#and I realized that I was actually more on the lines of

[zevrra]

𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 ⋆˚꩜｡

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩: out of all the days for your car to have broken down, leaving you stranded on the side of the road, it had to be the day your dad had just left for a sudden business trip—he was hours away by now and you were just here; stuck. you could call a tow truck but the bill for that was…way out of the budget. so the only other thing you could think of to do was to call your dad’s best friend; joel miller.

a.k.a joel (the sexiest man alive) comes to your rescue and you want to repay him for it.

��𝐭.dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

𝐰𝐜: 7k

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬: mdni, no-outbreak!joel, straight smut, no real plot, implied forbidden romance, significant AGE GAP, reader is in their 20s, joel is in his 50s, mention of sarah(30s + no ellie), no use of y/n, joel likes pet names, sexual tension, joel tries to remain morally ‘right’, joel’s a lil insecure if you squint, thigh riding if you squint, dirty talk, handjob (both m and f receiving), unprotected p in v (just the tip!), coming onto/between v too.

𝐚/𝐧: yeah this is… waaaaayyyy longer…than i had planned for it to be…but if it gets more than 10 likes and 2 reblogs I’ll write a part two! :3

You’ve heard more stories about Joel Miller than you had actually seen him in real life; only meeting him one other time in the entirety of the six years he’s been your dad’s best friend. But with no other family and no extra cash to pay for a tow…you prayed that maybe he’d find it in the kindness of his heart to come rescue little ole you. 

Thankfully, your dad had given you his number in a “just in case”, if you ever needed it. Strange how for once your dad was right about something you had swore up and down would never happen. It almost made you smile— and you would if not given the predicament you were in right now.

For a moment, as you sit in your car, with your thumb slightly trembling as it hovers over Joel’s contact name, you silently pray that he’d pick up when a stranger was calling. 

No more time to talk yourself out of it, you press on his name, watching your phone begin to ring at your request. You quickly tap the speaker button, hands clammy as you listen to the dial ring. Your heart is pounding in your chest for some odd reason as the line continues to ring and ring.

You’re just about to give up hope and hang up, so his voicemail doesn’t pick up for you instead, but suddenly you hear the line click and a deep southern voice echoes in from the otherside; “Yeah?” 

You didn’t realize you had been holding your breath until you suddenly exhale a deep sigh upon hearing his voice. “Hey!” You blurt out. “You probably don’t have my number saved or anything like that but I’m the daughter of your friend!” 

“Oh,” Joel starts and you can hear him rustling around, as if he’s putting down something he had been working on. “I remember ya. Somethin’ I can help you with sweetheart?” His voice drips with honey and confusion and you can’t blame him. But the tender way he mutters sweetheart has your fingers trembling just that much more. 

“Yes, actually! I’m a little stranded at the moment. See my dad’s outta town for a business trip and my car has broken down so yeah…” You trail off, fiddling with the edge of your phone case while the words ‘I could use some help’ stick to the back of your throat. 

“You need me to come get ya?” Joel’s warm voice breaks the silence, knowing exactly what you couldn’t say seconds before.  

“I mean, that would be awesome if you could! But like, don’t worry about it if you’re busy! I could call a tow truck or something.” You ramble on. And for a second you think maybe you’ve lost service as he doesn’t say anything right away but as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking; he answers you. 

“What road ya on?” Joel asks all soft like, while you can hear some more rustling in the background. 

You glance at the maps on your phone before telling him the road you were on, fingers returning to fiddle with your phone case. “But like again, if you’re too far or busy I can just call a tow!” You mutter as the pit of your stomach does backflips. You’d really hate to inconvenience him but at the same time…with your father gone…and being in seemingly the middle of nowhere…you’d take your chances of annoying him just a little. 

Joel laughs on the other end and it sends a warmth that rivals the summer heat through your entire body. You catch the faint sound of keys jingling on his end before he responds. “No worries hun. I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.” 

And with that, Joel says his goodbye and the call ends. 

“That went…surprisingly well.” You mutter to yourself as you stretch out along your driver seat. Might as well get comfy while you wait. 

Just as promised, Joel shows up about twenty-five minutes later. He parks an older farm truck right behind you that squeaks as the door opens with his exit. You get out of your own car to greet him and you hate how your stomach returns to doing flips but for an entirely different reason.

Why couldn’t you remember him being so fucking handsome before? His tan skin, the salt and pepper of his hair, the stubble of his jaw. He was broad to say the least; his shoulders and chest wide, and he carried himself like a man in charge. You expect a man as toned and well muscled to be a little mean…but then he smiles upon seeing you and all your fears melt away.

“Howdy,” Joel calls, nice and easy like the breeze, making his way to you. 

You simply nod your head in response, unable to find the words to speak, as he stops in front of you. Your eyes lift just ever so slightly to look up into his eyes and fuck, they had no right to be so pretty shining in the sun like that. 

“Pop the hood for me? Let me see if these old hands can’t figure out what’s gotcha parked here.” Joel light heartedly says. And for some odd reason…you knew that if he asked you for anything in that sweet drawl of his, you’d do it in a heartbeat. 

You ease back into the driver seat of your car, reaching for the little latch that would pop the hood open. At the click, Joel moves to the front of your car while you debate sitting there, waiting to be told what to do. In the end your curiosity gets the better of you as you exit your car again. You move to the front end alongside him, staring at a mass of smooth and twisted metal underneath…not understanding a single thing as you look down at it. 

Joel must see the confusion in your gaze and it makes him laugh just a little. “S’aright hun. You ain’t gotta worry about tryin’ to figure it out.” He hums as his hand reaches forward, twisting off a cap you don’t know the name of. “Unless you wanna?” He teases as he retrieves a long, metal like wand from the depths of the engine. 

You laugh along with him, shaking your head at his question. “No thank you. Maybe next time.” You respond in a light tune, continuing to watch him as he works. 

But you can’t help staring at something other than the engine he works on.

Your eyes graze over the strength of his tan forearms. Noticing right away the scars that linger along his weathered skin. But what you really wanted to see was the muscle of his bicep— hidden underneath that damn teasing denim shirt of his. Wanted so desperately to watch him stretch and his muscles flex as he moved about while working on your car.

Your eyes trail down the rest of his body, where your attention is immediately drawn to his back. Your eyes fixate directly at the point of where his shirt meets his jeans, watching as his shirt lifts with every stretch he makes across the engine. It lifts just enough away from his jeans to allow you to see a little bit of exposed skin underneath it. His sun-kissed skin trailed all the way down his back and the idea of touching his warm body made your fingers twitch. 

“Well your oil is fine but it seems like your radiator cap is split.” Joel says. His words immediately pull you from your thoughts and you jump a little; startled as if maybe Joel could hear exactly what you were thinking…thankfully, he couldn’t. 

“Not good, I’m assuming?” You ask with a clear of your throat, desperately hoping your thoughts would return to normal with it. 

Joel chuckles a little and shakes his head as he leans back and away from your engine. He wipes his hands across his jeans and you've never thought about how sexy a man could look dirty and disheveled like Joel does right then and there.

“No good ‘til ya get it fixed at least.” Joel hums and gestures for you to step back just a little, before he lets your car hood slam shut to lock it. “It’ll keep overheating like it is now but…” Joel trails off until he comes to stand in front of you— and you swear he’s close enough that he can hear how hard your heart is beating inside your ribcage. “If you keep it slow, ya could follow me back home. I might be able to fix it long enough for ya to get back to your place.” 

You swallow a lump in your throat and nod to his solution, you weren’t coming up with anything better anyway. Plus, it got you a little more time with him. Little weird that you wanted to spend more time with a ‘stranger’ twice your age— who you just thought about touching in a…not so friendly way— but you weren’t about to pass up the opportunity to get to know him just a little better. 

“Yeah, that sounds fine. Thank you so much.” You respond with a smile. 

Joel smiles right back at you before one of his large hands reaches out and grabs your shoulder, giving you a squeeze. “Don’t worry ‘bout it sweetheart.” He says in a light tone, hand sliding just a little inwards along your skin; where he gently rubs a circle into the back of your neck, ever so slightly, before he snatches his hand away. Moving on like nothing happened. As if…his intrusive thoughts had won him over for a split second, before he turns on his heel to open the driver door for you.

Your entire body hums with a newfound feeling you’re not quite sure what to call yet. You float into the driver’s seat, putting your seatbelt on, while Joel motions for you to roll your windows down and you do; rolling all four of them down in somewhat of a panic after misclicking the first time in your jittery state. 

Joel settles onto the ledge of your window, up close and personal enough that you could see the scars on his face. 

Oh how you wished his eyes would look at your lips and give you a reason to kiss him, right then and there. And god did he look good leaning over to you like that too; like he wanted it just as badly as you suddenly did. 

“‘Member, slow and steady,” He breathes and you can almost feel the flutter of his breath across your cheek. “If you see this needle get close or even above this red line right here, pull over and turn the car off a'ight?” He adds, pointing to a needle on your dash.

You nod slightly, fingers twitching at the thought of breaking down in an even worse spot than you already were. And Joel sees that little flicker of worry cross your face before you can hide it and he chuckles. 

“Don’t worry yer’little head off, darlin’. I’ll lead. Be just right in front of ya, and all ya gotta do is follow me, okay?” He hums, tapping the edge of your window with every word, before he pushes himself upright and makes his way back to his truck. 

