. “You say that like you’re not about to rig this.”

“I would never–”

“Jacob,” you inject.

He deflated, “…Okay, fine, but I should get points for creativity.”

One by one, everyone picked. Janine groaned when she saw her tiny stick. Then Jacob glanced down at the remaining stick left in his hands—also devastatingly short.

“Aw, come on!” he whined.

Janine sighed. “Man, I really thought manifesting a tent with Barbara would work.”

Barbara, already fluffing her camp pillow in her tent, didn’t even look up. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Gregory held up his stick, comparing it to Mr. Johnson’s. Both were noticeably longer. “Uh… I guess... it’s you and me, Mr. Johnson. Our sticks are... longer. So.” He awkwardly cleared his throat.

“You snore?” Mr. Johnson shot him a look.

Gregory immediately tried to act cool, though there was a hint of defensiveness. “What? Me? No, I don’t snore. That’s more of a–uh–Janine thing.”

Janine whipped her head around with wide eyes. “What? I do not snore!”

Mr. Johnson just raised an eyebrow at her. “Sure you don’t, Janine. I’m watchin’… I’m always watchin’.”

Janine sputtered, her face turning bright red. “I—okay, maybe a little, but it’s not that bad!” She crossed her arms defensively, “You know what, you’re just jealous that I’m a deep sleeper. That’s all.”

Meanwhile, Melissa clapped you on the shoulder with a grin. “Looks like it’s you and me, hon.”

You swallowed. Hard.

Could be worse.

Before the sun set and it became time for a campfire, the teachers split off to help assemble the tents, which mostly consisted of Melissa taking charge while you… tried.

“You gotta secure the poles first,” she said, arms crossed, watching as your structure wobbled like a baby deer.

“I did secure the poles,” you protested.

“Ms. Schemmenti’s right,” one of your fifth graders chimed in. “Your tent’s as wobbly as a Skibidi Toilet.”

“Yeah, you need to tighten the ropes,” another added helpfully.

Melissa stepped in, grabbed a rope, and gave it a solid tug. The whole thing collapsed like a house of cards. She raised an eyebrow. The kids burst into laughter.

“Okay, so maybe not as secure as I thought,” you muttered.

Melissa just smirked—that slow, smug kind of smirk that made your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

“Let’s copy Ms. Schemmenti’s tent!” a student shouted.

You sighed, the weight of defeat settling in. If this were Survivor, you’d be the first one voted off. The kids knew more about wilderness survival than you. The teacher.

Melissa, as cocky as ever, swatted your shoulder, “Good thing I’m here, huh?”

Good thing, indeed.

By the time night fell, it was campfire time. As proven, you’re not the most wildernessly inclined, but you do know one thing; the combination of fire and children, was problematic.

You’ve never been a big fan of campfire songs, but you would sell your soul to Gregory for his unique ability. He single-handily kept the kids entertained as to prevent them from falling into that (somewhat) raging fire.

He was a campfire song connoisseur.

His voice reverberated through the brisk night air as he strummed his ukulele, “C-a-m-p-f-i-r-e s-o-n-g song and if you don’t think we can sing it faster, then you’re wrong, but It’ll help if you just sing along.”

Wait- was that, SpongeBob?

“Gregory, you genius,” Janine mumbled.

Brother can speak FAST. It went on for 3 more rounds—until the kids were completely breathless.

Now it was Jacob’s time to shine.

“As a history teacher, it is my duty to know and understand what has happened on this land before us.”

“Of course he would know the lore of the campground,” you muttered under your breath (in a loving way).

“It was the year 1876; the Centennial Exposition, which in fact occurred the same year as—”

You couldn’t help but tune him out a little. Melissa was seated next to you on a log, allowing you to feel the heat from her thighs pressing into yours. It was distracting. Sue yourself.

A simple glance could tell you the kids were terrified of Jacob’s tale.

“They say, his ghost still wanders the campgrounds at night, looking for more victims…” He trailed off wagging his finger. “So, you better sleep with your mouth closed. You don’t want him to poison you in your sleep, do you?”

“Don’t tell me you’re scared, too,” Melissa murmured in your ear which definitely didn’t cause you to jump a mile high off the log.

She chuckled in pure amusement. “Thought so.”

“Huh, I’m not scared.”

“It’s ok hon, you can admit you’re scared of a ghost from 1876.” she laughed causing you to roll your eyes, but your smirk betrayed your true feelings.

Jacob finally realized what he had done when he caught sight of a girl taping her friend’s mouth shut.

“Oh no, guys—”

“Thank God, he has to supervise em cause, there is no way they are sleeping tonight.” Melissa slowly rose from her position on the log; she looped her arm with yours to drag you to the tent. At that moment, you realized you were in for a long night.

You stuttered for a brief second as colour dusted your cheeks, “Agreed. However, he put this upon himself.”

By the time you climbed into the tent, exhaustion had fully set in. The problem? The temperature had dropped, and your sleeping bag was about as effective as a paper towel.

Melissa noticed before you could even pretend you weren’t shivering. She let out an exasperated sigh and, without hesitation, pulled you closer.

“C’mere, before you turn into a popsicle.”

Your brain short-circuited immediately.

“This isn’t weird, right?” you mumbled, trying—and failing—to sound normal.

Melissa scoffed. “Not unless you make it weird.”

Oh. Oh, you were definitely making it weird. At least in your mind.

“Well…” you trailed off, your voice quieter now. “You’re really close.”

“Yeah? You got a problem with that?” Her lips brushed your ear as she leaned in, her breath warm against your skin.

“No, of course not, it’s just-”

“Relax,” she whispered, voice softer now as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m trying,” you muttered. “It’s just… hard when we’re lying on the ground.”

She chuckled, her breath warm against your skin. “Wow, you’re still freezing.”

You shifted slightly, trying to ignore the fact that you were practically tangled together now. Her arm draped casually over your waist, her palm pressing against your back like it belonged there. You weren’t sure if the warmth creeping up your spine was from her body heat or something else entirely.

“It’s not that bad,” you muttered, voice embarrassingly shaky.

Melissa propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at you. In the dim glow of the lantern, her eyes gleamed.

“You got some kinda death wish, or do you just like bein’ stubborn?” she teased, voice lower now, rougher.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could get a word out, she kissed you.

Warm. Firm. And entirely too brief.

By the time your brain caught up, she had already pulled back, smirking like nothing had just happened. Warmth spread throughout your body, and it certainly rose to your cheeks.

“See?” she murmured, settling back down. “Warms you right up.”

You stared at the ceiling of the tent, dazed. “Yeah. That’s… that’s definitely one way to do it.”

“How about another one for good measure?” she raised an eyebrow.

You nodded, slow and dazed, your eyes fluttering shut as the weight of words failed you.

Melissa didn’t need them. She took that as a yes, leaning in until her lips captured yours once more. This kiss was deeper—less tentative than the first. Her mouth was warm, insistent, and soft in a way that made your breath hitch. You barely registered her fingers weaving into your hair until they tightened, anchoring you.

Heat bloomed in your chest, then spilled lower, curling into your stomach like liquid fire. And when she finally did break away, her lips barely ghosted against yours, like she was testing something.

“Still cold?” she exhaled, amusement in her eyes.

You smirked, cocking your head. “Hmm… I might be.”

Her mouth descended to your neck without warning, and your gasp was breathy, involuntary. Your pulse roared in your ears as her lips and tongue traced a path that left heat pooling in your core.

“Nope,” you breathed, voice shaky. “Pretty warm now.”

Melissa drew back slowly, leaving a damp, tingling trail behind. “Thought so.”

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes, nudging her shoulder.

She laughed, pulling you closer like she wasn’t done with you just yet. And honestly? You were more than okay with that.

At some point, exhaustion won over adrenaline. Wrapped in her warmth, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, you drifted off.

Which made being yanked out of sleep by the sound of something enormous rummaging through camp all the more jarring.

There was a muffled curse—Melissa’s, judging by the way she immediately reached for the lantern.

“What the hell is that?” she whispered.

Before you could answer, a loud crash echoed through camp, followed by the muffled, frantic whispering of the kids. You couldn’t make out much through the fabric of the tent, but you caught the rising panic in their voices.

“AHHHH,” someone screamed from the tent next door. “Is that THE GHOST?!”

Thereafter, you heard Jacob’s voice—determined, and completely unhelpful. “BE GONE, DEMON. RETURN TO THE NIGHT.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. “Oh my god.”

Melissa snorted, burying her face in your shoulder. Then she exhaled, just a little calmer now.

“Yeah, I’m sure the bear’s terrified,” she muttered.

She wasn’t wrong.

By daylight, the aftermath was unavoidable.

Chocolate pudding, everywhere. Smudged across the tents and streaked down the coolers. Kind of crusty—but, evidently, still pudding.

You took one look at the disaster and deadpanned, “Well. At least the bear’s got taste.”

“That’s what we call a teachable moment,” Melissa said, arms crossed.

You bit back a smile. “And what exactly is the lesson here?”

Melissa shot you a look. “Listen to me next time.”

And as the day went on, you realized that whatever lesson you’d learned from this trip, the most important one was that Melissa was right.

Every time.

Even when she kissed you.

Especially then.

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x y/n #abbott elementary #lisa ann walter #abbott elementary fanfic #melissa schemmenti fanfic #fanfic #wlw #x reader

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formulafanfics13 · 5 days ago

Note

I am amazed how fast you come up with a plot, hands down :)

Sooo another idea for Lewis :)

The reader is 28 again, and Lewis broke up with her because he did not want her to be a target for the Media. After a while tey meet again and the love is still there and even the whole grid wants them to be together :)

okay- last one for the night because i’ve been awake for 19 hours and im still a bit ill🫠 but i promise the rest of the requests will be out the minute i wake up (most are written they just need editing!)✨ (also im trying this off my phone so please lmk if it works and is normal)🫶🏼

We Want Mom & Dad Back Together - LH44

masterlist

Summary: Eight months after their heartbreaking split in Monaco, she returns to the F1 paddock for the first time — quiet, sharp, and still wearing her Mercedes badge. The grid is stunned, the group chats explode, and Lewis is wrecked the second he sees her. The drivers scheme to get them to speak again: fake dinners, trap setups, emotional drive-bys. Finally, at Silverstone, they confront each other. Lewis apologises, she tells him the truth of her pain, and the walls finally come down. Quiet confessions follow. When the next race arrives, they show up together — not with drama, but peace. They’ve made it through. Stronger. Whole. And the grid celebrates like their parents just got remarried.

warnings: none

They hadn't spoken in eight months. Not really. Not since that night on the balcony in Monaco, the wind hot and heavy against her skin, Lewis standing a few feet away, jaw locked, eyes dim. He'd said it softly. Gently. Like he thought kindness could make it hurt less.

"I can't keep doing this to you."

"It's too much."

"They're making you a target, and I-"

She hadn't let him finish. Just nodded. Walked away. Packed in silence. Left the hotel room that still smelled like him and didn't look back.

She never gave the media a soundbite. Never told the world how she'd cried herself breathless in a taxi back to London. How she'd disappeared from every red carpet, every paddock, every interview circuit. They called her elusive. Elegant. Some even said cold.

They didn't know she was grieving.

Because love didn't leave your bones just because someone walked away.

And Lewis? He'd kept going. As if he hadn't broken her and himself in the same breath. As if the press hadn't spent months pulling her apart. Her age. Her body. Her race. Her silence. As if that hadn't been the reason he left in the first place. Because he couldn't take watching them carve her open for loving him.

So he walked. And the paddock fell quiet.

Now it was Barcelona. Race week. Her first paddock appearance in nearly a year. No one expected it.

She hadn't warned anyone. Just stepped through the paddock gates with her team badge clipped to her waist again, dark sunglasses on, linen trousers, sleeveless top, and not one word to the media.

The grid froze. Every mechanic, every driver, every staff member turned to look.

Because she was back. And they knew what that meant.

It didn't take long for the group chats to light up.

[Gridlock GC🔥]

Oscar: SHE'S HERE???

Charles: someone hold lewis back

George: fuck. she looks GOOD.

Yuki: mum is home

Pierre: i am putting them in a room together if it kills me

Carlos: LET'S GET OUR PARENTS BACK TOGETHER

Max: wait are we doing this

Lando: oh we're doing this.

Lewis saw her in the paddock tunnel near the hospitality suites.

She was laughing at something Charles had said, head tilted, shoulders relaxed, but her eyes weren't smiling. Not really.

He didn't move at first. Just stood frozen by the espresso machine, watching her from thirty feet away like she was a painting in a museum he didn't think he'd ever see again.

She didn't notice him. George did. Walked right past him. Slapped the back of his head. "Go say hi."

Lewis shook his head. "She doesn't want to see me."

"Bullshit," George muttered. "She wants to punch you in the face. That's not the same thing."

Max walked by next. "We're putting you both in the media pen at the same time. Don't make it weird."

"What?"

Max didn't stop walking.

"Max-"

Too late. And just like that, it began. The grid plotted.

Pierre started texting her fake dinner invites that just so happened to be at the same place Lewis was. Oscar lied and said Mercedes needed her input on something in hospitality, then left her alone in Lewis's driver's room.

Carlos walked up to Lewis during FP3 and said, with zero context, "You broke her heart. Fix it." Even Fernando pulled her aside in the pitlane and murmured, "You should speak to him."

They could not stand it. Watching them hover on opposite sides of a room. Watching Lewis steal glances when he thought no one saw. Watching her check her watch instead of looking at him.