You watch as he leaves you, getting up into the driver seat of his own truck without another word. And suddenly you’re gripping the steering wheel for dear life. 

What were you doing? What were you thinking? Nothing appropriate to say the least. Images of him muttering that sweet nickname against your lips plays in the back of your mind like a damn movie. You definitely were reading too much into his body language and the way he rolled that darling off his tongue….he was just being nice and helping out a friend's daughter…that was it. You needed to focus. 

You let out a shaky breath, you once again had no idea you were holding, gaze shifting to watch his truck pull off into the road and you pull your car into follow suit behind him. Traveling slowly like he had told you to do so, eyes darting between the back of his pickup truck and your dashboard; watching that little needle he had pointed out to you for any kind of changes. 

After all of this, you’d definitely have to repay him somehow. Would have to ask him what you could do to return the favor of him coming to the rescue of a stranger. Could buy him dinner? That wouldn’t be too much money outside of your budget. Or buy him some beer or whiskey as thanks; he definitely looked like he enjoyed a good alcohol here and there. 

Then a terrible, terrible, idea pops into your head. It was certainly a gamble; he was older, a friend of your dad’s, and probably did not see you in that light at all…but…it was a risk worth taking.

Besides, you could always flee Texas and never come back if things went really badly. 

When the two of you managed to finally arrive at his home, without your car breaking down again along the way, thankfully, you half expected him to live in something…strange to say the least. He was a man you didn’t know, a stranger to you as much as you were to him, and showing up to his house was more than a little odd.

But as you pull up into the long driveway behind him, you realize exactly why your dad was friends with him. He lived relatively secluded, no neighbors, in a gorgeous two-story farmhouse. A large barn sits at the edge of a fence line and beyond is just a beautiful field accompanied by a handful of animals; cows, sheep, and a couple of horses lazing about. You sit in awe for just a moment, taking in the scenery before you, until the brake lights of Joel’s truck flash you back to reality and you come to a full stop behind him. 

Such a big house for one man…or so you had hoped for. Suddenly you remember your father mentioning Joel’s daughter…would she be here too? What kind of person would you be contemplating…”payment” for Joel around his daughter? Shame settles in your stomach but you smother the feeling as you watch Joel slide out of his truck once more. He motions for you to pull around him and into his garage at the side of the house and do as he says. 

As soon as you shut the car off and go to open your door, Joel is already there at your side. A small, welcoming smile is settled on his face as he holds your driver side door open for you. 

You utter a small thanks before stepping out of your car. You don’t have a moment to really look at everything inside his garage before Joel is heading towards a door you assume leads to the inside of his house. 

“Let’s go inside for a moment. Grab a drink and cool off and then figure out what’s goin’ on.” He hums as his hand settles on the doorknob. 

You nod, quickly catching up to him. Your heart pounds inside your ribcage again but you swear it’s going to explode when Joel swings the door inwards, allowing you into his home, but it’s the hover of his hand along your back that causes your heart to pump three times as hard. Tingles seep into every inch of your body but his hand is warm and strong as it just barely touches your back.

Like he’s just trying to be helpful, that’s what he’s telling himself, but he’s tempted by other thoughts— where he wants to lay the full weight of his hand along your back and guide you to wherever he may want you. 

But just as quickly as it comes, it goes. Like an afterthought that never happened. 

You move into his home, gaze shifting over the layout of the kitchen you step into. From just a brief glance, you can tell the inside of his house was just as gorgeous as the outside was. Simple, a little vintage, but definitely something you could see a man like Joel living in. 

“Can I get’cha a drink?” Joel asks as he walks up to his fridge, opening it with an easy throw. “There’s some juice. Or if you prefer, I have diet soda. Sarah says it’s better for my health.” He jokes as he rummages inside the cool fridge. You could practically hear his eyes rolling and it settles the tension in your shoulders. 

“Some water will be fine,” You hum in response, standing awkwardly beside the kitchen island, your fingers running along the counter. “How is Sarah, by the way?” You ask as your eyes settle onto a nearby picture frame of Joel and his daughter. “I’ve only heard about her in passing from my dad…when he was talking about you.” 

“Oh?” Joel chuckles somewhere behind you. “I hope only the good things are told.” 

You smile at his words, stopping at the edge of the kitchen island. 

Not prepared in the slightest as the tips of his fingers press into the back of your arm; causing you to jump at his touch and swivel on your heel to face him. And he’s close…closer than before. If you moved in anyway, you’re sure your chest would run right into his own. 

Your breath catches in your throat and you drag your gaze up into his. You freeze in the spot, waiting for something…anything to happen. Waiting for him to make a move, either away from you or to sweep you into his embrace but he does neither; he freezes just as much as you do. Tension swirls around the room like a hot summer’s wind, brewing up a storm, making everything just a little too sticky and your palms sweaty.

But just like a tornado, the tension comes and goes, leaving everything in place except for the feeling of ‘holy shit’. 

“Your water, sweetheart.” Joel finally mutters, taking his slight step back and offering you up the water he had fetched out, breaking the tension that had built up seconds ago. 

You take the glass of water out of his hand with a slight tremble to your fingers but you hold it nonetheless, continuing to stand still as he pulls away. He clears his throat as he retreats, putting space between the two of you once more. 

“But yeah, um, Sarah’s good. Married, no kids yet but maybe one day.” Joel says through another clear of his throat, trying to will away whatever that feeling of “holy shit” was from before. He turns away from you once more, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.

And from your position, you can see the tips of his ears flushed a soft red. It makes you shudder at the thought of him blushing around you like some lovesick man. 

You take a sip of your water and it tastes stale compared to the want you have for the older man. You clear your own throat to try and refocus, nodding to his statement about his daughter.

At least it was somewhat comforting to know that, after what just happened, his daughter wasn’t going to come racing through the front door and watch her dad hit on someone younger or the same age as her. 

“And no Mrs. Miller?” You blurt out before you can even think about what you’re saying. Certainly pushing the boundaries now. Your dad had never spoken about Joel having a wife before but it never hurt to ask…especially after what just happened. “Sorry that’s inappropriate, right?” You embarrassingly mutter, even if it was the right thing to ask after the two of you just got done dry humping each other with your eyes.  

Joel chuckles slightly at your question, shaking his head as he eases back into ‘mr. calm and collected’. “S’alright. But yes, once. A long time ago. I’ve been divorced ever since.” He responds but says nothing more as he sets down his own preferred drink on the counter. “It’s just lil ole me and Sarah.” Joel adds; letting you in on his quiet life just a little more. 

You want to tell him how much you’re glad it’s just him. How you’ve been wanting just him since he stepped out of his truck back on the road. 

“And you? No partner waitin’ at home for ya?” Joel asks quietly, as if he’s unsure if he really should be asking the question or not; but curiosity is getting the better of the old man. 

You laugh a little at his question, an easy smile sitting on your lips. “Nope. Suppose I wouldn’t be here if I did.” 

“Hmm,” Joel ponders. “Suppose not. But I doubt you’d wanna be stuck here with an old man like me if ya didn’t have to.” 

“Good thing you don’t know me too well then,” You chime, tucking a few strands of loose hair behind your ear, glancing away from him as you ramble on about how much you are actually happy to be there, with him.

When you lift your eyes back to him, you stare right into his warm gaze. “I’m…enjoying this.” You admit finally with a shaky exhale. And if this wasn’t the moment that would set the nail into the head of: “do I need to flee the state or is this okay?” then you weren’t sure when it would happen. 

Joel’s eyes crinkle just ever so slightly and so quickly, that for a second you think you've almost imagined it. And you can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He nods just a little, as if he’s almost speechless, clearing his throat to once again shake off the tension that has built up.

Returning back to reality, he takes a sip off his drink and settles against one of the many kitchen cabinets, swirling the liquid around in his glass. “So, your dad didn’t teach you anything about cars?” 

You laugh, shaking your head as you join him in leaning against the island counter. “You’re surprised? He doesn’t know a damn thing about them either.” You huff softly. 

“Mmm, true. I had to show him how to change a tire once.” Joel responds playfully, glancing in your direction.

“See!” You chuckle again, fiddling with the cup between your fingers. “Guess that’s why he told me to call you if I ever needed anything.” 

That warm, fuzzy feeling floats over your entire body again; weighs on you like a thick blanket while Joel falls silent for a second. 

God, how you wished you could hear what was going on in that head of his.

Before he answers, he shoots back all of the dark liquor in his glass, needing it for whatever else may go on that day. “He was right. Call me for anything, ya may need sweetheart.” Joel whispers, low and slow, sending a cool spike down your spine.

You suck in a quiet breath while his words stick to you— like your thighs would stick to a leather seat after sitting down for too long. Your pulse throbs in your throat. Was he just confirming what your dad had told you to do; to call him whenever you may need it? Or were you reading too much into it all…just because your feelings for him were running a little too wild? 

“So, thought ya didn’t live in Texas any more? Some fancy school or job, your dad mentioned one time or ‘nother.” Joel breaks through the silence you had left in the open, bringing you back to the moment with him.

You take another sip off your water before giving him a small nod. “Yep. Just came back to visit him. Bein’ a good daughter and all.”

“Hmm, a good daughter…” Joel mutters to himself and if you two weren’t so close, you probably wouldn’t have heard him. You can’t help but think what he could mean by that but you’re not going to bring it up…yet. 

“Anyway, I’m only here for a few weeks, and of course on my vacation my car decides to break down. Just my luck huh,” You sigh. “And my budget doesn’t allow for car troubles so I’m really hoping you can fix it.” 

“Budget?” Joel hums, glancing down at his empty glass, most likely debating to get another drink or not. “And you were gonna call a tow truck on a budget?” Joel says with that teasing tone of his. 

“Well…yeah, I guess if I had to.” You respond with a shrug, smiling over at him. 

Joel chuckles, his gaze casted into the depths of his glass as he fiddles with the cup while he speaks. “No doubt you could swindle your way outta some trouble if ya had to.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You tease right back, taking the chance to inch closer to him. 

Joel clears his throat, as if he hadn’t expected to say what he said in the first place and just got caught. Now he was struggling to come up with the words to justify exactly why he said what he said. “Uh, well ya know,” Joel starts, stopping in his search at the bottom of his glass, his summer gaze returning to look over at you. His eyes tenderly move along your body; following every curve and dip as if it were his fingers trailing your skin instead. It feels like an eternity, him just looking at you, but in reality it probably only lasts for a second too long. “Lookin’ all pretty like that. Just sayin’ you could get away with anything if ya wanted to hun.” He says, all hushed and soft. 

A storm was absolutely brewing now and suddenly you’re glad to have worn that summer floral dress you had bought ages ago. 

You wait for a heartbeat, his gaze still licking flames across your body, before you reach out to him with a gentle but firm hand. You press your fingers into his exposed forearm, making a little circle against his tan skin to mimic him from earlier. 

And for some reason, you were far bolder than you had ever been in your life as you took another step closer to the older man, skimming your fingers further along his skin, batting pretty eyelashes in his direction. 

“Anything?” You whisper, just loud enough for him and only him to hear. Didn’t matter if no one else was home, you wanted to make sure it was for him. 

It was a good sign when he didn’t immediately jerk away or start yelling for you to get out. His breath catches in his throat this time and you watch as his chest begins to rise and fall as you stand dangerously close to him. Standing in the shadow of his frame, being almost swallowed up as he towers over you. 

“Darlin’” Joel finally utters, glancing down his nose at you, his fingers twitching at his sides; as if he’s trying to hold himself back from embracing you. “You know that’s not a good idea.” 

You shrug a little, pushing your fingers just underneath the curl of his shirt sleeve, touching the very beginning to the thick of his bicep. “Why not? It’s just us.” 

“You know why,” Joel protests softly. “I’m twice your age. And I’m your father’s friend.” 

“And yet…you’re not moving away,” You whisper, making it a point to squeeze his bicep. Your eyes trail from his gaze to the plump of his lips, lingering just long enough for him to notice, before you glance all the way back up to his eyes. “Let me repay you for coming to my rescue.” 

He doesn’t speak, having been caught and now his argument was quickly crumbling into almost nothing. 

To give him a little encouragement, your fingers trail back down to his wrist and you guide his hand to the edge of your skirt, pushing his fingers just slightly under your dress and against the thick of your thigh. “C’mon…Joel.” You hum his name all sweet like honey and it finally breaks him. 

“Fuck,” Joel curses under his breath as he sweeps you up. The hand on your thigh opens up and curls around you, dragging you into the front of his chest. His other hand settles against the curve of your neck as he comes crashing down onto you like a wave. 

He presses his lips into yours in a hot and heavy kiss. His tongue is already darting along the thick of your bottom lip– desperate and needy— just like you’ve been since the second you saw him bent over your car. 

“Dammit, you…” Joel pants against your lips. “I was tryin’ so hard…” He groans, lifting your hips into his own with his single hand. “You and that damn dress and the way you stare at me, Christ.” Joel fumbles, shifting his hand along your body. His hand grabbing your ass in a tight grip, his calm and collected self long, long gone now. He squeezes your ass, eating up the moan that tumbles from your lips into his. “Wanna hear that pretty little voice callin’ my damn name s’more.” 

“Joel.” You breathe his name and it makes him groan again. It’s deep and raspy, sends a vibration to the very tips of your fingers.

His knee bumps into yours, knocking your legs to part to allow him space between your thighs. The flat of his thigh presses right into the spot where you’re quickly coming to yearn for him. You grind into the thick of his thigh, mewling into the softness of his mouth. You were already far too needy, dripping through your underwear and smearing against his jeans.

Joel groans at the increasing wetness slicking his thigh and his fingers grip just a little harder along your skin. His teeth grab hold of your bottom lip, gently pulling on the plumpness, before his tongue is replacing his teeth with a wet swipe.  

“Taste s’good sweetheart.” He whispers with a chuckle. “Been wantin’ this all damn day.” 

You shudder at his words— at least it was comforting to know that since he showed up in the middle of nowhere to save you; you weren’t the only one looking at him in a new light. 

You needed more than just a little dry humping and hot make out session to be satisfied though— especially concerning the risk of…everything. Your fingers once gripping onto the thick of his biceps trail down to the front of his pants, fiddling with his belt. 

But his own hand quickly grabs your wrist the second you attempt to undo his belt.

Startled, Joel breaks the kiss, panting roughly while his gaze settles onto your flushed face. “We shouldn’t.” Joel mumbles, shaking his head just a little. Trying to talk the both of you out of doing something that could potentially ruin a lot of things. Kissing could be excused but anything else after was not so easily explained or forgiven. “I shouldn’t. You shouldn’t…not with an old man like me.” Joel counters through clenched teeth. 

“Joel,” You softly utter his name like a prayer. “I want you so fucking bad right now, I don’t care. And I know it’s not just me.”

“This is a bad idea…” Joel groans as he stares down at you; his composure slowly coming undone once again as his grip around your wrist is slowly loosening up.

Funny how you had told yourself that exact same thing too. But now you really didn’t care; no obstacle could get in your way when your cunt was throbbing his name. “Slow and steady…” You whisper his earlier words back to him. “You lead, remember? I’ll do what you say Joel…” 

Joel hesitates, clearly battling his inner thoughts. He could have you, right then and there– in all his desperation, need, and desire pent up for you. But he was your dad’s friend and if he ever found out…it would end far too many good relationships. 

“Just…a little more.” Joel finally huffs, crumbling like sand as his lips return back to yours in a last-ditch effort to calm all of his worrying thoughts. And it helps when you melt right back into the kiss.

Your fingers return to fidgeting with his belt buckle, trying to strip him as quickly as you possibly could just in case he changed his mind. Your hips moving faster, grinding heavier against his thigh. His name tastes sweet as it rolls off your tongue as you manage to undo that damned buckle. Your fingers work wonder’s undoing the rest of his jeans. Fingers flicking the button open and the zipper comes down with just a small tug of his jeans. But your fingers don’t stop in the slightest as they seek out what you’re really after. 

Joel helps ever so slightly, shimming his jeans down to his thighs, giving you the room to shove his underwear down and finally set him free. 

You immediately wrap a hand around his hardened shaft. Fingers brushing up along to the very tip and you tremble at how wet he is. Leaking across the flat of your thumb with just a single touch. 

Joel deeply groans, breaking the kiss again and glancing down to watch your hand stroke him. Cursing himself inside his mind for being so pathetic and hard with just a little bit of touching and a few kisses— acting as if he was a fresh twenty year old about to get laid for the first time, all over again. 

“Just a little…” Joel whispers, mostly to himself, continuing to try and convince himself that it was all going to be alright if it was just a little at a time. 

Your hand continues to sweep across the entire curve of his throbbing cock, squirming a little under his watchful gaze. 

“Joel,” You whine his name, grinding harshly into his thigh again. You were soaking now; smearing across his jeans, leaving behind a desperate trail of need. 

“S’alright baby, I gotcha,” Joel responds softly, picking up your needy little tone. His fingers slip from beneath your dress, just to grab the hem of the fabric, yanking the skirt up high. You scramble with your free hand to grab your dress, keeping it up high for him so his own fingers can work on pleasing you. 

Thick digits slide down against the seam of your soaked panties and above the pleasure ringing in your ears, you can hear Joel chuckle at your apparent neediness. 

“Fuckin’ soaked baby,” Joel hums, swiping his fingers against your core once more. “This wet for an old man like me?” He adds before he yanks your underwear to the side. 

Calloused fingers travel through your slick folds, his fingers circling around the sensitive nub. Joel chuckles again at the whine that you try to hold back before he’s pressing a thick digit inside your velvet walls. 

You gasp his name, quick and harsh as he begins to thrust into the slickness of your cunt. Your hand moves faster along his shaft, trying to keep up with his pace as he fingers you. Your legs open just a little wider on instinct, allowing him more space between.

His fingers plummet into the seam of your cunt, rapid and a little sloppy but it gets the job done more than effectively. The lewd noises echoing inside the room from the slick of his fingers pumping in and out of you, normally would leave you an embarrassed mess but with a single curl of his finger, those thoughts immediately are swept away. 

His pace quickens and before you have time to react, he’s adding a second finger into the depths of your pussy; stretching you out, guiding you to a close, burning ledge. 

“Shit, Joel!” You sob, open mouth, tears flicking to the corners of your eyes. Your hand stutters but Joel doesn’t mind, his hips thrust forward, grinding the full weight of himself into your grasp.