They weren't just exes. They were grief in two bodies. And it was unbearable.

The confrontation happened at Silverstone. Their home turf.

He hadn't been able to stop looking at her all weekend. How soft she looked in the morning light. How she still said hi to every intern. How she wore Mercedes gear like it still meant something.

And then, during a red flag delay, she ended up in the back of the Mercedes garage, alone, sipping a coffee, ignoring her phone.

He walked in. Paused. She looked up. The silence stretched. “Hey," he said eventually.

"Hey," she replied. Voice calm. Guarded.

He sat a few feet away. Rested his elbows on his knees. Looked at her like he hadn't breathed since Monaco. “You look good," he said.

She smiled, tired. "You always say that."

"It's always true."

She didn't answer.

He exhaled. "I'm sorry."

She looked at him.

"I thought I was doing the right thing," he continued. "I thought walking away would protect you. That if I made it clean, made it public, they'd stop aiming at you."

"They didn't," she said softly. "They just said I wasn't good enough to keep you."

He swallowed.

"I didn't need protecting, Lewis. I needed you."

"I know."

Silence. She looked down at her coffee. "I didn't stop loving you."

His heart cracked. “I never did either."

Another pause.

"Then why-"

"Because I thought I had to be perfect," he said, voice rough. "To deserve you. And when I saw what they were doing to you, I thought I was the reason."

"You weren't."

"I know that now."

Her hands trembled slightly around the cup.

"I still have your sweatshirt," she whispered. "The one from Baku."

He smiled. "I still wear your necklace."

Her breath caught.

"I miss you," he said.

"I'm here."

He reached out. Let his fingers brush hers. "So am I."

When the next race rolled around, they arrived together.

Nothing dramatic. No hand-holding. No paparazzi pose.

Just a soft smile. A shared car. Two matching black paddock passes. And the whole grid exploded.

[Gridlock GC🔥]

Yuki: LET'S GOOOOOO

George: DAD CAME HOME

Oscar: she's back

Pierre: do we get visitation rights

Lando: i'm crying in the mclaren motorhome

Charles: best. day. ever.

They were back. But not like before. Stronger. Softer. Survived.And the world couldn't touch them now. Because love didn't break under pressure. Not really. It just took time. And a very feral group chat.

#f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 x reader #formula 1 fanfic #f1 smut #f1 fluff #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lh44 imagine

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lilyswritings · 5 months ago

Text

hatchet.

synopsis: my own iteration of the split-second glimpse of frank we got in the 'daredevil: born again trailer' — some angst, some reunion fluff, some heat... enjoy! author’s note: saw frank castle on the screen for the first time in years and... yeah. wow, i've missed my man. this is obviously inspired by the glimpse of him we get in the new daredevil trailer, but as we obviously don't have any context for it, i put my own little spin on it. does it make any sense? probably not, but when have i ever let that stop me. i got a little carried away, oops! wordcount: 2,988

Frank Castle x Reader

Ever since your vigilante boyfriend had to drop off the face of the Earth, you've become something of a social recluse.

Yeah, sure, you still keep in sporadic touch with Matt, Foggy, and Karen, but having to say goodbye to the man you love the most in the world and never see him again definitely dampened your appetite for social interaction.

It also made you paranoid, said Karen over a late-night drink, and though you'd disputed that fact at the time, she had a point. You glance over your shoulder everywhere you go, tuck your body into the corner-most seat at every restaurant as your eyes scan the crowd, and spend hours each night browsing the web for sightings of the infamous 'Punisher'.

That's not paranoia, you muse to yourself. It's desperation.

You look for him everywhere. But you know he's too good at what he does to be found by happenstance, and that when it's safe — for you, that is — he'll resurface.

"You're not safe." The two of you had been arguing for what must have been an hour at that point, with him reiterating the same stupid point over and over again.

You had planted your hands on your hips at that point, sick of feeling told what to do, and not even considering his ridiculous idea of disappearing. "You're not listening to me. I can fend for myself, and, honestly, I don't see how you leaving me will make me any safer than I am when you're—"

"Because they'll be coming after me, and if they figure out that they can get to me through you, then you'll become a target to them—"

"We've been over this already," You throw your hands up in exasperation, sick of feeling coddled. "I don't care, I—"

"Well I do!" Frank's voice had just erupted then, rising to a shouting volume for the first time all night, and you'd held back the retort poised on your lips, recognizing the severity in his expression. "I care if you disappear, or get hurt, or..."

Neither of you need him to finish that sentence, you both understand exactly what he's afraid of.

"I will not let them take you too." His voice cracked, and the anger in your body dissipated immediately, replaced by tears brimming in your eyes.

"So what, I just never see you again?" Your brows tug together, face crumpling as the reality of his plan sets in.

"Hey, no, c'mere," He tugs you into his arms, pressing your head against his chest, and you burrow into him, latching your hands around his torso as if maybe, just maybe, the harder you hold onto him, the less you'll have to let him go. "It's not never." The rumble of his voice in his chest has always been soothing to you, but his words set you on edge.

"But you don't know how long." You keep your face pressed into the worn grey fabric of his shirt as you speak, hoping to hide the devastation on your face. It's not a question. He doesn't answer, and your heart shatters on the spot, tears seeping into his shirt as your world falls apart.

Frank was gone before you even woke up the next morning.

You shake yourself out of the memory of that day, glancing over your shoulder as you turn down the street towards your local gym. Part of your coping mechanism for Frank leaving was proving him wrong, proving that you don't need him to protect you — that you can protect yourself.

That he doesn't need to leave again.

You're grateful for the silence in the gym, having paid the gym owner to let you in after hours, so you don't have to worry about seeing other people while you work out — a pet peeve of yours.

You lose yourself in your routine — focusing on strength, on combat, hitting the sandbag until your knuckles ache and kicking the mannequin until your shins turn red — until finally, red and sweaty and panting, you decide to wrap up for the day.

You've just opened your locker when you hear it — the quietest creak of the door closing, deliberately quiet, like someone is trying to sneak in. Your breath catches in your chest, slipping your hand into your gym bag and wrapping around the handle of one of the weapons you'd brought with you.

Yeah, okay, maybe you'd gone a little overboard bringing a hatchet with you to the gym, but you're grateful for it right now. You spot a dark shape move in the reflection of the metal locker, and you grit your teeth.

This is it, the people Frank were running from have found you. Fear builds in your throat, cloying at your windpipe, but one thought rings through your head that steadies you. He can't lose you too.

And with that, you wheel around, weapon swinging through the air as you go. A strong hand catches your forearm, pausing your attack, and you drop the weapon into your other waiting hand —

And freeze when you catch a glimpse of your so-called attacker.

It doesn't feel real, and for a moment, you panic, stumbling a step backwards in fear that this is some kind of trick, that it's not him, but then he steps into the light from the window, hands raised in a placating motion, and you gasp.

"You gonna put the hatchet down?" The deep rumble of Frank's voice runs through you, achingly familiar, and the weapon slips out of your hand and clatters loudly against the concrete.

"...Frank." You breathe out, the word barely audible in your state of shock, and watch as his dark eyes run over your features, as if mapping out your face. The moment stretches out seemingly infinitely — the only sound in the room your intermingled bated breaths, eyes drinking in the sight of each other ravenously.

"Hi sweetheart." A tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth — his facial hair is longer, the rugged look suits him, you've always liked the beard — and as your mind runs a millions miles a minute, the spell is broken, and you catapult into him, your bodies colliding as you fling your arms around his neck and sob against him.

His strong arms — tree trunks, you'd called them once — wrap around you in a way that feels like home, and you breathe in his scent of leather and coffee and gunpowder. The embrace is grounding, as you feel the quickened rise and fall of his chest between your arms and your torso.

"You're real." You whisper into his neck, barely able to believe it.

"Yeah, sweetheart. I'm real." The roughness of his voice feels even thicker, wrought with an emotion you can't quite place — relief, possibly. Regret, maybe. Both, most likely.

You fist your fingers tighter into his shirt, still unwilling to let go of him as your own wave of emotions cascades over you. "You left."

Frank's sharp exhale breezes over the top of your head. "I know."

“I looked for you— I looked everywhere—”

His grip tightens as you speak, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head. “I know, baby. I know. You know I never wanted to leave you. You know that.”

The sound of someone clearing their throat startles you out of your skin, and you break the embrace for the first time to dart down to pick up the hatchet you'd dropped, whirling around to face the noise.

"Matt." You gasp when your eyes land on him, and the lawyer smiles sheepishly in return.

"Just wanted to remind the two of you that you're not alone." He punctuates his sentence with a tap of his cane on the ground, and you sigh out a shaky laugh.

"What're you even doing here?"

"How do you think Frank knew how to find you?" He cocks his head, readjusting his red glasses, and you spin to find Frank.

Frank rubs a hand over his jaw as his eyes flicker between you and Matt, shifting his weight slightly — you can tell he's uncomfortable. "Called in a favour," He admits, eyes falling down to bore a hole into the concrete floor. "Didn't know how to—" He stops short, eyes darkening as he exhales, finally rising to meet your gaze again. "Didn’t know if you'd want to see me again."

Your heart clenches at his words, and you glance over at Matt, who gives you the smallest, knowing smile. "Thank you." You utter, barely a whisper, aimed so only Matt will hear it.

“I’ll, uh, give you two some time alone," Matt says, nodding at each of you. "I'll see you around."

And with that, he turns, cane tapping against the gym floor as he walks away, leaving you and Frank standing in the silence.

This is the time when you should get angry. Yell at him, shove at him, make him truly understand what it felt like to be all alone for all this time. But when you take him in, the lines on his face, the way his eyes dart around the room, you know he felt it all too.

Instead, you sigh, reaching for your boyfriend's hand, and say, "Take me home."

And he does.

The walk home is quiet. Frank keeps a hand on you the whole way, though — his fingers grazing your wrist as you step onto the sidewalk, resting on the small of your back as you wait at a crosswalk, a gentle weight on your forearm as you go to unlock your apartment door. A reassurance — you're here, he's back. The constant reminder is necessary for the both of you, you imagine.

Inside the apartment, the air feels thick, hanging with the unspoken — a possible argument looming on the horizon, the potential reunion of two lovers who've spent time apart, the hazard that this is a relationship ruined beyond repair — you can feel every scenario run through your brain at a mile a minute, and it's making you sick.

You lock your door behind you, fingers lingering on the deadbolt before you turn to find Frank standing in the dim light of your living room. His shoulders are tense, like he’s waiting for you to chew him out, like he wouldn’t blame you if you did.

Your anxiety melts, realizing he's having the same train of thought you are.

“You hungry?”

A flicker of surprise passes over his face, and he nods once, glancing towards your kitchen. “Uh, yeah.”

"Don't get too excited, it's just leftovers from last night." You warn as you pass him, moving the takeout containers from the fridge to the microwave while Frank leans against the counter, watching you.

His presence is heavy, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. You hand him a container and a fork, and he takes them with a quiet thanks.

The two of you eat in near silence, sitting in close proximity on your beat up old couch. You don’t ask where he’s been, what he's done, and he doesn’t offer. Not yet.

You lean over and place your empty container on the coffee table, watching as he does the same, before turning and capturing his lips with yours, sick of the mutual silent treatment you had both endeavoured upon.

He meets your kiss eagerly, hungrily, getting over his initial shock in record time. You both lose yourself in the embrace, pausing briefly to squeal against his lips as he lifts you up and places you in his lap, straddling his waist, your cheeks blazing at the sudden change in position.

Eventually, the two of you come up for air, foreheads pressed together as silence settles back into the space of your apartment and your heart stops thundering against your eardrums.

“You should get some rest.” You say, softer than you mean to, and he chuckles under you.

"If you want to get me into your bed you can just say so, sweetheart." The rumble of his laugh deepens as you roll your eyes and smack him on the chest, standing up from the couch and placing your hands on your hips.

"I mean it," You raise an eyebrow. "I'm sure you're tired, and we can resume... This, later."

Frank stands with a sigh, smirk toying at the corner of his lips, and you roll your eyes again, suppressing your own wide smile. "Alright, alright." He holds his hands up in surrender, moving toward the bedroom.

You toss the empty containers, taking a moment to compose yourself and tamp down the giddy feeling in your chest at Frank's return. You rifle through a cabinet in the living room, finding the basket of Frank's clothes you'd stashed away, and pull out a worn t-shirt and pajama pants before heading into the bedroom.

When you enter, you frown at the empty room. Glancing into the bathroom to find Frank also not in there, your heart begins to thunder in your chest. He wouldn't, you tell yourself, but doubt begins to gnaw at you.

Suddenly, a hand clamps down on your shoulder, and you wheel around and press your arm to the throat of your attacker.

"We have got to stop meeting like this." Frank's amused smile greets you, and you gasp.

"Jesus, Frank!" You exhale, eyes wide. "You're such an asshole!"

"I'm impressed, is what I am."

"What, you wanted proof that I can beat your ass now?"

"Is that so?" He raises one dark eyebrow, smirking slightly, and your stomach drops.

Before you have a chance to react he's latched a foot behind your leg and sweeps you off your footing, following you down as you crash back onto the bed, his hands encircling your wrists and keeping you down. A breathy laugh bubbles out of you, caught off guard, before you roll your eyes.

"That wasn't fair." You complain, trying very hard not to think about how little you mind being stuck in this position.

Frank makes a 'tsk' sound, leaning down into your space. "You let yourself get distracted." You make a humming sound, lifting your head off the bed to press your lips against Frank's, smiling when he reciprocates, one of his hands coming up to cup your jaw.