Even in your haze you manage to shift your hand to point him directly where his fingers disappear inside your seam. “Want you right here, Joel, please. Please, I need it.” You cry, nudging the tip of his cock into your clit. 

Joel growls, deep from within his chest, like a wild animal claiming its prey. His hips stutter just a little, pressing heavier into your clit. But he shakes his head, gritting his teeth. 

“No. No, that’s…off limits,” He groans even as he continues to nudge his head into your cunt. 

“Joel,” You whine but Joel shakes his head, curling his fingers inside to send a strike of lightning along your spine. 

“No. Not this time baby,” Joel coos in a soft, luring voice. Trying to tell himself more than he was warning you.

“Just, ah, the tip then please, please.” You whine, clenching around his fingers still stuffing inside your core. “Please. Just wanna feel you, just enough.” You pathetically beg. His fingers weren’t enough, even just a little bit of his thick head pressing inside you would solve all your problems. 

It’s Joel’s turn to softly whimper after you speak. “The tip,” He repeats, tasting your words on his tongue. “Just the tip.” He says again, finally deciding that just a little bit more was enough. His thick fingers slip out from your inner walls and you feel empty without him. As if your body had been made to fit just him and him alone; and with how fast your head was spinning, you didn’t doubt it for a second. 

You nod frantically as he accepts just using the tip of his head. You grab hold of his shoulder and squeeze it tight, preparing for what comes next. 

Joel takes his hand covered in your slick and wraps it around the base of his shaft. His fingers tangle and nudge against yours; and together you move over his entire cock, coating all of him in the remaining wetness on his fingers. 

He takes a smaller step into you, close enough to smother you entirely. He slots himself right into the slit of your cunt, dragging every inch of his shaft through your soaking wet folds. 

You shiver as he drags himself against you, gripping his shoulder just a little tighter as a mind numbing wave of pleasure races through you. You angle your head ever so slightly to kiss up along his neck, panting against his skin with every kiss you try to place. 

“Fuck…you’re droolin’ all over me sweetheart.” Joel groans, thrusting his hips forward again. He stares where the two of you connect, pupils blown and mouth slightly agape as he watches with awe how he disappears between you. The hand not guiding his cock against you hooks around the crook of your knee, bringing your hips into his. Joel opens your legs and in one fell swoop he slips inside your sloppy seam; and as promised, just the tip. 

When he presses the tip finally inside of you, it knocks the breath out of your lungs. You gasp for air, digging your nails into the thick of his shoulder. His name bubbles up into your throat but it never leaves your lips. Your thighs tremble just as much as your bottom lip does with his entrance into your aching cunt. 

Joel’s grip on your knee is sure to leave bruises but god if he asked, you’d tattoo them on your body. To remind him, and only him, that you belonged to him. 

His entire body shakes as he forces himself to remain totally still. He grunts through clenched teeth as he wills himself not to move further inside you; no matter how badly he wants to slam his hips forward with the way you suck so eagerly on just his tip— he refuses to do so. And it takes every ounce of his willpower not to thrust forward.

“Fuck,” Joel growls under his breath. “‘S tight. You’re so tight, baby.” He adds with a slight whimper to his voice, eyes still heavily staring where the two of you connect. Hips sliding back, dragging the length of his cock out, before digging forward again.

You don’t answer, can’t answer; all you can think of is how fucking good he’s making you feel, even with just the tip.

When he finally sets a good pace, his thrusts are sharp but shallow and not near enough to truly satisfy every inch of your needy core but you’ll take it…until next time. Next time, he’s fucking you into the goddamn mattress until you pass out. 

You try your best to move your hips in sync with his shallow thrusts but Joel quickly shuts that down with his hand moving to grip your hip. When you manage to look up at him, he just weakly shakes his head a little. 

“No.” He mutters, sweat dripping off the high of his eyebrow. “If you move like that I’ll want more than this…” He admits with a flutter to his eyes. 

You groan but nod nonetheless. “Next time.” You huff with a hoarse voice. 

Joel chuckles a little and nods right back at you, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Next time.” He mimics before returning to dig into your core. Your dress bunches under his grasp and he uses it just a little bit to keep himself grounded and you from moving. 

Your body is raging like a storm beneath your skin with how quick your orgasm is rising to greet you. And you’re almost sure if he fully pressed his cock into every inch of your sensitive pussy right then and there, you’d make the worst mess. You’d soak your dress and every inch of his jeans and boots. And while you want him so badly all the way, deep inside, kissing your womb– you’re a little thankful he wasn’t. Didn’t want to embarrass yourself too badly, this time anyway. 

“Joel,” You utter, stars blossoming across your vision with your impending orgasm burning inside your lower tummy. 

“Shh, I know darlin’.” Joel hums back. He doesn’t have to say anything about his own orgasm with the way his cockhead is beginning to swell inside of you. 

For a split second you almost want to beg him to cum inside, wanting to feel him warm and deep inside every inch of your trembling walls but you could already guess what the answer to that was going to be, so you keep your lips sealed. 

Your mind turns fuzzy as his shallow thrust turns chaotic and ruthless, stretching you with every drag. Your knees feel like they’re about to buckle and break but his strong hands hold you up anyway. He wanted you to finish, wanted to feel you clench and flutter around his tip while he considered turning you around, bending you over and really getting the chance to stretch you out. 

“Baby girl,” Joel drawls, low and slow, pressing kiss after kiss into the crown of your head. His chest rises and falls with every rapid breath he sucks between his teeth. “Drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy…not gonna last. Want you to come for darlin’, all over my cock, can you do that baby?” 

He doesn’t even have to ask twice. You can no longer find your voice to form any other word besides “please” as the heat of your womb blossoms. The warmth explodes through every inch of your body. Your back arches with your orgasm, hips stuttering and if it wasn’t for Joel’s big hand on your hip, you might have swallowed him entirely by accident. Your chest presses directly up into his and you can taste the tip of his name coating your tongue as you come all across his cockhead. 

He waits until you’re entirely spent before he allows himself to come as well. He lets go of your hip, grabbing the thick of his base once more, and drags himself out of your tight cunt at the last second before he smears his mark across you.

White, hot spurts of cum splash against your cunt with every stroke of his hand. With a deep groan, he presses his tip into your clit, leaving his mark right up against the curve of your pussy. His hand quickly moves along his entire shaft, pushing out every last drop of his cum into the slit of your quivering pussy. Your name is whispered so softly in time with every jerk of his hand, it leaves you lightheaded and whimpering for Joel.

When he’s finished, his own damn head is spinning. He’s out of breath, staring at the mess he’s made with half lidded eyes. He swipes his thumb through the stain he’s made, chuckling quietly at how much sticks to your skin. 

“Damn sweetheart,” Joel hums in approval, shivering at the sight of you covered in his mark. “You got so much outta me darlin’, like I’m fuckin’ in my twenties again.” 

You’re slowly coming down from your high when he speaks but his words make you laugh alongside him. You were no better than he was; that was one of the best orgasms you’d ever had in your life. The pleasure still pounding inside your ears like a second heartbeat. 

“Yeah? Imagine what it’ll be like next time.” You whisper, letting your full body weight fall back onto the kitchen counter he had previously backed you up into.  

Joel quiets then, letting silence stretch between the two of you like a dry, humid summer. You can’t read his gaze and with the silence accompanying him, you’re not sure you want to read it anyway. But it’s gone quickly and he returns to that softness you’ve seen all day long. 

“Next time?” Joel hums, threading his fingers through your sticky cunt. “Next time, you’re not even gonna be able to fuckin’ walk, sweetheart.”

@ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐙𝐄𝐕𝐑𝐑𝐀 | 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖/𝐎 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

@lowrisemiller

[dantes-jacket]

Wanna take a peak

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: request #5!! You walk in on Dante naked, and he’s cocky about it (I mean who wouldn’t when you’re built like a Greek god) anyways this gets a little heated towards then end, oh and obviously nudity lol. This was so fun to write

There’s only a handful of times you’re ever running in a full sprint. Sadly today is one of them because you’re running late to work. Not that your boss would care, Dante is super chilled and laid back. Most of the time when you get to Devil May Cry the man is still sleeping.

Today was Friday and you wanted to surprise him with a box of different strawberry treats for working so hard this week. He’s had a lot of missions back to back and barely had a second to even breathe. He had no mission lined up today so you knew today would be a perfect day to surprise him.

You look down at your watch mid sprint to see it saying 9:45, shit you promised him you’d be there at 9 to answer any calls. You turn the corner and see the shop in all its glory. You sprint the last hundred yards and stop right in front of the door. You try to catch your breath and fix your messy hair before walking in.

You open the door and head in. The shop is dark meaning Dante is still sleeping and didn’t open up shop. You set your things down on his desk then go turn on the lights and flick on the infamous sign. You walk back over to grab the box of pastries to put them in the kitchen.

You flick on the light in the kitchen to see where you are going. Dante loves to raid his fridge after missions so he always leaves his stuff on the ground in here and the last thing you need to do is trip on some demonic thing. As the light flickers on you hear a groan.

You quickly look around to see Dante standing behind the fridge door that is open. “Ugh turn those off.”

“Good morning Dante.”

He looks over at you and you watch the tiredness wipe from his system. He looks really happy and excited to see you. “Hey! You’re early, thought you were going to be here at 9.”

“It’s 10 now, so I’m actually late.”

“Oh you sleep in too?”

“No.” You show the box to him and open it up, “I stopped and got you some different strawberry pastries to surprise you. They are a little reward for the long hard week you had.”

He lightens up even more and slams the fridge close which was covering which makes you see everything. Dante is completely naked. With no shame. You’re so shocked you don’t even move. Your eyes run over his body. His muscles are so sketched that he looks like a Greek god has sculpted him.

He’s got a trail of white and silver hair leading down to… your breath hitches when you see it. His dick is thick and long. No wonder why he acts so cocky, he actually has the asset to back it up. Then you realize you’ve been staring.

You cover your eyes and screech, “DANTE!”

“What?” He grabs the box from you and obviously takes a bite of one of the pastries because he’s moans. “Man this is so fucking good.”

“WHERE ARE YOUR CLOTHES!?!”

He swallows another bite, “Oh yeah guess I forgot to put something on after my shower.”

You spin around so you can open your eyes. “How do you forget to put something on? What if someone else came in and saw you?”

The thought of someone else seeing him in all his glory makes you burn with jealousy. You two aren’t together but you’d like to say you are close. That does help the delusional part of your brain for justifying you liking your boss.

You didn’t hear him come up behind you after setting the box down on the counter. You feel a warm hand wrap around your waist and pulls you back into a warm embrace.

Dante has you lined up with his thigh so his uncovered dick doesn’t touch you. He’s already getting a hard on after you ogling him. He doesn’t need to explain to you why he’s hard so he’s making it easier for the both of you. He leans down and whispers deeply into your ear, “Are you jealous?”

Your face heats up and you definitely know your blush is reaching your ears. You also 100% know Dante can see it. You push yourself out of his hold, “As if! Just go put some clothes on.”

You keep your face hidden from him while you walk back to the office. Dante chuckles to himself, “Man thought we were finally going to get somewhere that time.”

You stand at his desk and try to sort through all the different reports he has on his desk. It’s hard to focus because all that comes to mind is his perfect body. Any time you blink or you close your eyes you’re blessed again with seeing his body. It sends a warmth to your core. You try to push those feelings aside and focus.

You let an annoyed sigh out and drop the papers back on his desk. How the hell are you suppose to focus today? It’s going to be a very long day.

You see two arms get placed around you on the desk and a warmth at your back again. He snuck up on you again! How did you let that happen? Now you gotta figure out how to get out of this, even though you don’t really want to.

“What’s wrong?” A deep voice rings in your ear again.

Playing it off and not telling him that his perfect body is the only thing in your head now, you talk about work. “I’m just confused on how to organize all these reports. Morrison is picky and the last thing I want is to be yelled at by him.”

Dante puts his chin on your head and mumbles, “I can help.”

He grabs different reports and skims over them. “Okay so if the report has more to it and actually has useful information put it in this pile,” he points to the pile on the right. “If it’s basically useless put it in this pile,” while pointing to the left side now.

You nod and grab more reports. You and Dante stay in this position while sorting them. It only makes you more antsy. You want to feel that body against yours, you want him to- you shake your head to snap you out of your thoughts again.

“What’s wrong?” Dante asks again.

You play it off once more, “Uh I’m confused on this one. Not sure where it should go.”

Dante lightly takes the report from your hands and skims it. “Eh don’t know either. I’ll just put it in the keep pile.”

“Okay. Better him yelling at you than me,” you laugh.

Dante leans closer to you and basically engulfs you with his body, “I hope you know I’d never let him yell at you. I’d protect you from anything.”

His words are so sweet, basically everything you want him to say. This only adds to your need of having him though. This time you give in. You lean back against him, “I know and I appreciate it.”

You look up and him and he’s already looking down at you. There’s a silence between you two, each waiting for the other to do or say something. You both slowly lean in until the front door swings open and slams against the wall.

You jump out of his hold and look at the customer. It’s a woman wearing a very revealing outfit. She’s looking straight at Dante, maybe they know each other?

“Dante!”

You didn’t know Dante was looking straight at you when you jumped away and didn’t even look at who came in. At the call of his name he looks to see who is calling him and he just rolls his eyes. Not this chick again.

“Hi Miss. Have another demon I need to take care of?”

“No, I came here to see youuuu.” She slowly struts over trying to pop her hips out. Oh so that’s what she is doing here. She wants Dante. It makes your blood boil but you can’t help but applaud her confidence.

“Why?” Dante says disinterestedly.

“I need to repay you for helping me.” She walks over and stands toe to toe with him not caring for his personal space. “How about dinner?”

“No thanks.”

She doesn’t stop instead she places her hand on his chest and run it down his pec and towards his abs, “Oh so we can’t just skip the foreplay.”

Your throat feels dry, how can she just walk in and suggest this? You reach for the random water bottle on Dante’s desk and take a big sip to try and help the lump forming in your throat.

Dante doesn’t let her touch him for long, he smacks her hand away and steps back. “Not interested. The only girl that can see me naked is her,” and points to you.

You choke on the water you just swallowed. You finish hacking up a lung and look at the man who is smirking.

The lady moves to stand in your direction to try and block Dante from looking at you. “Look at me! I’m much prettier, I can actually give you a fun night-“

“Get out.”

“Huh?”

“I said, get out. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

“I don’t understand-“

“Don’t you ever talk bad about her again. You’ll never amount to her. Now get the fuck out of my shop.” Dante says in the most threatening voice you’ve ever heard him use.

At the tone of his voice the lady quickly makes her way out of the shop and slams the door on her way out. You watch the door and laugh, “Well that was something. She really had guts-“

You’re cut off by two hands on your face and the feeling of soft lips on yours. Dante’s kissing you…. DANTE IS KISSING YOU!?!

Once it clicks in your head that he’s kissing you, you eagerly return the kiss. It started off soft and slow but now it’s getting more heated and clash of teeth and tongues.

Dante pushes you against the wall and starts to kiss down your neck, “Thank god she left, been waiting to do this.” He continues to suck at your neck drawing out little moans from you.

You place your hands on his chest, “Dante-“

He unattached himself from your neck and looks back up at you. “What is it baby?”

“More please.”

He smirks, “Now you wanna take a peak?”

You flush at his comment and hide yourself in his chest. Dante lets out a deep laugh and holds you close. You two stand there hugging until the phone starts ringing. You try to break out of the hug so you can answer it but Dante won’t let you budge.

“I gotta answer the phone, let go for a second.”

“No can do. Today we are off and we are going to spent the entire day in my bed.”

The phone stops ringing once it does Dante steps away from the hug and closes Devil May Cry. He walks back to you and throws you over his shoulder, carrying you like a sack of potatoes.

“Dante, put me down!” You try to yell but it ends up just coming out as a laugh instead.

Dante joins you in the laughing and simply stating, “No, you and I got a date in my bed. Let’s make it fun.”

[uncleasriel]

via @sheepsheeples

#Canada#canadian politics#but also RIP to the ndp sorry we lost you in the crossfire :c

TBF the NDP also shot themselves in the foot with Jagmet as leader when he he became Mister Repeat The Same Talking Points while never really designing proper policy to address those issues. He was a great self-promoter but he lacked the ability to actually draw people to his team who could help articulate sharp policy. I remember an episode of Sandy & Nora Talk Politics from 2020-ish that said outright what I was slowly realizing: the NDP's policies from the 1990s felt more radical than today's NDP, with a strong emphasis on class, income and tactical polcies which addressed those things.

I hate to sound like the Old Left grumping about Kids These Days And Their Identity Politics, but I do feel Canada's modern left shifted away from labour focus to prioritize social issues to its detriment. I love that social issues like queer liberation, gender rights and racial equality came to prominent, but my understanding is that those were 'easier' wins once the Bob Rae's Social Contract Act happened and the solidarity between public and private unions was shattered.

It was easier to promote left-wing social equality without addressing the economic undercurrents that magnified its fault-lines, and the NDP mostly trailed Liberals in social policy while at most nagging about "remember those poor people?" I'm miffed at Jagmeet because some of his biggest talking point kept name-dropping Galene Weston (admittedly a good target for the rise of greedflation) but kept returning to him rather than explaining the bigger picture of how to solve the price-fixing problems people like Carney enabled.

This interview with Canadaland really sold it home to me: Jagmeet had prepared talking points, not an actual set of policies or ways to implement them. While I'm glad that Carney beat Mr PP, I can't forget Carney is just another status quo neoliberal. He won't yield to Trumpism, which is good,and it did cause the Overton window to shift to the Left (thank GOD!) but without a robust political left in this country, I'm going to be deeply frustrated fr a long while

Shout out to the USA for pissing Canadians off so bad it flipped an entire election that was supposed to be a landslide for the center-right, forever in your debt o7

[livesincerely]

Buck bows his head beneath the falling water, his ribs shuddering around a shaky exhale. 

He’ll pull himself together eventually. Slap a smile back on his face and remember how to be grateful for what he already has.

But first he needs to mourn. He needs to mourn and mope and shed a tear or twenty: then he can bury these stupid feelings and finally put them to rest.

Maybe it’s time to re-download Bumble and Hinge, make a proper effort at getting back out there and moving on⁠—

The bathroom door slams open with a bang! Buck whips around so fast that he nearly loses his footing, then nearly keels over anyway when he realizes it’s Eddie standing there amongst the clouds of steam.