Success.

You pull a knee up, tucking it between your bodies, before swinging your weight sideways and causing him to tumble sideways onto the bed this time. You scramble to get on top of him, thighs on either side as you press your hands to his wrists.

"Ooh, don't get so distracted, Castle." A cocky smirk alights on your face, peering down at him, and your heart flutters as a broad smile cracks open his mouth.

Frank huffs out a laugh beneath you, causing the entire bed to shake lightly as he shakes his head. "I'll give you that one." He admits, his eyes gleaming with emotion — something like pride, but softer, heavier, and your heart melts in your chest.

You lean your weight forward, pressing your palms harder against his wrists to keep him pinned (though you're both aware he could break free if he really wanted to) but he doesn't. He just lays there, raking his dark eyes over your face, his expression unreadable now.

The air between the two of you shifts, and then slows.

You swallow thickly, increasingly aware of the warmth and solidity of his body beneath you, of his eyes on your face, tracing a path from your lips back up to your eyes. Your breath catches in your throat, pulse hammering, and you're grateful when he speaks first.

“You missed me.” His voice is lower, impossibly gravellier than usual, and definitive. It's not a question.

You nod, throat tightening. "Yes," You breathe. "I did."

His expression softens, the sharp edges of him melting away as you both take each other in — like earlier in the gym, but with less desperation, less shock. He shifts, tugging one of his hands free from your grip with alarming ease, but instead of pushing you off of him, he reaches up and traces the edge of your cheek with the back of his fingers, leaving them to rest against your skin, rough and warm.

You lean into his touch, exhaling shakily. "You're back."

Frank nods, his fingers drifting down to cup the back of your neck. “Yeah. I’m back.”

For how long, you don’t ask. You don’t want to know.

Instead, you lean your torso down, tilting your head as you slot your mouth against his in a kiss that's slower this time, less teasing, releasing his other hand and placing both of yours on either side of his head. He takes his newly freed hands and rests them against your waist, pulling you down even closer against him.

You're not sure how long the two of you remain tangled up in each other, pressing kisses against skin as if trying to make up for lost time. Eventually, reality seeps back in, and Frank pulls away to gaze at you with the softest darkest eyes you've ever seen.

“You ever gonna tell me what the hell you were doing in that gym with a goddamn hatchet?” His voice is gruff, teasing, but there’s something else there, too — concern.

You huff, rolling your eyes but not pulling away. “I was proving a point.”

Frank lifts an eyebrow. “That point being?”

“That I can take care of myself.”

His expression flickers, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then, finally, he nods. “Yeah,” He murmurs, thumb brushing against your jaw. “I can see that.”

A beat of silence. Then, his lips twitch. “A hatchet, though? Really?”

You groan, smacking his shoulder as he laughs, deep and warm, and you can’t help but think — yeah. He’s back.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle imagine #frank castle #frank castle one shot #daredevil imagine #daredevil born again #daredevil x reader #the punisher x reader #the punisher imagine #the punisher

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illwilledomen · 8 months ago

Text

At the Riverbank

Steve raised his axe high in the air, and with a swift, clean swing, one piece of wood became two. He chucked the two small pieces into his pile, which had grown to a considerable size as he had worked through the morning. Winter was coming soon. The Stonemason family’s eldest daughter had just had a little baby, and Steve wanted to make sure they stayed warm.

The soft trickling of the nearby creek beckoned Steve over to take a break. He did just that, throwing his axe aside and plonking himself down into the soft riverside grass. He closed his eyes and listened to the water for a moment.

It was time to practise.

My name is Steve. I live in the village of Creek-in-Meadow. I like the colour blue. I am something called a person.

Steve opened his eyes again and frowned. Other villagers could say so much more in an introduction, but Steve knew very few things about himself.

He tried again, gleaning his mind for any information that he was certain was true.

My name is Steve. I live in the village of Creek-in-Meadow. I like the colour blue, and my favourite flowers are poppies. I am something called a person, and I am a Man.

No, he wasn’t sure if he was a Man. He didn’t really know what those were, or how they were different from Women.

My name is Steve. I live in the village of Creek-in-Meadow. I have a horse named Butterscotch. I like the colour blue, and my favourite flowers are poppies. I am something called a person–

A branch snapped, and Steve shook himself awake. He looked around for the source of the noise.

For a split second, he saw a pale, freckled face watching him from behind a tree, before disappearing with a frightened gasp.

The water trickled on, and Steve carefully averted his eyes from the tree.

The face peeked out again. Steve slowly looked back, and once again the blur of white and ginger ducked behind the tree trunk. He decided to fix his gaze on the riverbank below them.

Steve felt a little nervous, but not scared. He had seen them before. Not all too much of them, they were awfully timid, but he’d known they were there.

“Hello.” Steve tentatively called out. “It’s a nice morning.”

The face slowly peeked out. It was rounded and thin, framed with fiery red hair, with big green eyes and freckles. Their nostrils flared with nervous breaths as they clung to the tree.

“Do you live here?” Steve asked. The face didn’t respond, they only stared, flinching a bit when he spoke.

“Um… My name’s Steve. I live in– I live in a village, and my favourite horse– My fa– Um, I have a horse.” Steve cursed himself for messing up his carefully planned introduction. “Do… Do you know what a horse is?”

The face seemed to have relaxed a tad, and moved out further from behind the tree. Steve could now see their hair was long, tied into a braid. They also wore a stained green tunic.

“...You can ride them. Horses.” Steve swallowed nervously. “I don’t live here. I live in a village. In case you forgot.”

The face and body was now a person, standing with only their hand on the tree. They watched Steve curiously, their fear ebbing away slowly but surely.

Steve slowly looked back up, and this time they didn’t flinch when their eyes met.

“My papa is a cleric. He’s not really– He didn’t get married or nothing, but he found me. I’m not a cleric. My profession is doing things for people. I, um, I like to help. I can make… I can make things too.”

Steve rummaged around in his pockets, before procuring a little wooden statue of a villager. Steve held it out for the visitor to see. “You see it? I made it.”

The figure craned forward, before they crouched down for a better look. They looked back at Steve with a blank expression, though Steve sensed no displeasure.

“I can make other things too. Like houses. I am real strong. I can make things without getting tired. I dunno why, I was born in a funny way. That’s why my nose is small, see.” Steve pressed a finger into his nose. The figure furrowed their brows in intrigue. They lifted a finger, and pressed it to their own.

“Hey!” Steve grinned. “You’re like me.”

The person’s lips twitched with the ghost of a smile, and they nodded ever so slightly. They glanced to the side, a hint of trepidation in their movement, before they sucked in a breath and pointed to their chest. Out came a toneless, croaky voice, wavering and whistling as if it had not been used for a very long time. “A–leks.”

Steve furrowed his brows.

“A… Alex. Name is Alex.”

“Oh!” Steve paused, and nodded in understanding. “Hello, Alex.”

Alex sniffed, nodding back, before pointing at Steve. “Stefe.”

“Aye! That’s my name.” Steve beamed. “Are you a person?”

Alex nodded. “Yes.”

“So am I. I didn’t know there was anyone else like me.”

“Me as well.”

“Where’d you come from?” Steve bit back his questions though his mind was on fire. He wasn’t alone! He wasn’t alone!

“Nowhere.”

“Nowhere? Me too. I was found.”

“By village?” Alex glanced to the side nervously.

“Yes. And they are very nice to me.”

“Hm.” Alex trailed off, hunching their shoulders. “Good.”

“Do you want to meet them?” Steve asked, sitting up at the idea.

Alex shrank back a bit toward the tree. They glanced to the side reluctantly and shook their head. “No.”

“Oh.” Steve hung his head. “Are you sure?”

Alex nodded their head vigorously, their eyebrows knitted together in a fearful expression. “I can’t.”

“Can I still see you, Alex? Outside of the village?”

Alex thought for a moment, before nodding. “Yes. Here.”

Steve’s smile returned. “Okay. Here. I’ll meet you here tomorrow.”

Alex nodded, smiling a bit themselves. “Tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Alex.”

“...Goodbye, Steve.”

The two departed, having arrived as halves and leaving as whole. They were not alone.

#my writing #my art #steve x alex #stalex #minecraft steve #minecraft alex #minecraft art #mineblr #minecraft #minecraft fanfiction #fanfiction #minecraft au #minecraft abiogenesis #minecraft fanart #minecraft headcanons

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mikaylathenerd5 · 1 month ago

Text

𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒜𝓁𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓎 𝒟𝑜 | Roman Reigns Smut

*I do not own the gif or pictures*

Main Mainlist ৹ Join My Taglist

PAIRING: Roman Reigns x Black OC (Shiloh Lucero)

SUMMARY: The world sees a warrior. She sees a man who only exhales when she touches him. After a brutal match ends in chaos, Roman sends nothing but a room number. No words. No apology. No warning. But Shiloh comes anyway. And in the silence that follows, she gives him what no one else ever has—peace, softness, and a body he can lose himself in.

🥀 Emotional aftercare. Sacred-level smut. And a man who doesn’t know how to let go—until she shows him he doesn’t have to.

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes graphic smut (oral, vaginal, size kink, overstimulation, creampie), strong language, emotional vulnerability, references to violence (in-ring), and intense aftercare. If you like your smut dirty and your emotions raw, this one’s for you.

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

A/N: This one did something to me. We might have went a little overboard with the smut. 😭 It’s filthy, yes—but also soft in a way that feels sacred. Roman is raw and wrecked, and Shiloh is the calm he didn’t know he needed. If you’re new here and want to keep up with all my Roman Reigns fics—drop a 💬 in the replies to join my Main Taglist, or fill out the Google Form in my pinned post. There’s a whole masterlist waiting to ruin you softly.

The world saw a warrior. She saw a man who only ever exhaled when she touched him.

She shouldn’t be here.

That thought echoed through her mind with every step she took down the carpeted hallway, her hoodie sleeves stretched over her palms, her heart thudding too loud in her chest. The hotel smelled like bleach and dust—clean but hollow. The kind of place where things came to rest. Or fall apart.

Her footsteps felt like thunder even though she moved quietly. Carefully. The closer she got to his door, the more her stomach knotted.

Room 815.

She’d stared at the text for ten minutes before even leaving the house. Just those three numbers. He didn’t say come. Didn’t say don’t. He just sent the room number, hours after the fight. After whatever had been clawing at him finally broke loose in the ring.

Shiloh had watched it on her phone. The clips. The commentators’ stunned silence when he didn’t stop swinging after the bell. The way security had to pull him off the guy. The way Roman didn’t look like Roman.

She’d seen that version of him before.

The version with the split knuckles and the cold stare.

The one who walked into the recovery room months ago with blood on his hoodie and pain in his bones and nothing left in his voice.

Back then, she hadn’t flinched.

And she wasn’t going to now.

Still, when she reached his door, her hand hovered.

She wasn’t scared of him. That wasn’t what this was.

It was what she carried for him. The tenderness, the ache. The way she saw through him even when he tried to disappear into silence. The way she knew—deep in her chest—that he needed softness more than he’d ever admit. That tonight, he didn’t need discipline or space or distance.

He needed to be seen.

To be held.

To be touched like a man, not a monster.

So she raised her hand and knocked. Softly. Once.

No answer.

Not for ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.

Then the lock clicked.

And the door opened.

The hotel room door shut behind him with a weight that had nothing to do with hinges.

Roman didn’t speak.

He dropped his gym bag by the dresser and let the silence settle over the room like fog—thick and slow, clinging to everything it touched. The air still carried the echo of the fight: adrenaline, frustration, sweat. That unshakable feeling of being full of everything and nothing at the same time.

He should’ve gone to the trainer. Should’ve iced his shoulder. Popped something for the swelling in his knee.

But he didn’t.

Because she was already here.

Shiloh sat at the edge of the bed in one of his hoodies, legs crossed, back straight but not tense. His gaze dropped, caught on the full curve of her hips, the way the oversized hoodie clung to her like it knew exactly what it was covering. She was thick in the kind of way that made a man lose his damn mind. Plush thighs. Fat ass. Built like comfort and chaos. He bit the inside of his cheek just to keep still. Her hands were tucked into the sleeves, her lips glossed with something soft and pink. The glow from the cracked bathroom door behind her lit her skin in warm gold.

She didn’t flinch when he walked in.

Didn’t rise or rush him.

She just looked at him—quietly, gently—like she was counting the parts that made it back whole.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low. Careful. Not tiptoeing—just attuned.

Roman’s gaze dragged up her body like it hurt to look too long. Not because she wasn’t beautiful—but because she was. And he didn’t know how to hold something like that without feeling like he might crack it open by mistake.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally. His voice sounded rough, like it had been scraped across gravel.

Shiloh blinked. She didn’t look away. “I came anyway.”

That did something to him.

He crossed the room in three slow steps and dropped to his knees in front of her. The sound of it wasn’t dramatic—just real. Solid. His hands found her thighs, palms warm even through the fabric, and then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to her stomach like he was begging for silence.

She didn’t expect the way her chest ached just watching him breathe. Didn’t expect how warm he still was—even after the world tried to make him cold.

She touched him anyway.

Her fingers slipped through his damp hair, down to the back of his neck, tracing the line where tension still lived. Her touch didn’t ask for anything. It simply said: I’m here. I see you. I’m not leaving.

Roman exhaled like he hadn’t done that since the fight.

“You’re the only one who sees me like this,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Shiloh’s hand stilled, then moved to his jaw. She tilted his face upward until his eyes met hers.

And just like that, a memory bloomed.