Eddie, whose chest heaves like he’s just run a marathon, his hair a mess and his shirt only half buttoned⁠—like he’d hauled ass out of the locker room in the middle of changing. Eddie, whose expression is granite but whose eyes are wild, his irises totally eclipsed by burning crimson, that spiced-dark-chocolate-char scent rolling off of him like thunderclouds sweeping in over the horizon.

They stare at each other for one long, charged moment. Buck can barely meet his eyes; there’s something almost feral prowling in the shadows of his gaze⁠—sharp and accusing, honed like a knife’s edge⁠—and it cuts him all the way to the core. 

Buck’s throat clicks around a nervous swallow, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Eddie,” he says, almost helplessly, more of a breath than a word.

Eddie’s nostrils flare, his upper lip curling back to flash a single, pointed canine. Then he’s wrenching open the shower door and stepping determinedly into the spray⁠—still fully dressed, boots, belt, watch and all, what the fuck⁠ is he?⁠—and he braces a hand on either side of Buck’s waist, caging him up against the shower wall.

“Eddie!” Buck yelps, suddenly and extremely aware of the fact that he’s bare-ass naked, soap dripping down his arms and conditioner clinging to his curls. He clutches his hands to his chest like that will somehow mask the aforementioned nakedness. “What the hell are you⁠—? Hey!”

“Did you actually think,” Eddie starts, and his voice has settled in this gravely, dangerous place that’s making Buck’s stomach do somersaults. “That I wouldn’t come after you?”

“You— C’mon man, you’re getting soaked. Did you even take your phone out of your pocket⁠—”

“You did⁠,” Eddie decides, continuing as if Buck hadn’t spoken, anger and disbelief dueling across his features. “You thought I was gonna just let you go⁠?”

“Jesus, Eddie,” Buck sighs, letting his head thunk back against the tiles, already exhausted with this whole conversation. “Can’t this at least wait until I’m out of the fucking shower⁠—“

“Clearly it fucking can’t,” he growls, and he cups both of those huge hands around Buck’s jaw and yanks his head back down, forcing him to hold his gaze.

“Because last time I checked, we were in this together,” Eddie says—demands, really. Water streams through his hair and down his face in dozens of rivulets, his wet clothes clinging to every sodden, gorgeous inch of him. “That’s the deal, right? You have my back and I have yours. You go in and I’m right there on you six. I’m the one on the other end of your radio, I’m the one that double checks your harness, I’m the one that anchors your line.”

They’re plastered together: a tangle of water and limbs, fabric and skin. Buck’s mouth moves soundlessly, his voice trapped somewhere beneath the weight of his longing, but even if he could say something he wouldn’t have the words. Static blurs the edges of his vision, his mind emptied of anything that isn’t Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t come after you, Buck,” Eddie tells him, with all the force and certainty of gravity itself. “I’d have to be dead in the fucking ground before I’d let you go, and maybe not even then. Because you’re mine. You’re mine,” he insists when Buck can’t help the involuntary little noise that escapes him at the declaration. “And you’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m going to let you spend another second thinking I don’t want you.”

Buck’s heart stops dead in his chest, then kicks in again twice as fast. 

“Eddie,” he manages, barely able to hear himself over the sound of the shower pouring overhead. Thank god he’s already got a wall at his back⁠—he’s not sure his legs would support him otherwise, hope turning his joints to jelly. “You… Don’t do this if you don’t mean it. I can’t… I can’t.”

Eddie shifts impossibly closer, angling up until their faces are a hair apart. Their noses brush⁠—a gentle, almost exploratory touch⁠—followed by a solid press of forehead against forehead. 

“If you still don’t think I mean it,” he murmurs, his eyes burning like twin flames. “Then you clearly haven’t been listening to me.”

A shared breath. 

“Maybe this will finally convince you,” Eddie says, and he leans in and seals his mouth over Buck’s own.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

a/n: not much to say tbh. have fun i guess?

summary: natasha romanoff x married!reader; nat and you used to be in love. now, years later, you're married to a wealthy man and have a daughter with him. will running into natasha change everything?

warnings: implied smut, cheating

word count: 10.9k

…part 3, part 4, part 5…

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— A TANGLED HEART —

The kiss threw Natasha off.

What started as a simple mission, a plan to figure out who Ethan Bailey is and what kind of shady business he's involved in, resulted in her meeting the love of her life again. Discovering that was a curveball Natasha wasn't prepared for, one that made everything about indefinitely more complicated.

Keeping her distance seemed easy enough at first, but it quickly became impossible. As soon as she'd figured out enough to know that Ethan Bailey is hiding something bigger, her old feelings came rising back to the surface rapidly. Protecting you and your daughter — that was her new priority. That, and not falling in love with you again.

Well, shit — she's failed at one of those already. Plans have always had a way of collapsing whenever you were involved.

To be honest: she never failed to keep her heart out of it. She never even tried.

Natasha leans against the counter in her kitchen. It's been a few days, but her lips still tingle whenever she thinks of the kiss. The look in your eyes burned itself into her mind and wormed its way straight into her heart, settling there comfortably.

She tried to distract herself — mostly because you're married and have a family. She knows your marriage with Ethan isn't perfect as you've told her so yourself, but becoming a homewrecker? Or even being something that's close to a homewrecker? It's not something she'd ever thought she'd do.

Natasha exhales slowly, her fingers drumming against the smooth marble countertop. It's silent in the kitchen, apart from the gentle hum of the refrigerator — a sharp contrast to the whirlwind inside her head.

Something that was once an easy mission has unraveled into something much more complicated. It's not just about Ethan anymore. In fact, it stopped being about him the minute she saw you.

And that kiss. That damn kiss.

Actually, it's way more than just the kiss. It's everything combined — your smile, the way you look at her even seven years later, the way Nina beams at you. It's the same affection you once directed at her: the same warmth, the same genuine, quiet adoration.

Natasha hates how easy it is to slip back into your orbit, but she can't help it. She remembers the day she realized she's in love with you for the first time. The realization that her feelings ran deeper than expected — that, what was once a quick conversation over coffee, had turned into something that would screw her forever.

The way she loves you has always gone beyond what she can easily explain. She's never experienced this before, and she's certain she won't have to experience it again.

Her gaze shifts to the window. The city outside is unfairly calm with its glittering lights and towering buildings, almost taunting her. Natasha quickly forces herself to look away, a shaky breath escaping her.

She knows she should focus on the mission, on Ethan's secrets, on protecting you and Nina from whatever storm may be brewing. But her heart keeps dragging her back, screaming louder than the rational voices in her head.

She pushes off the counter and grabs a glass of water. As she takes a sip, her phone buzzes in the pocket of her sweatpants. She fishes it out and glances at the screen, spotting Hill's name.

Maria: Any updates? — 10.32pm

Natasha stares at the screen for a moment, the message managing to pull her back to reality. The kiss may have blurred the lines, but it hasn't erased her responsibilities.

Her thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment, then she texts back.

Natasha: Not yet. I'll check in

tomorrow. — 10.33pm

Maria: Distracted? — 10.33pm

Blushing, Natasha shuts off her phone and pretty much tosses it aside. 'Distracted' — that's certainly one word that comes to mind at her current predicament.

. . .

The laptop glows dimly in the darkened room. The neatly spread files before her are anything but neat in content — transaction records, meeting schedules, cryptic emails. All of it hints at something deeper, something that's still out of reach.

A new address pops up when she clicks on Isabelle Durant's name that's listed under a few of Ethan's known associates. A location Ethan visited recently, possibly right before leaving to visit his family with you. It's miles away from anything even remotely tied to his company's headquarters.

Natasha is certain of three things by now.

1) Ethan is involved in human trafficking. She's not sure in what way exactly, but he is.

2) Some woman named Isabelle Durant is a part of this as well, and Ethan's hiding something about their relationship. Coincidentally, she found the exact same email you retrieved from underneath his clothes — and she immediately realizes that it isn't just business between them. And if her hunch is correct, their relationship may be the thread that ties Ethan's secret dealings together.

3) You don't know the full extent of what Ethan's involvement — which, admittedly, stings. However, she noticed your growing sense of unease when you were talking, and she's afraid it's only a matter of time until you discover the truth yourself.

Natasha's torn between telling you herself and letting you figure it out on your own. She isn't sure which one would be more upsetting; but, in the end, she'd have been lying to you either way. Because she'll either have kept her investigations a secret for way too long, or the fact that she's known about Ethan's shady business all along.

She leans back, exhaling sharply. She still doesn't have enough. Enough to bring Ethan down. Enough to explain to you why she's been lurking around. But what she does know is that she needs more access.

It's something she realized a while ago, something she's done before — but it still hurts every time.

She has to use you for more information. Again.

Even if what you can give her are only scraps, it'll still be helpful. You're his wife, after all, so you automatically know different things about his whereabouts than anyone else. Plus, a not-so-small part of her brain wants to hear your voice again. See you again. Kiss you, hold you, all that sappy stuff she never thought she'd be daydreaming about.

Like she said: you worm your way into her heart with ease every time.

Natasha hesitates as she stares at your contact for a moment. She's not proud of what she's about to do — using your current situation as a way in — but the truth isn't going to reveal itself without her digging for it. Part of her is also scared that in the end, it'll seem like she was using you for intel.

But she has to do this. Protecting you and Nina is more important than keeping your relationship (affair?) alive later on.