The first time Shiloh saw him, he didn’t speak.

He walked into the recovery room with a scowl on his face and blood drying on the collar of his hoodie. His knuckles were split, and his right arm hung lower than his left—like even lifting it would cost too much.

She glanced up from the file in her lap. Her supervisor wasn’t in yet.

He noticed her—but barely. Like he was scanning for threats, not people.

He sat on the padded table with a grunt and pulled the hood lower over his face. Not a word.

Shiloh stood slowly, walked to the counter, grabbed an ice pack, and brought it over.

Still no eye contact.

“Your shoulder,” she said softly. “Right side?”

He didn’t nod.

Didn’t deny it either.

She reached out and laid the ice against the swelling—lightly, gently, not forcing it. His flinch was instinctive, but it passed. And then he finally looked at her.

Eyes sharp. Quiet. Heavy-lidded like they’d seen too much.

She met his stare without dropping hers.

“You don’t have to explain pain to me,” she murmured.

He blinked. Just once. Like he wasn’t expecting that.

Like maybe he didn’t even want to be understood—but now that he was, it made his whole body settle just an inch.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the session. She taped his wrist and iced his ribs. He didn’t make a sound, but his breath hitched once when her hands brushed lower than expected.

She apologized. He didn’t say anything.

But when he stood to leave, his voice was deep and low.

“You always this calm?”

She gave a half-smile. “You always this grumpy?”

And for the first time, Roman Reigns—fight-hardened, blood-smeared, silent-as-the-grave Roman—grinned.

Just a little.

He came back three days later. Asked for her by name.

And over time, something started to form.

No flirting.

No games.

Just longer sessions. Longer silences. Until the silences weren’t empty anymore.

Until she started waiting for the sound of his boots in the hallway.

Until he started staying five minutes after. Then ten. Then walking her to the parking garage.

Until the night he looked at her and said:

“I don’t usually let people touch me. But you… I feel like I’d stop breathing if you didn’t.”

And maybe that’s when he knew.

Maybe she did, too.

She still remembered that first night. The blood on his hoodie. The way he couldn’t meet her eyes until she told him he didn’t have to explain pain. The way he looked at her now was different—but the man underneath hadn’t changed. Just the way he let her hold him.

“That’s why I don’t look away,” she whispered.

And that’s when he kissed her.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. It didn’t demand or dominate. It opened.

Warmth bled between them as her lips moved against his—slow, sweet, and sure. He tasted like iron and something tired. She tasted like ChapStick and vanilla and something his.

Roman made a low sound in his throat. Not quite a growl. Not quite a sigh. Something in between. A sound that meant thank you for touching me when I feel like a monster.

He deepened the kiss, just enough to feel her breath change.

One hand cradled her jaw. The other moved to her back. He held her like a man holding the last soft thing in a hard world.

When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse.

“Take it off, Shy.”

Her throat went dry. The syllable of her name felt heavier when he said it like that—slow, deep, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

She nodded, fingers curling around the hem of the hoodie.

It wasn’t modesty. It was vulnerability.

Being bare around Roman was different. He didn’t just see her. He memorized her. Devoured her with his eyes like he wanted to be fluent in her skin.

Still, she peeled it off.

Underneath: soft bralette. Cotton shorts. Bare thighs. Gold anklet.

The shorts clung to her like a second skin, cinched just under the swell of her ass. Her hips flared, thick and smooth, and her thighs jiggled just a little as she moved—soft enough to sink into, strong enough to ride him into the mattress. Roman swore under his breath again, because fuck… she was thick and beautiful and everything he didn’t deserve.

Roman swore under his breath. In English first. Then Samoan.

“You don’t even try to kill me. You just do.”

He took off his own shirt—slow, deliberate. The bruises on his ribs bloomed deep purple. A long, angry cut ran beneath his collarbone. He didn’t flinch.

But when she reached for him, he caught her wrist.

“Don’t fix it,” he said. “Just be here.”

Shiloh’s eyes softened. She touched his chest anyway—right over the cut—and whispered, “Okay.”

And then his mouth found hers again.

Slower this time. Hungrier.

Roman’s mouth never strayed far from hers, but the kiss shifted—lower, deeper, more possessive. His lips dragged along her jaw, then lower, biting softly at her neck.

Then he sat back, gaze dark and unreadable.

“On your knees, mama.”

Shiloh’s breath caught. Not from fear. From the sheer weight in his voice.

She moved without hesitation. Slid off the bed onto the carpet, the press of the cool floor grounding her even as heat licked up her spine. Her body was buzzing—raw and worshipful. Being in front of him like this didn’t feel small. It felt powerful. Sacred. Like her mouth was the only place he wanted to lose control.

Roman leaned back slightly, legs spread, watching her with a hunger that almost made her ache. His cock strained against his sweats, thick and already leaking. And when she reached up to free him, his eyes fluttered closed for a second—just one.

“You know what I like,” he said, voice gravel. “So don’t tease me, baby. Not tonight.”

She pulled him out, her hand not even able to wrap fully around him. God, he was heavy in her palm. Warm. Veined. His tip was flushed and dripping, and she licked it once—just a flick, just to taste him.

Roman’s hips jerked.

“Fuck—”

Shiloh looked up at him through her lashes, her lips wrapping around the head. She sucked him in slowly, relaxing her jaw, inch by inch, until she couldn’t take any more. She gagged softly—his size never stopped being a stretch—but she pushed herself down again, letting her nose brush the firm line of his abs.

His groan was guttural.

“Jesus, Shy…”

She held him deep, her throat tightening around him, breathing through her nose. Her palms rested on his thighs, grounding herself in his warmth. Her eyes watered—but not from discomfort. From the rush. The intimacy. The way his whole body shook beneath her.

Roman’s hand found the back of her head—not rough, just firm.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Givin’ me this sweet fuckin’ throat like it belongs to me.”

It did.

Every part of her did, and he knew it.

She moaned around him, letting the vibrations travel through him like lightning. He bucked once—just once—and then forced himself still.

“Shit, baby. I’m hangin’ on by a thread.”

He was unraveling, and she felt it.

And God, she loved it.

Loved that this man—this warrior, this myth, this fucking machine of violence—was coming undone because of her. Because of her mouth, her patience, her devotion.

He looked down just in time to see her spit slick down his shaft, her lips glossy, her eyes wild with heat. She sucked harder, cheeks hollowing, then pulled back and stroked him with both hands, spreading her spit all the way to the base.

Roman was breathing like he’d just run five rounds.

“Fuck. You tryin’ to make me bust in your mouth, mama? That what you want?”

She nodded, then swallowed him again.

Deeper this time.

Sloppier.

More desperate.

Her throat worked around him, each bob messier than the last. Her tears smeared down her cheeks. And still—she didn’t stop. She gave all of herself, like worship, like penance, like prayer.

Roman’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“Shit—Shy—you gotta stop—fuck—you gon’ make me—”

He pulled her off, fast but careful, panting like he just survived a war.

His cock was dripping, shiny and soaked, twitching in her grip. And her lips—God—her lips were swollen and slick with him.

She looked ruined.

And he’d never seen anything more perfect.

“Get up here,” he growled, low and urgent. “Now.”

Shiloh climbed onto the bed, flushed and breathless. Her thighs were trembling, her body dripping. She looked like she was ready to burst.

Roman dragged her into his lap, every part of him still shaking from the feel of her throat.

Shiloh was already straddling him, bare thighs spread across the thick muscle of his lap. Her ass settled heavy against him, thick and plush, the kind of weight that made his pulse throb. Every time she shifted, he felt her softness drag along his skin like a slow tease. That ass had a rhythm of its own—one he’d memorized, one he craved. It wasn’t just how she moved—it was what she made him feel when she did. Her softness against him made his whole body tense. He gripped her hips, thumbs pressing slow circles into her skin like he was mapping her, muscle by muscle.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice low and gritty, jaw tight with restraint.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Nah, baby. I need to hear it.”

“I want you,” she breathed, lips brushing his. “I want all of you.”

Roman’s nostrils flared.

“You got me.”

He nudged the tip against her entrance. Just that—no pressure, no push—just enough for her body to remember what it was like to be stretched by him.

She inhaled sharply. Her hips twitched, needy already.

“You feel that?” he rasped. “She already opening for me.”

He gripped his cock at the base and slid it against her folds, teasing. Her slick coated him instantly. He didn’t even push in yet, and she was already dripping.

“So fuckin’ wet. All this for me?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “It’s yours, Roman.”

“Damn right it is.”

Then he sank into her.

Slow. Deep. Unforgiving.

Shiloh’s mouth fell open, eyes squeezing shut as he filled her inch by inch. The stretch was insane. Her walls fluttered around him, barely able to take it.

Fuck—he was huge.

Every goddamn time, it felt like he was breaking her in from scratch. Like her pussy forgot how to handle him the second he pulled out. And now—now he was splitting her open like he owned the right to ruin her.

No one else had ever felt like this. No one else had ever made her gasp just from the first few inches. Roman filled every part of her—thick, heavy, perfect—and still had more to give.

It wasn’t fair. How the stretch made her ache and gush all at once. How her walls clenched like they were desperate to hold onto him. How her pussy went dumb the second he bottomed out.

She was fucking addicted to it.

To him.

To the way he made her feel small, stuffed, ruined…

And God help her, she loved it.

Loved being the only one who could take it. Loved knowing this dick—the biggest she’d ever had—was hers.

Roman groaned, head falling back. His voice cracked when he said:

“Goddamn, Shy. I forget how tight this pussy is ‘til I’m back inside it.”

She whimpered. Tried to breathe. Failed.

“That’s it, baby. Ride it. Ride this dick like it’s yours.”

She rocked forward and down—shaky at first, then stronger. Her rhythm built, hips moving in rolling waves, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room.

Roman didn’t stop watching her.

Her tits bounced with every grind. Her nails raked his chest. Her head fell back as she moaned his name, again and again, like a prayer unraveling.

“Look at you,” he gritted out. “You fuckin’ takin’ it. So pretty. So fuckin’ perfect.”

“Fat fuckin’ ass takin’ this dick like it was made for it,” he growled, gripping both cheeks hard. “You feel what you’re doin’ to me, baby? Bouncin’ like that, makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His hand moved to her ass. SLAP.

She gasped, clenching hard around him. It sent a fresh bolt of heat through her core, her pussy tightening like a vice, sucking him in deeper.

“You like that?”

“Yes—Roman, please—”

“You gon’ make a mess all over this dick, huh?”

Another slap—harder. Her thighs jolted. Her back arched like she couldn’t help it. The sting of his palm only made the pleasure burn hotter.

“You better fuckin’ cream on me. I wanna see it.”

She didn’t even realize she was crying until her vision blurred—tears sliding down her temples, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming stretch of him inside her. Every time she lifted and dropped her hips, she felt her body split wide open, clenching just to survive the next thrust.

It wasn’t just pleasure.

It was obliteration.

He filled her so deep her guts throbbed. Her belly felt taut from how far he reached, the tip of his cock dragging along every soft, swollen nerve that had already been fucked raw. Her clit throbbed just from how full she was. And she couldn’t stop—didn’t want to.

“You feel what you do to me?” Roman groaned, voice cracking. “You ridein’ me like that and expect me to hold on?”

He grabbed her hips tighter. Forced her to grind deeper, slower, harder. The friction made her eyes roll back. Her pussy fluttered, soaked and messy and milking him with every bounce.

And then he looked down.

“Oh fuck—look at you.”

His jaw dropped. His voice dropped lower.

Her slick coated him in white, a creamy ring forming around the base of his cock every time she bottomed out. Her juices smeared his thighs. The air smelled like sweat, sex, and something dangerously addictive.

“Fuck, baby—you see that shit?” he growled. “You fuckin’ drippin’ down my balls.”

Shiloh whimpered. Her body trembled uncontrollably. She was seconds from losing it, thighs shaking, pussy clenching in rhythmic spasms around him.

“I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“You better fuckin’ cum,” he said, voice low, wicked. “Let me see you lose control on this dick, mama. Let me feel all of it.”

His hands gripped her ass, slammed her down—and that was it.

She shattered.

Her body jerked forward like something had snapped inside her. Her scream tore from her throat, raw and helpless. Her walls convulsed. Wetness exploded down her thighs in hot, pulsing waves. She squirted around him, again and again, coating his lap with a slick, chaotic mess.

“Fuck you’re squirting for me, huh?” he hissed. “Look at that. Look how wrecked you get for me.”

And still—he didn’t stop.

He fucked her through it, his cock dragging slow and deep through her still-gushing pussy. Her head fell back. Her mouth stayed open. Every nerve was on fire.

“You want another?”

She whimpered. “Roman—I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He flipped her.

One motion—gripped her waist, laid her back, and lined himself up again.

“Legs open. Let me see that pretty pussy I just broke.”

He slid back in—no resistance now. Just slick heat.

“Mmm. Still twitchin’. She not done yet.”

He put her ankles on his shoulders. Bent down. Kept all of him inside her.

Then he moved.

Deep, grinding thrusts that made the bed creak. His moans got rougher. His lips brushed her ear.

“Cum again, babygirl. One more. Just for me. Let me ruin you soft.”

Her hands gripped the sheets. Her body shook.

“Roman—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Let go. Let me feel everything.”

She came again. Loud. Messy. Writhing beneath him as her body gave out. And that broke him.

He grunted. Cursed. Slammed into her twice more before groaning into her neck.

“Givin’ you all of it. Take it. Take it.”

His cock jerked deep inside her as he came—hard. Long. Gut-wrenching.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even move.

Just lay over her, shuddering with every pulse.

“You okay?” she whispered, dazed, breathless.

Roman chuckled, voice still ragged.

“Baby… I think I saw God.”

Shiloh didn’t remember collapsing.

All she knew was that her body had given up. She was boneless, limp, ruined in the best possible way. Her legs trembled with aftershocks. Her skin tingled from every place he’d touched. And her pussy—God—her pussy throbbed, stretched wide and still pulsing, warm and wet from him.

Roman hadn’t moved.

He was still deep inside her when the last tremor rocked through her hips. Still pressing his forehead to hers. Still breathing like she was oxygen and the world had left him breathless.

“You okay?” he rasped.

Her voice was hoarse. “I think… I can taste colors.”

He chuckled. Deep. Warm. A sound that made her want to kiss the corner of his mouth just to feel it again.

“That good, huh?” “You ruined me.” “Good,” he said again, this time darker. “I like you ruined.”

He kissed her cheek and pulled out slow. She whimpered at the drag—how empty she felt the second he left her. The wet sound of him slipping free echoed between them.

He looked down.

And groaned.

“Fuck. Look what you did to me.”

His cock was slicked in her cream. The base was messy with it, sticky and glistening. His cream smeared down the backs of her thick thighs, leaving glossy trails on skin that still twitched from overstimulation. Her ass—red from his palms, soft from the way she molded into his lap—looked like it had been claimed. Marked. Remembered. There was a milky trail between her thighs, seeping onto the sheets. He brushed his thumb along her slit and watched her body twitch.

“You still sensitive?” “Roman—” “Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Still flutterin’. She not ready to let me go yet.”

Then he moved. She thought he was going to tease her again, but instead—

He left the bed.

The absence of him made her cold.

She heard water run. A drawer open. The rustle of cloth. The quiet click of the light dimmer.

When he came back, he knelt at the edge of the bed. Warm towel in one hand. Tenderness in the other.

“Open your legs for me, mama.”

She did.

Because her body always listened to him before her brain could.

He wiped her clean—slow, reverent. Cupped her thighs, spread her gently, ran the towel between her folds with care so tender it made her chest ache. She winced once.

He paused. Kissed the inside of her knee.

“I got you. I’ll be gentle. Just wanna take care of my mess.”

She whimpered at how soft he was. How filthy his voice still sounded even when he was trying to be delicate.

“You always this sweet after you cum?” he murmured, brushing her skin with the backs of his knuckles. “Goin’ quiet on me like I ain’t just made you squirt on this dick twice?”

“You’re cocky.” “I’m correct.”

Once she was clean, he stood and scooped her up.

Roman didn’t ask. Didn’t warn her.

He just wrapped her in his arms like he was reclaiming something that already belonged to him.

“Can’t walk yet, huh?” he teased, lips brushing her temple.

“I might fall face-first.” “That’s alright. I’ll carry you every time.”

He tucked her into the bed gently, like he was setting something delicate into silk. Draped the sheet over her legs. Then slid in behind her, chest to her back, wrapping an arm around her waist.

But she twisted.

Rolled into him.

Tucked herself under his chin and pressed her lips to his collarbone.

“Stay close,” she whispered.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Room service trays now sat mostly ignored. Her stomach was full, her thighs sore. She was wrapped in one of his hoodies now—nothing underneath but warm skin.

Roman fed her sushi with his fingers. Held her ankle in his lap, massaging her calf.

“You always this quiet?” “You always this soft?” she asked back.

His eyes lingered on her for a long beat. Longer than she expected.

“Only with you.”

She turned her face into his chest. Breathed him in. Then asked softly:

“Do you ever let anyone else see you like this?”

His answer was immediate.

“No.”

“Why me?”

He didn't rush the answer. He trailed his fingers along the seam of her thigh. Thought for a long time. Then:

“Because you don’t try to fix me. You don’t treat me like I’m some fucked-up legend. You just… show up.”

“I’d keep showing up if you let me.”

He looked down at her. For once, no smirk. No armor. Just a truth sitting heavy behind his eyes.

“You already do.”

He kissed her slow. Not sexual. Not even possessive.

Just like he couldn’t believe he got to.

And when he pulled away, the room was quiet again—except this time, the silence felt earned.

Safe.

Shiloh was already half-asleep, lips brushing his chest, hand resting over his heart.

But before she drifted, she heard him say—voice low, almost to himself:

“I sleep better when you’re the last thing I see.”

The room was still dark.

Early morning light hadn’t breached the curtains yet—just the faint blue hush of pre-dawn that settled across the ceiling like a sigh. The air was cool. The sheets were warm. And Shiloh—bare and curled beside him—was breathing slow and even, her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

Roman was already awake.

Had been for almost an hour.

But he hadn’t moved.

Not because he couldn’t.

Because he didn’t want to.

There was something sacred about this—about watching her sleep, soft and safe in a bed that had seen violence hours before. Her cheek rested on his chest, her lips parted slightly, and one thigh was draped over his waist like she had no intention of letting go.

And God… he didn’t want her to.

He ran his hand down her back. Barely a touch. Just enough to feel the curve of her spine. Just enough to remind himself she was still there.

Still here.Still his.

He leaned forward—careful not to wake her—and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. Then another, lower, just above her shoulder blade.

His lips lingered.

And then, in a voice no louder than breath, he whispered something no one else had ever heard from him. Not his family. Not his friends. Not even himself, in the mirror.

“I don’t know who I’d be without you.”

The words didn’t scare him.

What scared him was how true they felt.

He kissed her again—one more time, just because he could—and let his forehead rest against the space between her shoulder and neck. She stirred lightly, but didn’t wake.

Roman closed his eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like years, he didn’t feel like he had to armor up when morning came.

He didn’t feel like the fight would start again as soon as the sun rose.

He just felt... safe.

Because she was here.

Because she came anyway.

Because maybe—for once—he didn’t have to be anything more than this.

Just a man.

Just hers.

Author's Note ✍🏽:

If this one gave you feelings, made you squirm, or had you whispering “oh my God” to no one—please tell me everything. I live for your reactions. 💭 What line did it for you? 💭 What part made you feel soft? 💭 Should I write a morning-after continuation? 💭 Do you imagine this Roman existing in the same universe as any of my other stories?

Let’s talk about it in the comments or in your tags—I always read them. Your reblogs, reactions, and love keep me inspired. 💌

Slide into my inbox with your thoughts, keysmashes, theories, or thirst. I love getting asks and screaming with y’all about these characters—it makes sharing my work feel even more special. 🖤 If you want to be added to my Main Taglist, just drop a comment or fill out the form in my pinned post. And if you're looking for more emotional smut, messy love, and slow-burn softness… my masterlist has you covered. Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. You're seriously some of the coolest people I know.

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jeonette · 10 days ago

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loving you is war — jjk 18+

A love too toxic to stay in, but too painful to walk away from. He ruins her, and she knows but she falls for it anyway.

genre : toxic love, dark romance.

rating : MINORS DNI! 18+

It started on a day that should’ve meant nothing.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not behind the grimy old convenience store where the school’s worst behaved kids hung around after the bell.

But you were looking for your brother’s bike — he’d left it out, again — and wandered into the alley on a shortcut, hoping no one would notice.

That’s when you saw him.

Leaning against the wall like sin incarnate, cigarette tucked between his lips, blood on his knuckles like it was nothing. Like it belonged there.

Jeon Jungkook.

Black hoodie. Torn jeans. Tattoo ink peeking beneath his sleeve.

He looked up the moment your shadow crossed the corner, smoke curling from his lips like a threat or a prayer.

You froze.

“Lost, princess?” he asked, voice low and rough. Not mocking. Just… curious.

Your eyes dropped to his hand. Split knuckles. Dried red. The metallic scent of it caught in your nose.

“You’re bleeding,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Are you okay?”

His brows lifted slightly. “Didn’t think you were the type to care.”

“I’m not,” you lied. “It just looks infected.”

He smirked. “You saying I’m dirty?”

You shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

For a second, something flickered across his face — interest, maybe. Amusement.

You stepped closer, pulling a tiny hand sanitizer bottle from your bag, the kind your mom always forced you to carry. You also had tissues. Bandaids. You were always prepared. You were the good girl.

Jungkook didn’t move when you reached out. Just watched you. Smoke still curling between you both like some kind of fragile veil.

“This might sting,” you said, gently wiping at the blood. You didn’t know what shocked you more — the gash or the fact that he let you touch him without flinching.

“You always carry first-aid in your bag?” he asked, gaze fixed on you now.

“Only when I plan to run into street thugs,” you replied without looking up.

He chuckled. “Thug, huh?”

“If the shoe fits.”

The cigarette burned down between his fingers. He dropped it, crushing it under his boot.

Then his voice lowered.

“So… what are you doing behind a place like this, princess?”

“None of your business.”

“You know your shoes are way too clean to be standing in alleyway muck?”

You looked down. Your white sneakers were already speckled with dirt.

“Damn it,” you muttered.

He grinned. “Told you.”

You sighed. “This was a mistake.”

“You saying I was a mistake?”

You hesitated — not because you didn’t want to answer, but because something about the way he said it made your stomach flutter.

You glanced up at him, close enough now to see the golden rim around his irises. Close enough to smell the faintest hint of mint gum beneath the smoke. He was beautiful in the kind of way your mom warned you about. Dangerous in the kind of way that didn’t show up until it was too late.

“I didn’t say that either,” you whispered.

He leaned in just a little. Just enough. The space between you humming with something hot and electric.

Then suddenly, he stepped back.

The moment shattered like glass — quiet, but sharp.

“You should go, Y/N,” he said, voice unreadable now. “Places like this — people like me — we ruin girls like you.”

You blinked, startled.

“How do you know my name?”

He smiled — soft, but nothing sweet about it.

“I’ve always known your name.”

And with that, he turned, hoodie pulled over his head, disappearing around the corner.

You stood there for a full minute, sneakers planted, heart doing that stupid, wild thing in your chest.

And when you finally walked away, you didn’t realize it then, but something had already started.

Something you wouldn’t be able to stop.

—

It started with a note.

Folded once, slipped through the slats of your locker door. No name. Just messy, slanted handwriting that said:

Tonight. 9PM. That abandoned parking lot behind the arcade. Come if you want.

— JJK

You stared at it too long.

You knew what this was. Knew what he was.

Everything about Jungkook was heat and warning signs.

But something about him also felt like gravity.

So you went.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. That you’d just walk past.

But at 8:56, you were lacing your sneakers with shaking fingers.

At 9:03, you were standing in that cracked lot, heart thudding loud enough to hear.

He was already there.

Perched on the hood of a beat-up black car, hoodie half-zipped, chain glinting in the streetlight. Music played low from the radio — an old song, something lazy and slow, all drums and longing.

When he saw you, he smiled — not cocky, not smug.

Just… real.

“You came,” he said softly, hopping off the hood.

You folded your arms, nerves tingling. “Barely.”

“Thought you might be scared of me.”

You met his gaze. “Maybe I am.”

He looked at you like he could see through your skin. Like he liked that you were scared.

“Then why’d you show up, Bun?”

Your breath caught.

“Did you just call me—”

“It fits, doesn’t it?” he interrupted, stepping closer. “Cute. Soft. Too good for this kind of night.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not when he was standing this close.

“Relax,” he added, stepping past you, popping open the passenger door. “Wasn’t planning to kill you or anything.”

“How reassuring.”

“You hungry?”

You blinked. “What?”

“There’s a 24/7 diner down by the highway. Best fries in town.”

You stared at him.

“You brought me out here to buy me fries?”

He smirked. “Wanted to see if you’d come. Guess I needed to know if I’d already started ruining you.”

Your heart thudded too hard in your chest. He said it like a joke, but it didn’t feel like one.

Still — you climbed into the passenger seat.

You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Maybe it was the way you felt seen — not like the good girl everyone assumed you were, but like someone who might want more.

More danger. More risk. More him.

The car ride was quiet. Not awkward — just easy. The hum of the engine, your knees almost touching, his fingers tapping the wheel in rhythm to a song you didn’t recognize.

At the diner, he ordered for both of you without asking. And somehow — you liked it. The confidence. The casualness. Like he already knew what you’d want.

You ended up laughing more than you expected. Sharing fries. Teasing each other over milkshake flavors. He had stories — reckless ones. Dumb ones. Sad ones. But all real.

It wasn’t until the food was gone and the lights started to dim that the shift happened.

You were sitting in the back of the car now. Windows cracked, night air cool against your skin. The radio played a slower song this time — something breathy and low.

Jungkook was stretched beside you, arm thrown across the backrest, head tilted toward you.

“You always this good at pretending?” he asked suddenly.

You frowned. “Pretending what?”

“That you’re fine.”

Your throat tightened. “I am fine.”

He didn’t call you out on the lie. Just let it hang there.

“I see you at school,” he said after a beat. “You’re always surrounded, always smiling. But it never touches your eyes.”

You looked away.

“Why do you care?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I shouldn’t. But I do.”

You turned back to him.

He was so close. His face half-shadowed, lips parted just slightly. He wasn’t touching you — not yet — but you could feel the static buzzing between you like a live wire.

“You scare me,” you whispered.

He leaned in, voice dark and velvet-smooth. “Good.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was want and heat and fire, like he’d been holding it back for far too long. His hand curled behind your neck, his other slipping around your waist, and the second your mouth parted beneath his, he made a sound — low and desperate — that made your whole body shiver.