She dials your number with a quiet sigh. The line barely rings before you answer.

"Hello?", your voice cuts through, sounding rushed and distracted.

"Are you alone?", Natasha asks, concealing the relief she's feeling at hearing you again. It's only been three days, Romanoff. Get a grip.

You let out a humorless laugh, and she hears something clink in the background.

"You mean aside from Nina demanding I cut her sandwich into a perfect star shape? Ethan barely left for his trip, and I'm already swamped."

"Didn't mean to interrupt", Natasha says, smirking faintly.

"No, no, you're not. It's just...chaotic", you mutter, your voice fading slightly as you shift the phone to your other ear. Natasha can hear Nina as she demands chocolate pudding. "No, we're having breakfast first— This is what happens when he springs things on us last-minute. Barely said goodbye to Nina this morning — too busy packing and taking a damn call. Do you know he didn't even-"

You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. "Sorry, I'm rambling. What's up? Everything alright?"

"It's fine", she says after hesitating for a split second. She didn't expect you to volunteer so much so quickly, but she'll take what she can get. "Sounds like you've got a lot on your plate."

"That's putting it mildly. Honestly, it's always like this when Ethan decides to just leave. I mean, he's not exactly hands-on when he's here, but still..."

Natasha picks up on the frustration in your voice, filing it away for later. She feels irritation, directed straight at Ethan, when she hears how stressed you sound. "Where'd he head off to?"

"Some business meeting or whatever." You pause, and Natasha can hear Nina in the background again. She smiles faintly at the familiar sound of the little girl's voice as she keeps asking for chocolate pudding. "Honestly, I wasn't paying much attention. Something about reconnecting with business partners overseas. You know how vague he can be about his work."

Natasha, in fact, doesn't know. You assuming that she does amuses her for some reason, but what you said is causing her mind to quickly piece the details together. "Right. You sound exhausted."

"You have no idea", you say, huffing a laugh. "Anyway, why'd you call? I assume this isn't just a check-in or something."

"I just wanted to check if you're alright. I haven't seen you and Nina in a while, so I figured I'd stop by, see if you need anything", she says, careful not to give anything away. You chuckle softly.

"That's sweet of you. Actually, I wouldn't mind some company —", Natasha hears you rip open a bag as you balance the phone between your ear and your shoulder, "Nina's been asking about you, by the way. But you'd better bring snacks. She's on a roll today."

"Snacks, got it", Natasha says, a smile tugging at her lips. "Text me your address? I'll be there soon."

. . .

— WHERE SHE BELONGS —

The domestic chaos of everyday life — you tidying, Nina playing with her toys — is something Natasha didn't know she craved.

A scent of soup lingers in the air as it boils on the stove, clearly homemade. There are stuffed animals and drawings everywhere, Nina is constantly running from one room to the other, a basket of freshly washed laundry is sitting on the floor next to the couch. It's impressive how you've managed to turn a white, lifeless mansion into something warm and welcoming.

Natasha carefully steps over a pile of blocks as Nina zips past her, carrying what looks like a crayon-streaked notebook.

"Mommy, look!", she says, skidding to a halt in front of you. You dry your hands with a dishrag before taking the notebook and inspecting the drawing.

"That's beautiful", you praise her warmly, handing the notebook back to her. It's almost full by now, pages and pages filled with doodles and typical toddler-drawings.

Nina beams and turns to Natasha. "You want to see?"

Natasha blinks, momentarily caught off guard. "Sure, let's see", she then says, crouching down and letting your daughter place the notebook in her hands. It's a chaotic swirl of colors, messy and vibrant, but Nina's eyes are lit up makes it feel like a masterpiece. "Wow, that's amazing!", she says. "A real artist, are we?"

You huff softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. You keep walking around the room as you tidy up, pulling a stray sock from in between the couch cushions and gathering the empty snack plate Nina left on the coffee table.

"Sorry for the mess", you apologize. Natasha just waves her hand dismissively. "I try to stay on top of it, but Nina..." You gesture at the girl as she tries to climb the couch, only to flop over dramatically halfway through. "She's a bit of a tornado."

"A cute tornado", Natasha says, grabbing a pair of kids' pajama bottoms and holding it out to you.

"Thanks", you say absentminded, tossing the laundry into an empty basket. "'Cute tornado', huh? You sure you don't want to borrow her for a week and see if you still think that?"

"Amazing idea. I'm known to be great with kids."

You smile at the sarcasm in her voice. "You don't give yourself enough credit", you say firmly, putting the laundry basket with the dirty clothes aside. "She adores you. Right, Nina?"

Nina briefly looks at you, then jumps off the couch and zooms into the hallway. "Yes!", she yells, her footsteps echoing through the house as she patters upstairs.

"Where are you going?", you call out to her.

No response. You shake your head and grab the basket full of freshly washed clothes. Whiffs of soap and fabric softener, clinging to the threads and now surrounding you. You start sorting through the clothes in silence, Natasha joining you after a minute or two.

You're working side by side, quietly, as if you've done this a hundred times before. Your fingers brush against hers as you reach for the same shirt, your eyes meeting — and for a moment, you pause.

"Thanks for helping", you say, finally looking at the shirt you're holding.

"Anytime", Natasha replies. She means it more than she probably should, but part of her is aware it's too late now. She's too deep in to get out again, and maybe it's time to make peace with that.

. . .

The more time you spend together, the more you're reminded of what you once had — of what you could've had.

A glimpse into some other universe, timeline, whatever you want to call it. Unfortunately, you both like what you see — it's sweet, warm. It's familiar, lulling you both into a sense of peacefulness.

Natasha spent years honing her ability to slip into any role, to blend into any life. Now, for once in her life, doesn't feel like she has to pretend.

You slip into a routine easily. Natasha keeps folding laundry, stacking tiny socks and soft towels into neat piles, while you clean the kitchen and get started on lunch.

She joins once she's done, offering to chop veggies. You hand her a chopping board and a knife, and she gets started right away.

Let's say it like this — Natasha has an interesting approach to cooking.

You give her an amused look as she starts to cut the onion into small pieces (or, what are supposed to be small pieces). They're uneven, some a bit too chunky, but there's no way you're going to complain about that.

It's nothing you're not used to, either. It reminds you of that time you and Natasha were stranded in a safe house in rural Russia. You wanted to make dinner from a few scraps you'd found — spaghetti, canned tomatoes, frozen fish. An odd combo, but you made do with what you had.

It was a dingy house with nothing but a hot plate. The pot was old and all banged up, and Natasha had managed to burn the pasta. You'd laughed for ten minutes straight while Natasha, red-cheeked and torn between amusement and embarrassment, had dug through the fridge for something eatable. You'd ended the night with buttered peas and some crackers.

"I'm pretty sure that's not how you dice an onion", you finally say, earning a small smile from her.

"Looks perfectly fine to me", she says nonchalantly and throws the cubed onion into the pan with the hot oil. It starts to sizzle quietly.

"Don't let it burn."

Natasha suppresses a smile and throws a piece of onion peel at you. "Still haven't forgotten about that?"

"No", you laugh, dodging the onion peel. "Now stop making a mess. I have my hands full with Nina already."

"Full hands, huh?" She raises an eyebrow and tosses another onion peel your way, which ends up on your sleeve. "You should consider yourself lucky to have me."

You pause, your fingers quickly brushing the onion peel away. Your features soften, if only momentarily. "I am damn lucky", you tease, but there's an underlying hint of sincerity in your voice. Natasha picks up on it despite you not wanting to. Her smirk fades, being replaced by something warmer.

"At least you're aware of it", she teases back, then proceeds to throw away the rest of the onion peel. She flicks it into the trash with exaggerated precision, trying to steer the moment back into lighter territory. "And just for the record — I don't burn food anymore. I'm a whole new woman."

You smile faintly, focusing on the salmon filets in front of you again. "Oh really?" You pause, sprinkling a generous amount of pepper over the three pieces. "A whole new woman? What else is new about you, then?"

Natasha smirks, tossing a handful of vegetables into the pan. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I mean, you're the one who said it", you tease, grabbing the salt from the tray with the seasonings. You hesitate for a moment, your curiosity bubbling back to the surface. "Actually, I've been meaning to ask. A few weeks ago, I noticed something. Avengers Tower — what happened to it?"

Her movements slow for just a fraction before she continues stirring normally again. "Ah, that. Right. It's...been a while. Things happen, people change, whatever. We moved to a more secluded location."

"Oh", you mumble, unable to conceal your disappointment. "I liked the Tower."

"You'll like the Compound", Natasha says and you glance at her, smiling weakly. "No, seriously. It's nice there. Not the same, obviously, but still nice. Lots of outdoor space, too."

"Perfect for kids", you tease, hearing Nina sing along to some song as she's sitting in the living room and drawing.

Natasha nods, trying to hide how your simple statement affected her.

"Yes", she says quietly, keeping her gaze fixed on the pan in front of her. "It is."

Lunch is a messy, laughter-filled affair. Between stealing bites of your bread and making her cutlery 'fight', Nina demands Natasha cuts her salmon into pieces, which the redhead doesn't mind doing.

"You're spoiling her", you say, half-serious, as you watch her carefully cut the filet into bite-sized pieces.

"Guilty as charged", Natasha replies. "She deserves it."

Afterwards, you stack the plates and put the knives and forks into the sink as Natasha wipes the table. Nina, having grown impatient with the adults, starts tugging at Natasha's sleeve.