You kissed him back. You weren’t supposed to, but you did. Clutching the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

When you finally broke apart, your breath came in short gasps.

“What are we doing?” you asked, voice shaking.

Jungkook’s thumb brushed your bottom lip, his eyes dark and serious.

“Falling,” he said. “Hard.”

—

You woke up to the smell of waffles.

And Jungkook — in your kitchen.

You blinked hard, still tangled in sleep and memories of his mouth on yours in the backseat of his car the night before. For a moment, you weren’t sure it was real.

Until he appeared in your doorway.

“Morning, Bun.”

His voice was low, raspy, warm.

You sat up in bed, heart lurching. “You stayed?”

He lifted two plates with one hand and a mug in the other, grinning. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“You broke in?”

“You gave me your spare key, remember? For emergencies. And I decided waking up without waffles was an emergency.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out.

He placed the plate in front of you, then crawled onto your bed, sitting cross-legged across from you like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

The moment was quiet, filled with the soft clinks of cutlery and the occasional amused snort when he made a face at the syrup.

“Do you regret it?” he asked suddenly.

Your eyes flicked up. “Regret what?”

“Last night.”

You swallowed. “No.”

He looked at you for a long moment — the kind of look that peeled back layers without needing to ask more.

“I meant it, you know,” he said quietly. “About you not pretending with me.”

You looked down at your plate.

“Sometimes it’s easier,” you murmured.

His fingers brushed over yours — gentle, warm.

“You don’t have to be easy with me, Bun. You just have to be real.”

And somehow, in that moment, you believed him.

The first few months with Jungkook were magic.

He picked you up from school, leaning against his car like a scene out of a 90s movie. He left notes in your locker that ranged from sweet to downright filthy — always signed with a little bunny doodle.

He bought your favorite snacks before you even asked. Learned your music taste like a religion. Let you wear his rings, his hoodie, his scent like armor.

You fought — but in a playful way. The kind of bickering that ended in kisses. The kind of teasing that made your stomach flip.

He made you feel wanted. Chosen. Like no one had ever looked at you the way he did — like you were something wild and holy.

For a while, it was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

At first, it was little things. Him going quiet when you mentioned someone else texting you. The way his jaw ticked when you talked to certain classmates. His fingers tightening just a little too hard when someone looked at you too long in the hallway.

He never said anything. But it was in his eyes.

Possession. Fear. Want.

You didn’t mind. Not really.

Because truth be told, you kind of liked it.

No one had ever wanted you that fiercely before. It felt intoxicating — like being his meant you mattered in a way that was louder than the world.

But slowly, things shifted.

The fights weren’t playful anymore.

And the way he kissed you after? It started to feel like apology and punishment all at once.

—

Jungkook had been quiet the whole drive.

Not the usual kind of quiet either — not the one laced with teasing or smirking glances from the driver’s seat. This one sat cold between you both, stretched like a taut string.

You watched him from the corner of your eye as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles pale.

“You’re mad,” you said finally.

He didn’t look at you.

“I’m not.”

“Jungkook,” you pressed, voice low. “You haven’t said a single thing since lunch.”

He parked abruptly in your usual spot near the school lot and leaned back in the seat, hands gripping his jaw. Still silent.

You shifted in your seat to face him.

“Is it because I talked to Minjae?”

There it was — the spark. His eyes snapped to yours, something sharp and dangerous glinting just beneath the surface.

“You didn’t just talk, Bun. You laughed. You touched his arm. You let him stand that close to you.”

You blinked. “He asked for my notes.”

“He asked for an excuse to stare at your mouth while you smiled.”

You stared at him. “That’s insane.”

“Is it?” he bit out. “Because I’ve seen that look. I know what it means.”

You scoffed. “I was being nice. God, Jungkook — you really think I’d flirt with someone else? While you were right there?”

He looked at you then — not angry, but wounded. Like it physically hurt him to even think about it.

And then, softly: “I think I’m scared you’ll realize someone else is easier to love than me.”

The air left your lungs.

Your heart squeezed — because underneath the fight, there he was. The boy who left waffles on your pillow and made playlists for every mood you had. The one who kissed you like you were air and he was drowning.

You hated how much you still loved him in that moment.

You reached for his hand. “Jungkook—”

But he pulled it back.

“Do you even want this anymore?” he asked, eyes wild now. “Or are you just staying out of guilt because I give you everything and you feel too bad to leave?”

That cracked something open.

“Are you serious right now?” Your voice rose. “You think I don’t want you? That I’m staying because I pity you?”

“I don’t know, Y/N. Do you?”

You stared at him like he’d just punched you in the chest.

And then you laughed — bitter and broken. “You know what, maybe I do need space. Because this version of you? The one who twists everything good into something ugly? That’s not the boy I fell for.”

His jaw clenched. “So go.”

“I will.”

You flung the door open, stepping out with tears already blurring your vision. You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not like this.

But before you could walk away, his voice stopped you.

“Bun—wait.”

You froze.

Silence stretched again, but this one felt different. Heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just— I see you with other people and I get scared you’ll realize I’m too much. That someone else could give you something easier, something cleaner.”

You turned back slowly, your eyes glassy but fierce.

“I never wanted easy, Jungkook. I wanted you. But if you keep pushing me away every time you get scared, you’re gonna lose me.”

He stepped forward, then cupped your face gently, almost hesitantly.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “Even when I’m angry, even when I’m a mess… I still want to be yours. I just don’t know how to stop ruining it.”

You rested your forehead against his, eyes closed.

“Then learn. Because I’m not going to keep reminding you that I chose you.”

He nodded slowly, and kissed you — this time like he was afraid it’d be the last time.

It wasn’t.

But it would be the first of many fights.

Fights that burned too hot.

Fights that always ended in his hands on your skin and your voice saying, “Okay, we’re okay now.”

And so the pattern began.

Love. Bruise. Apology. Repeat.

—

The door slammed behind you.

“I can’t with you sometimes,” you said, your voice sharp, trembling with the rage you’d been biting back the entire ride home.

Jungkook turned, jaw tight, eyes blazing. “Then don’t, Bun. No one’s forcing you to stay.”

The nickname fell like an insult tonight.

You dropped your bag to the floor, stepping forward. “You really wanna say that? After everything?”

“You think I don’t know the way you look at me lately? Like you’re already gone?”

Your chest rose with each breath. “I look at you like I’m tired, Jungkook. Like I’m exhausted trying to love someone who doesn’t know how to stop starting fires.”

He laughed bitterly. “Yeah? Maybe I start them so you won’t leave. Maybe I’d rather burn the house down with us in it than watch you walk away.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. “That’s not love.”

He stepped closer, voice low. “Isn’t it?”

A beat. You swallowed hard, pain rising in your throat. “You always go too far.”

“And you always stay.”

You hated that he was right.

You hated even more how much you wanted to stay.

“You’re not healthy for me,” you whispered, half a sob.

“And yet,” he murmured, stepping into you, “you keep coming back.”

Your chest brushed his. Thunder cracked somewhere above the city.

“You make me insane,” you said, tears brimming now.

“I am insane,” he growled. “About you.”

You slapped your hands against his chest, but he caught your wrists gently, held them there between you.

“You’re such an asshole,” you whispered, face tilting up.

“I know.”

His mouth was on yours before you could breathe.

It wasn’t soft.

It was fire and salt, fury and apology — all the things neither of you knew how to say out loud. Teeth clashed, hands gripped too tight, mouths moved like it was the last time. You shoved his jacket off. He tugged your shirt up. Breathless, desperate — like this would fix it.

Like this was the apology.

He lifted you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The coldness of the surface behind you grounded you for a moment — but only just.

“Tell me you hate me,” he whispered into your skin, voice shaking.

You moaned as he bit down on your collarbone, marking you like he always did. “I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“Then why do you sound like this when I touch you?”

He dragged his hand down your body, slow and deliberate. You gasped, fingers in his hair, dragging his mouth back to yours.

“I hate you,” you breathed against his lips.

He kissed you harder. “Say it again.”

“I hate you,” you repeated, legs trembling.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild and completely wrecked.

“No, you don’t,” he said again. “You love me. Just like I fucking love you.”

That broke something in you. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you alive.

The rest was messy.

The couch, the floor, his bed — you don’t remember where it ended or began. Just mouths and sweat and gasps and his voice in your ear saying, “Mine. Mine. Only mine.”

And yours, whispering back, “Yours. I’m yours.”

It wasn’t perfect.

It never was.

But in the way he touched you, the way your bodies moved together like magnets too powerful to pull apart — you understood something unspoken.

This was love, too.

The kind that left marks.

The kind that felt like drowning and air all at once.

The kind you weren’t sure was good for you.

But it was yours.

And in his arms that night, wrecked and ruined, you let yourself believe that maybe… just maybe, love could survive like this.

—

The sunlight spilled gently through the curtains, painting soft gold across the rumpled sheets. You woke first, tangled in the warmth of Jungkook’s arms, his steady breath against your neck a soothing rhythm. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist — just the two of you, wrapped up in this fragile peace.

He stirred beside you, eyes fluttering open, a slow smile curving on his lips when he saw you.

“Morning, Bun,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

You smiled back, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “Morning.”

Neither of you mentioned last night’s storm — the words unsaid hanging between you like an unspoken agreement. Instead, you moved with quiet tenderness, a soft dance of familiarity and comfort.

“Coffee?” he asked after a while, voice low.

“Yes, please,” you replied, your fingers tracing small circles on his arm.

He slipped out of bed with a careful grace, and soon the aroma of fresh coffee filled the apartment. When he returned, he handed you a steaming mug, and you caught his gaze, a question lingering there.

He smiled gently, as if to say ‘we’ll get there.’ And maybe you believed him.

In this stillness, this fragile morning, the fierce chaos of last night felt distant. But deep down, you knew the fire was never far — just waiting for the right moment to flare again.

For now, though, you held onto the quiet — the rare moments when love felt simple, even if just for a while.

—

The days after that morning slipped by like a fragile glass, beautiful but dangerously close to shattering. You and Jungkook tried to hold onto the tenderness, but the edges were rougher now — sharp words hidden beneath smiles, silences heavier than before.

One afternoon, you sat side by side on the couch, the TV murmuring in the background, but neither of you really watching. Your fingers nervously fiddled with the hem of your shirt while he stared at the floor, jaw clenched.

“Bun,” Jungkook’s voice broke the quiet, soft but tense. “I don’t want to fight like that again. Not with you.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes — vulnerability swimming there. “Me neither. But sometimes… it just happens. We’re both too stubborn.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your hand, a silent apology and plea. “I hate the distance. The space when you pull away.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “I’m scared sometimes. That love like ours can burn us both down.”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “Maybe we need to learn how to breathe without setting fire to everything.”

You smiled, a small fragile hope. “Maybe.”

The moment held, quiet and tentative — the beginning of something new, or the pause before the storm.

—

It wasn’t a loud fight. No slammed doors or shouted accusations. Instead, it was the quiet unraveling — the small cracks that grew with each unspoken word and every hesitant glance.

You caught him watching you one evening, eyes heavy with something you couldn’t name. When you finally spoke, your voice barely above a whisper, the dam broke.

“Why do we keep doing this, Koo? Fighting, breaking each other down, then pretending it’s okay?”

He looked away, jaw tight. “Because I can’t lose you. But sometimes, it feels like we’re tearing ourselves apart.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, frustration and love tangled in the same breath. “Then what are we even doing?”

He reached for you, pulling you close. “Holding on, even if it’s messy. Because I love you — more than I can explain.”

You leaned into him, your tears mingling with his whispered apologies. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

—

The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a muted TV. You sat curled up on the bed, knees hugged close, while Jungkook paced slowly, his voice cracking as he tried to find the words.

“Bun, I’ve been holding this in for too long… I don’t want to just survive this—our fights, our mess—I want to be better. For you. For us.”

You looked up, heart pounding, as he finally stopped and sat beside you, hands trembling slightly.

“I’m scared. Scared I’ll lose you, scared I’m not enough when I’m not perfect. But maybe perfection isn’t what we need. Maybe we just need… honesty.”

You reached out, taking his hands in yours. “I love you, Koo. Not the perfect version, not the calm— I love the real you, the angry, the soft, the stubborn. Even when it hurts.”

He smiled through tears, pulling you into a fierce hug. “Then let’s stop hiding behind walls. Let’s tear them down — together.”

—

The air between you crackled with a dangerous energy, thick and suffocating. You could taste the bitterness on your tongue before you even opened your mouth.

“You think I’m the one ruining this?” you snapped, voice trembling with the storm inside. “Do you even hear yourself, Koo? You’re the only one I ever wanted, the only one who made me feel like I mattered. And now—now it’s all falling apart.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark with a mix of anger, guilt, and something rawer — desperation. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, trembling as if fighting the urge to either pull you close or push you away.

“You don’t get to say that,” he shot back, voice low but intense. “You don’t get to blame me for every scar, every tear, every night you cried yourself to sleep.”

“Because it’s true,” you whispered, stepping forward despite the chaos in your chest. “We’re breaking each other, Koo. But I’m still here. I’m still standing because of you, not because of you.”

His breath hitched. He reached out slowly, trembling fingers brushing your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw like he was trying to memorize you all over again. “I never wanted this — to be the storm that tears you apart.”

Your eyes stung, but you refused to back away. “Neither did I.”

A silence fell, thick and heavy. Then without warning, his lips were on yours — fierce, urgent, desperate. The kiss was a collision of anger and need, of regret and possession. His hands gripped your waist tightly, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

You kissed him back with equal fire, fingers digging into his hair, mouth trembling as the raw emotion poured between you. The world around you dissolved until there was nothing but the heat of his body, the taste of him, and the ache of everything you both had lost — and maybe, in this moment, everything you could still have.

But just as quickly, the storm turned.

His hand cracked sharply against your cheek.

Shock exploded through you like lightning. You stumbled back, hand flying to your burning skin, eyes wide with hurt and disbelief.

“Jungkook…” you whispered, voice breaking.

His face twisted with immediate regret, but also something darker, more chaotic. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m so sorry, Bun. I never meant to—”

“You can’t hurt me like this,” you said fiercely, stepping forward again, trembling but unyielding. “Not like this. Not ever.”

His hands shook as he caught yours, holding them as if they might shatter. “I’m ruined, Y/N. I’m the one who’s broken, not you. You deserve so much better than me.”

You shook your head, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. “No. We’re both ruined. Together.”

His forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling, hearts pounding a jagged rhythm. “I hate that I’m the cause of your pain.”

“You’re the cause of my hope, too,” you whispered. “Don’t forget that.”

He pulled you into a fragile, trembling embrace — holding you like you might vanish if he let go.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You were tangled in the wreckage of your love, raw and exposed, but unwilling to let go.

“I can’t leave,” you confessed softly.

“Neither can I,” he breathed.

And in that heavy silence, broken only by your shared breaths, you both understood something painful and true: love this fierce was never gentle, never easy.

His fingers tangled in your hair as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his voice barely more than a broken whisper.

“Maybe we’re fire and gasoline — meant to burn, not to save.”

You swallowed the ache in your chest and met his gaze, steady and aching.

“But even if we burn, Koo… I’d rather go up in flames with you than live without the heat of us.”

He smiled, a shadow of both pain and longing.

“Then let’s burn together. Let the world watch us fall — but never forget how brightly we shone.”

Your breath caught, heart pounding as the last embers of doubt flickered away.

“Because in this chaos, in this madness… we found something no one else ever will.”

His lips brushed yours one last time — a kiss that tasted like forever, fierce and fragile.

“And that,” he said softly, “is love.”

a/n DISCLAIMER : this was kind of rushed but nevertheless I do hope you guys loveeee this. I’m going through a similar situation right now and I just want to let you guys know, if this is what your relationship looks like, please leave my love. You deserve way better and you deserve to be loved without breaking and falling apart. THIS IS NOT LOVE. I repeat. THIS IS NOT LOVE. it’s obsession. It’s attraction. It’s dangerous. Please allow yourself to be free and actually learn what love feels like because everybody DOES deserve to be loved. You’re not alone. This is a topic that speaks heavily to me so I do hope you guys enjoyed reading this draft and learn from it. Mwah mwah xx

#bts #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook ff #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #bts army #bts fanfic

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spookiedookiescrib · 4 days ago

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DMC5!Dante Headcanons ´ω`

cw: lil bit of mental health issues + romantic + nsfw stuff mentioned

Dante is not “dumb” ffs he just goes on power saving mode sometimes. Like if he was in school, he would be able to get A's and B's it's just sitting still and studying is not his thing

he's literally one of the kindest character i've ever seen in my entire life and the amount of people who misunderstand him is insane

Spiritually he is ´ω` when he’s in good condition, like imagine getting mad at him when he’s literally ´ω`

If you observe him closely, he got pretty sad-looking eyes, a gaze that shows many layers of him

i saw somewhere on web that prolonged depression or PTSD makes brain insensitive to threats, making them unreactive in the situation, maybe that’s part of the reason why Dante is nonchalant when it comes to threatening situations because he is suicidal + doesn’t care what happens to him

He’s very good at self control and hiding his emotions

One day he could be horn dog and next day he can be in complete control if he got a job

also if you struggle with mental health, he'd be very patient & understanding about it because he knows what it's like

As long as he’s not beheaded or nuked he’d still survive & heal

Minor injuries take seconds or minutes to heal but major injuries take a whole day to recover

Pet names: babe, sweetie

He has piercing ice blue eyes idc what dmc5 render says, dmc4 got it right

he also got glow in the dark eyes yum

He’s actually quite unsettling if you see him in person for the first time, like you can tell he’s not human somehow

sharp fangs, thicc and veiny, body hair (treasure trail, chest, arm) his hair is extra fluffy and lengthy in my hc

The Sparda gene makes his physique bigger than average people, you can tell that he is built different

Mr.Save the world, he always slipping through the fingers because he has to stop his twin brother or protect this world from the evil. He is willing to sacrifice himself and doesn’t care what happens to him which is very sad :(

In terms of romance, he doesn’t seem like the type to ever say something along the lines of eternity or “i’m yours” type of thing, because he never knows when he has to disappear and commitment is scary (and the whole thing about him being Sparda’s son, it puts his loved ones in danger and doesn’t want anyone to get hurt again)

also him being a hybrid + devil hunter makes him feel like an outcast + he thinks he shouldn’t be involved with people who got normal lives

also he HATES to be controlled or lied to, instant turn-off

but still if he knew that you were the one, he will try his best to be a good partner, he can be romantic as hell

He is capable of love because he knows what it feels like and what it is, but he chooses not to because he has to protect the world and his loved ones

And he can’t guarantee that he’ll be able to give what the other person wants

Smells like gunpowder/grease, metal, musk, vanilla and hint of whiskey

If he could afford water bills he'd take shower more often

Switch, a mix of making love and fucking hard. Nasty and freaky, loves to get messy. Would enjoy getting pegged. Very open to new things.

Most importantly, he bites. He loves to leave marks on you

His stamina is insane and can go on for hours non stop. He’s also very flexible (i mean did you see his leg split in DMC4)

Got size difference and praise kinks. yeah he’s freaky

Secretly loves being babied and acts whiny sometimes (in a cute way)

You can see his childhood personality from here lol

Very self-aware of his problems and thinks that he’d be a horrible partner

He has rotten luck in romance and refrains from any involvement in the future. He was certain that he will be single for life and he’s fine with it. Plus he’s emotionally unavailable

He almost never says “i love you” directly but has his own ways to express it

Random surprise gifts from him, usually something small. It ranges from a bouquet of roses, chocolate box, plush or movie ticket

either sleeps too much or too less, never the right amount

loves creamy desserts and greasy/hearty meals and never gets sick or fat somehow

he can survive without drinking or eating, he needs either human food or blood by choice

Definition of head-turner; if he walks around in public people will either find him hot or unsettling/intimidating

listens to divorced dad rock/metal but also jams to white girl music

Very small thing but i kinda imagined him to have a deeper voice lol

Matt Mercer should voice him as a joke, just for once

#devil may cry #devil may cry 5 #dante sparda #dmc dante #dante devil may cry #dante x reader #dmc #dmc5 dante

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luv-nikki · 2 months ago

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I was wondering if you could write where George and his friend group go on holiday and reader really likes him but also readers friend does too. But George likes reader and readers friends try’s GETING to him and try to do stuff but George’s eyes are only on reader and readers friends and him have really cute moments and readers friends is jealous. Ok you get me something along the lines like that and reader and him have a cute moment then realise that they feeling for each other and it’s just cute angst and fluff and also do u think u could add some smut in there thank you

Eyes on me₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

George Clarkey x reader

⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰

It was one of those rare, golden weeks where everything was perfect—sun-kissed beaches, late-night swims, cocktails that tasted like freedom, and a massive villa split between a group of close friends and a few new faces.

George was one of them.

I’d followed his YouTube for a while, sure, but nothing prepared me for what he was like in person—funny, warm, quick-witted. And then there were his eyes. Brown and mischievous, like he knew exactly what effect he had on people.

My stomach twisted every time he smiled at me. And I hated how obvious it felt.

Even worse? My friend—let’s call her Bella—definitely noticed. She’d been flirting with him since the plane ride over. Laughing too hard at his jokes, draping herself over the sun loungers near him, playfully splashing him in the pool like we were in a romcom. And George… well, he was polite. But his eyes never lingered on her the way they did with me.

Not that Bella saw it.

The turning point came one night after dinner, when we all headed back to the villa’s massive balcony, the sky still painted in streaks of lavender and peach. Someone put on music, and everyone danced, tipsy and careless under fairy lights.

Bella grabbed George’s hand and pulled him toward the makeshift dance floor. I pretended not to notice, sipping my drink, trying not to look jealous. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see her leaning in, whispering something against his ear, her hand brushing his chest.

That’s when I left.

I ended up by the pool, feet dangling in the water, the music faint in the distance. I hated how I felt—petty, dramatic. It’s not like I had any claim on him.

“You always disappear when things get fun?”

I turned. George was behind me, hands shoved in the pockets of his linen trousers, hair a little messy from the wind.

I blinked. “Didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“I did.” He sat beside me, our shoulders almost touching. “You okay?”

I nodded, but he gave me that look—the one where he was trying to read my mind.

“You don’t have to pretend around me,” he said gently. “I’m not stupid. I know Bella’s been trying to make a move.”

I snorted before I could stop myself. “That obvious, huh?”

“Painfully.” He tilted his head. “But I’m not interested in Bella.”

My breath caught. “No?”

He turned toward me fully, and my heart thudded in my ears.

“Why would I be, when you’re right here?”

The words knocked the air out of me. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

George laughed softly, shaking his head. “You have no idea, do you? Every time you smile at me, I feel like an idiot. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to say something for days, but you’ve been so quiet.”

“I thought you liked her,” I whispered.

“Not even close.”

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his hand lingering a second too long.

“You’re the one I want.”

Then he kissed me.

It was soft at first—hesitant, like he wasn’t sure I’d kiss him back. But I did. God, I did. My hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer as weeks of built-up tension melted into that single moment.

When we finally pulled away, I rested my forehead against his, smiling like a total idiot.

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“I really like you.”

He grinned, that lazy, heart-melting grin. “Good. Because I’m absolutely crazy about you.”

We stayed by the pool for hours, wrapped up in each other, the stars above and the sound of the waves in the distance. No drama, no games. Just us.

And for once, everything felt exactly how it was meant to be.

⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿

Hope you enjoy pls feel free to send a request!! PLEASE I need more inspo. 🙂‍↕️

#british youtubers #george clarke fics #george clarke fluff #george clarke fanfic #george clarkey x reader #george clarkey #george clarkey imagine #imagine #fluff imagine #george clarke x fem!reader #George Clarke

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 2 months ago

Text

Cain (p4)

Tw: Cain is really violent, like verbally violent. Tantrums, toxic relationships, isolation from friends and family, sexual content, sexual descriptions, profanity- like a LOT of them, Cain losing his shit really frequently. Gender neutral reader, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

This is part 4.

Click here for part 5

Click here for part 1

Cain tries. He really did.

The first week or so after his earth shattering confession, Cain was elusive. You hardly see him at home, not even for meals. But you know he's eating, because you would leave leftovers in the fridge and it would disappear the next day. You thought he was avoiding you, and you understood, because you practically rejected him at first.

He came back one day, seemingly waiting for you in the living room. To your surprise, instead of only acknowledging each other with a split second glance, Cain tried to make a conversation.

"How was it?" He asked.

You asked him what he meant.

"Your day." Cain continues, looking right into your eyes, which caught you off guard. Usually, eye contact means he's about to stir some trouble up, but you think this time he's actually making an attempt to communicate. "How was... your day?"

You told him that it was okay. Then you asked him about his day.

You could definitely see that he physically stopped himself from responding like he used to. Cain closed his eyes and took a deep breath before answering.

"My day is okay too."

And both of you left it at that, as you did your own thing, he did his own thing... which happened to be reading a book of sorts? Strange, he doesn't seem like the type to even be remotely near words. But you didn't want to pry and potentially get your head bitten off.

"It's cold." You turned to him and finally noticed that he's actually bundled up in a hoodie instead of his usual sleeveless shirt. That made sense, the seasons are changing, and very soon you would see frost on the sidewalk again.

Come to think of it, he has recently changed up his fashion sense to cover up a lot more, adjusting according to the weather. No more ripped jeans, instead opting to wear a pair of thick cargo pants with numerous pockets. He also got himself a new pair of shoes, trading in his tattered sneakers for a new pair of combat boots.

You asked him if it bothers him. Cain seemed to pause and think about his answer for a moment before replying.

"I always hated the fucking cold." He spoke with a sense of dread in his voice. Cain knows that he can't change the weather, and he just needs to tough it out. He has done this for years, ever since he was abandoned in that dumpster. But it doesn't make it easier, and each winter feels as intense as the last. And the worst part is, he doesn't understand why the bites of frost disturb him so much. Cain never found out how he was abandoned by his parents; he only knew that they did.

You nodded and decided to just... put aside a bit more cash for the heating bill. You cranked up the heat enough at home to make it comfortable for him. The water heater is also switched on 24/7 now, even if it does hike up your bills. Sometimes you even think the apartment was a little too warm for your liking, but seeing Cain being a lot less miserable made you suck it up and just wear lighter clothing instead.

And you didn't think much of it, until there was one night, when the wind was howling and all you could see was powdery white outside; You heard a knock on your bedroom door, and you were about to fall asleep in a pair of shorts and shirt, because the thermostat is dialed all the way up that it felt like summer. Upon opening it, you saw Cain towering over you, exuding vulnerability. He's not wearing his hoodie, but a white t-shirt, a pair of comfortable plaid shoes, and warm, fuzzy slippers. You were surprised that he showed no signs of sweating, unlike you, struggling to cope with the artificial heat, yet you do so for the sake of your troubled roommate.

You asked him if he needed anything from you. Only to be pulled into his arms for a tight hug. You were about to say something, but you felt wetness on your shoulder. Cain was crying.

"I don't... I don't know what I'm feeling..." Although muffled, you could hear how pained and conflicted he was.

You patted his back as he let it all out. You were dying to ask him questions, but knowing Cain, it wouldn't get you very far if he wasn't ready to share it in the first place.

"It feels good. I-It's warm." He spoke between sobs. "Please... let me stay."

You didn't understand what gave him the impression that you were planning to kick him out anytime soon. You told him that he's welcome here. And that was all he needed to hear tonight.

And what neither of you knows is that today was his birthday, or rather, the day those bystanders found him discarded like trash. Cain may not remember, but his body does. And it was the first time in his life that he wasn't shivering on this special day.

And Cain is afraid, utterly terrified to lose what he has now. Yet he doesn't know how to keep it. So he latches on, he does his best, he tries.

He slept in the same bed as you that night. It wasn't comfortable at all; his body ran hot. And on top of the running heaters? You felt like you were in a furnace. Cain had his arms wrapped around you at all times, constricting your movements, but he wouldn't budge, no matter how much you squirmed. His hold felt desperate; you could feel the aching yearning he held in his body for decades. Cain would bury his head at the back of your neck, making you wonder if he just liked the feeling of being suffocated by his own breath.

You woke up the next day earlier than he did. Cain was still clinging to you with dried tears on his face. But you didn't have the heart to wake him up, because he looked truly peaceful. Though you didn't have to wait long until he opened his eyes and groggily rubbed them, freeing you from his prison.

You greeted him and asked him how he slept last night.

"Good..." He yawned and stretched his arms. Well, at least one of you had a good night's sleep. Cain doesn't seem to be particularly embarrassed that he reached this level of intimacy with you; hell, he doesn't seem to see it as anything out of the ordinary at all. It's as if he were sleeping in the same bed as you for months.

He got out of bed to freshen up, leaving you to finally reclaim your space and take your turn to doze off. Luckily, today is an off day for you, or you would have gone to work in a sour mood.

"Who the fuck are you all?!" You were jolted awake by Cain's sudden outburst in the living room. You heard extra voices and assumed he had opened the door to someone.

An argument ensued, making you scramble back up on your feet to see what was going on. Upon poking your head out of the door frame, you saw Cain heavily berating someone outside your apartment.

You called him by his name, and that caught his attention. "I don't know who these assholes are, they are not coming in!" He yelled, attempting to shut the door on the visitors.

You caught a glimpse of your long-time friends' confused and horrified faces before he slammed the door loudly against them.

Oh.

You forgot that they were visiting. Shit.

You see that Cain was agitated, threatened, even. He began hurling profanities at them, wishing doom on them, so on and so forth. He was panicking; the only way he could express this was by lashing out and pulling on his already messy, short, fiery hair.

You tried calming him down, but that only made him spiral more.

"They said that they're your friends-- They're nothing! They're nothing to you, they don't fucking matter! They're scum, they're trash!" He screamed as tears streaked down his frenzied face. Cain began hyperventilating, the more you tried to get him to see reason. "I'll fucking kill them, I fucking will!"

You decided to shut up and let him burn all his fuel out. All this while, you were extremely baffled as to what suddenly set him off. You know, Cain could be somewhat decent to strangers; he doesn't go off on the delivery men that sometimes come here to give you your packages or food. He would sometimes even be the one who signed the delivery confirmation form with no issue. Not even door-to-door salesmen would make him erupt like this; at most, he would just close the door on them. Why is he suddenly so territorial?

And as predicted, his explosion ended with him curling up into a pathetic ball of misery on the floor. You think your friends decided to leave you and him alone for a while, you're definitely getting a very concerned phone call later.

So, you did. And you managed to convince that you're okay, and Cain is a good man. It was challenging, but they decided to respect your wishes. Or maybe they also didn't want to deal with that unstable landmine of a person.

You don't think he left the apartment without you during the entirety of winter. He would flare up as soon as he felt a draft, and you wonder if it's a traumatic response to something. Either way, you don't think you should pry if he's not ready to talk about it.

Cain got very comfortable with you now. The sofa bed is left empty, now he goes straight into your bedroom. It doesn't matter if you're purposely hogging the bed, he would either manhandle you as if you're his beloved stuffed teddy bear, or have the audacity to say, "Scoot your ass over."

He developed a habit of possessively wrapping his arm around your waist whenever both of you were out. Instead of waiting for you to move out of the way or barking commands to move aside, Cain would just manually move you by guiding your shoulders or sometimes, your hips.

He seemed to be starved of touches. Whenever you take an afternoon nap without him, you would wake up to find Cain holding you in his arms. And he gets annoyed at you for waking him up. When you would spend the day watching television on the sofa, Cain would either lie his head on your lap, or trap you into his- making you his personal lap table for the bowl of popcorn you two shared.

Cain needed something to occupy his hands. So he chose to massage yours instead to soothe himself. It felt nice to apply pressure to your palm and fingers, but sometimes he wasn't aware how strong he was. You would wince at the pain, which caused him to frown, and spit,

"Fucking wimp."

But then, he would bring your hands to his lips to kiss them, and adjust his strength to not hurt you anymore. He wouldn't outright apologize or thank you for most things, but he has his own way to express remorse, guilt, and gratitude.

It felt... strangely natural. He wasn't making it awkward at all when he transitioned from not touching you at all to giving you regular cuddles, kisses, and even sharing beds. Cain moved like it's always been this way, as if he had always given you a kiss on the forehead before dropping you off at your workplace, as if he had always kissed you on the back of your neck to thank you for the meal. Whenever you stood in front of him to say something, he would have his large, calloused hands gripping your arms in place as he listened. You never knew what the purpose of it was, as he doesn't seem to be aware that he's doing it.

You're not necessarily complaining that whenever the two of you waited at the bus stop, in the cold, he would bury you in his chest. It's ridiculously warm, and he would wrap his heavy coat around both of you. Cain would absentmindedly rub your back up and down, stroke your hair as he remains hypervigilant for any assailants that could attack the two of you. And you would be lying when you said that it doesn't make you feel all fluttery inside.

Cain was willing to open up even more on how he feels about various things. But it was still excruciatingly difficult.

One day, he decided to talk to you about your giving nature. It occurred when you decided to give a homeless man some spare change.

"Why did you do that?" He asked when you and he reached the comfort of your apartment. Cain didn't remove his coat just yet, while you're practically stripping everything off yourself because your heating system is too efficient.

"Why did you give that bum money? He didn't work for it." He clarified what he meant. You can see that he's asking from a place of curiosity, not hostility or judgment.

You shrugged and said that it makes the world a better place.

"How?" He furrowed his eyebrows in frustration.

He would have enough money to buy himself something hot to eat and drink.

"That's bullshit. He's going to waste it on booze and drugs."

You asked him how he would know.

"All these bastards think about is their next high." He frowned bitterly.

You said that everyone can change. You wanted to tell him off for being a hypocrite, but it probably isn't a good idea. He vehemently disagreed.

"No they fucking can't. You're being used, you're being a damn jackass! You should have kept that for yourself, these fuckers can't even give you anything of worth back but have the balls to ask for a handout!" He was getting more and more exasperated by the second.

You decided to clam up.

"They're scum, they're all fucking good for nothing pieces of shit!" He continued his angry ranting as he entered the bathroom to freshen up.

And conversations that were deeper than small talk usually go something like that. You refused to be the one who started chatting, allowing him to take the initiative. It seems like he's jealous that you're also generous to other people, as anytime he sees you doing a good deed, he would be throwing a tantrum about how you're letting others walk all over you.

You can't really do donations under his watchful eyes anymore, because he would find a way to get it back from them and return the cash into your wallet.

He's always the nicest when it's just the two of you, and the concept of the world stopped existing. The apartment is his safe haven where nothing outside matters. He is in no way romantic, but he would be much, much tender compared to when you first met him. However, it is actually agonizing to live with him hovering over you every waking minute. If the shows you watch involve the topic of child neglect or even families in general, no matter how mild, no matter how positive or negative, ten times out of ten, he would have one of his infamous, explosive meltdowns.

Oddly enough, he's mostly unaffected by documentaries, even if they potentially touch on his traumatic experiences. He tends to watch those that describe how everyday things are made, unfazed by true crime.

You avoided nature and animal documentaries because Cain would get unbelievably distressed if they involved the abandonment of their young.

Outside of that, you don't know what else to do with him. Cain seems uninterested in anything creative, but recently got obsessed with chess for some unknown reason. Regardless of your chess skills, he would beat you in almost every game, only losing to you when he first started out.

Perhaps it was boredom. Perhaps it was arousal, but you and Cain would begin to frequently have sex. And he fucks like a rabid animal, forceful, angry, desperate and primal. Cain would leave bite marks deep enough to bleed, as if he's trying to shred you into pieces. The curtains are always drawn shut because of his inclination to go down on you anywhere in the apartment. He has no problem bending you over the kitchen counter, making your legs spread on the sofa bed, pinning you against the wall, pounding you deep into your bed, letting the sound of the shower drown out your moans... The only place that's off limits is whatever table that held his valuable chessboard and pieces.

And you know that it just takes a deep kiss on the lips to initiate it, where both of your tongues must dance together. Cain would escalate quickly by rubbing his hands under your clothes. But he wouldn't press it if you decided that you're not in the mood anymore; he would just need to deal with his disappointment and sexual frustration on his own, in pure silence.

Cain doesn't say anything when fucking you. There will only be grunts and groans, but no dirty talk. Probably since he's too busy biting the hell out of your flesh.

His aftercare is a bit strange to you. It would be a strange mix of his usual harshness and an unusual dose of sentimentality:

"Get up." He would order you after a long session of post sex cuddling. Knowing him, you shouldn't oppose it.

"Go shower. I'll clean up." He began chucking the blankets, bedsheets, and pillow cases into the laundry hamper. Once he's done and sees that you're still there, he would turn to you and give you an affectionate peck on the forehead.

"You've been so good to me." He then squeezed the cheeks of your face firmly, causing you to pucker. Cain would chuckle at how silly you looked before kissing you lightly on the lips.

"I love you." He would whisper in your ear before letting you go, patting your head in praise.

However, if you just stood there and watched him ready the laundry basket, he would get annoyed.

"The fuck are you doing there, standing ass naked? Either put on some clothes or go take a damn shower." He would point in the direction of the bathroom. This would be enough to send you on your way.

Overall, you think Cain is a confusing man with moods that swing like a pendulum. You don't think he really feels shame towards you, just familiarity, trust, and comfort. And you feel honoured that you get to see his sweet side (sometimes), no one else outside of this apartment could ever hope to witness it, as he's just so spiky towards everyone. You're still so curious as to what sets you apart from all the other people who tried to help... You assume that Cain does have people who tried putting him on the right track in his life, but he pushed them away.

So one day, you mustered the courage to ask him about it. Expecting nothing more than some deranged yelling, you braced yourself:

"They shoved their help down my throat."

To your surprise, his response is as if you asked him for the time. Your speechlessness prompted him to continue.

"I fucking hated them. None of them really wanted to help me; they just wanted to feel good." He scrunched his nose as if he recalled something disgusting. "To them, I'm nothing more than a broken pet to fix. Something that should get no respect. Something practically useless in everything else, but gets them off like some street whore."

That sounds similar to what you thought of Cain. But you didn't say that out loud.

"They can take their fake sympathy and shove it so far up their asses that it kills them. Fuck them all." He snarled.

You let him release whatever steam he had for them. Well, that made sense that he gets crazily upset when you try to impose help without his request in the first place.

Once he's done, he decides to get up from his seat and pick up his now-worn duffel bag. You didn't have to ask him where he's heading out to.

"I'll be back by eight, I just need to get some stuff. Leave your bedroom door open for me." He pecked you on the cheek and smoothed your hair.

You watched him open the door and turned back to face you one more time:

"And don't fucking open the door to anyone that isn't me! You have a habit of doing stupid shit that's going to get you killed if it wasn't for me looking out for you!" He scolded before slamming the door behind him.

You wonder if Cain thinks of you as someone needing his protection, and so that's why you're not a threat to him but an object of his affection. You sat with this question, and you pondered if Cain genuinely thought of you as someone who is handicapped in some way. Made sense, your boundary-setting skills are non-existent, and you're always people pleasing, no matter how detrimental it is to your wellbeing. That's how you scored Cain.

Finally home alone after a while, you felt a little clueless as to what you should do. You know you should update your friends and family that you're doing well, and Cain is nothing they should worry about. Then again, you don't feel like talking to anyone right now.

The apartment looks pretty messy, with all the random junk Cain would bring back. God knows where he gets this merchandise, or where he got the money to buy it. You are actually in heavy denial that he's been shoplifting and wanted to believe that he's living honestly.

You thought it would be a good idea to tidy up a bit before he gets back and unloads more things from his duffel bag. It's a mystery how that bag could contain ungodly amounts of stuff.

You decided to start with the most cluttered part of your living room: the sofa bed. You know these are things that Cain would use daily, but it wouldn't hurt to organise them a bit.

The first thing that caught your eye? The book that Cain was attached to lately, and was almost obsessively reading. You wonder what was so interesting about it until you read the cover of the book.

It was a copy of "How to Be a Good Boyfriend".

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader #yandere x darling #oc cain #male yandere x reader #male yandere x you #tw toxic relationship #tw violence #tw sex #gender neutral reader

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