"Come play outside!"

"Bossing me around, are we?"

Nina shakes her head, still insistently pulling on Natasha's sleeve. "Mommy says she's the boss."

Natasha shoots you a pointed look, a small smirk on her face. "Seriously?"

"She's not wrong", you say, shrugging. You wipe the countertops before crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Before Natasha can even think of a response, Nina has already grabbed her hand and started tugging her outside. She's surprisingly strong for such a little thing, and at least double as stubborn.

"Go, go! You too, mommy!"

Outside, the sun is warm and the grass is soft underneath your shoes. Despite it being November, it's not nearly as cold as you thought it'd be, but the air is still chilly. You barely manage to tuck Nina into a jacket before she storms away, quickly running from the dreaded scarf in your hands.

You watch from the sidelines as Natasha is pulled into a game of tag. Nina's like a hurricane, bouncing around and chasing after Natasha, but she's not quick enough to catch her.

Your chest grows warm at the sight. Natasha's taking the game far too seriously — she even pretends to stumble just so Nina can catch her. She collapses onto the ground, with the girl climbing onto her back triumphantly.

"I win!"

"Unstoppable", Natasha agrees, breathless. She looks at you, a small smirk forming on her face. "You're next, boss."

"Oh, no", you immediately say, but your daughter has other plans. Soon enough, all three of you are tumbling in the grass, a mock-yelp escaping you as Nina tackles you.

"Got you!"

"Traitor", you say, tickling her sides until she starts giggling and kicking her feet. Natasha smiles, propping herself up on her elbows as she leans back and watches.

"Didn't even have to help", she says, brushing a few blades of grass off your jeans. You roll your eyes — Natasha had caught your wrist when you tried to run, making you an easy target for the little girl.

"You're terrible at lying, Romanoff."

Nina flops onto your chest, her kicking legs slowly coming to a halt as she nuzzles into you affectionately. You smile, wrapping your arms around her.

"Mommy, you're warm", she declares.

"That's called body heat, sweetie." You look at Natasha, her expression soft and lost in thought. "She used to do this all the time when she was smaller. Just...collapse on top of me."

"She feels safe with you", she says quietly, absently plucking at a stray thread on her hoodie.

Before you can respond, the feeling of raindrops on your face makes you pause. You look up at the sky, which is now marred with dark clouds. A cool breeze sweeps through the yard, rustling the grass and sending a ripple through the trees. Natasha looks up, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Feels like rain", she mutters.

"You always say that", you say, sitting up. Nina quickly gets up when more raindrops start to fall on you, her face lighting up. The light drizzle suddenly turns into a downpour, and the girl cheers happily. "Oh no!"

Nina laughs, her arms stretched out as if she's trying to catch the raindrops. "It's raining, it's raining!"

You scramble to a stand, brushing wet hair from your eyes. "Nina, come on! We have to go inside before we catch colds!"

"No! I like the rain!", she protests, hopping in place as the rain soaks through her clothes.

Natasha doesn't waste another second. She grabs Nina and hoists her over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Let's go, puddle jumper."

"No!", she whines, her legs kicking half-heartedly. "Mommy, save me!"

"You're on your own here, honey."

You hurry after them, slipping slightly on the wet grass. By the time you're all inside, you're all drenched, water dripping down on the hardwood floors.

Natasha sets a still-giggling Nina down, her curls clinging to her face. "I'm wet!"

"I can see that", you say, glancing at Natasha as she wrings out the hem of her shirt. "I'll go grab some dry clothes. Make sure she doesn't run outside again, yeah?"

"On it." The redhead grabs a fluffy towel from the stacks of fresh laundry from the couch, swiftly wrapping Nina up in it. She rubs her arms to chase away the chill, a small smile on her face. "There you go. You look like a little burrito."

"What's a burrito?"

"It's food", Natasha replies, sitting back on her heels. "Never tried it?"

Nina shakes her head, hugging the towel tightly around her. You reappear with a bunch of new clothes, tossing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie onto the couch for Natasha.

"Here, sweetie", you say, handing Nina a fleece overall. "That'll keep you warm."

She scampers off to go change, leaving you and Natasha alone in the living room. It's silent apart from the heavy rain, pattering down on the roof and against the windows. The storm has darkened the sky, turning the late afternoon light into something dimmer.

You stand on opposite sides of the room, the tension palpable. Her eyes locked on yours, green and deep. Yours, warm and less guarded than they were when she first arrived.

She clears her throat before turning around, taking off her soaked clothes and slipping into the fresh ones. Unsure what to do with yourself, you start to change as well.

. . .

In the evening, it's Natasha who reads Nina's bedtime story to her. You linger in the doorway, arms crossed and a small smile playing on your lips. You can't decide how to feel about this — Ethan has not read her a bedtime story once, claiming he'd be bad at it. How come Natasha's managed to slip into this role so easily, then?

"You talk funny", Nina giggles. Natasha has been using her Russian accent to read this story to her, making the pirates sound like they regularly eat borscht.

"Funny?" She scoffs playfully, reaching out to smooth out her blanket. "This is my professional storytelling-voice, ma'am."

Nina breaks out into another fit of sleepy laughter, her eyes drooping shut for a moment. She's exhausted — it's been a long day, after all.

Natasha can see the tiredness in the little girl's face, so she smiles softly and finishes the last page of the book. She shuts it and puts it aside before slowly starting to get up.

"Night, Tiny."

Immediately, her eyes snap open again. "Mommy said you're staying tonight", she blurts, which is definitely a lie. However, you can't deny that you've been thinking about asking Natasha to stay, just for a night. Your cheeks turn pink anyway.

"Nina", you chide.

"Well, looks like your mom's got plans for me, huh?" Natasha looks at you, a teasing smile on her face. You shake your head, a soft huff of air escaping you.

"I didn't say anything", you say, flustered but trying to keep your composure. "She's just...guessing."

Natasha hums, tilting her head. You sigh, a sheepish smile breaking through.

"Though I wouldn't mind if you did", you eventually add.

"Right", she says quietly, brushing some hair out of Nina's face. A small gesture, but one that seems so natural and effortless that it makes you all warm on the inside. It's like looking through a window, watching someone else's life that you wish could be your own.

Natasha catches your gaze — and for a quick second, it's like you're the only two people who exist. The remaining flush on your cheeks, the vulnerability in your eyes. It reminds her of everything you once shared. It's so much more than she bargained for, and yet it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

And just for a moment, she lets herself think about what could be. If things were different, if she didn't have this mission weighing on her. It's a fleeting thought, but it startles her.

She pulls her hand away from Nina's face, trying to shake off the weight of the moment.

"Goodnight, kid", she says once more, slowly getting up. Her eyes lock with yours as she approaches you, then she walks out into the hallway. You tuck Nina in and kiss her forehead, then you follow Natasha downstairs.

You find her by the bookshelf, her head tipped back against the wall as she leans against it. She briefly looks at you, a faint smile tugging at her lips. It doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"I meant what I said", you start, approaching her with your arms crossed in front of your chest. "I wouldn't mind if you stayed the night. Nina would love to see you in the morning. And, I mean, it gets lonely here. It's a big house, and being alone with a toddler-"

"I'm staying."

You tilt your head, pausing. "You're sure?"

"I'm staying", Natasha confirms, her voice soft. She tries to give you a teasing smile, but it doesn't quite work. "I hope your couch is comfortable."

You smile and nod, slowly uncrossing your arms. "It's a nice couch", you say awkwardly, causing her smile to turn more genuine. "I'll make it nice. You'll see."

"Can't wait", she teases, watching you as you quickly busy yourself gathering pillows and blankets. She watches you for a few seconds, her eyes following your movements as you fluff pillows and smooth out blankets. "You don't have to fuss, Y/N. I've slept in worse places."

"This isn't 'worse places'", you argue, continuing to feel the different pillows to determine which one is the comfiest. "It's my house. I don't want you to wake up with a crick in your neck."

"Well, thanks", she says quietly, sounding sincere. You hum, patting the couch.

"Here, see if it's okay like this."

Natasha lays down, her head sinking into the pillow. "It is nice", she simply says, watching as you absentmindedly grab a stuffed animal — a cat — and hand it to her. "Seriously?"

You glance at her, confused, before realizing what you did. "Oh, sorry. That's a habit", you say, quickly reaching for the toy again. "Nina needs her Bearie at night."

She laughs quietly, shaking her head. "As long as you don't tuck me in, we're good."

"I was just about to do that", you say with a smirk, covering her with a blanket. "You're all set?"

"All set", she confirms, shifting a bit. You hesitate, unsure if you should say anything else — and then decide against it.

It takes a few hours for Natasha to fall asleep. Her thoughts are running wild with various things — you, the mission, Ethan, what this means, where it's leading. She's still grappling with her old feelings for you, and she knows you're conflicted about this as well. You're married, after all. You have a family.

Ironically, being apart makes it worse. You used to sleep in the same bed, tangled up underneath bedsheets. You used to sync your breathing, listen to each other's heartbeats.

The physical distance feels unsettling, unnatural, but you both know better than to get up and join the other.

. . .

Early morning light filters through the curtains. Feet shuffle across the polished floors, dishes clink quietly in the kitchen. Quiet giggles, a hushed voice reminding the child to be a bit more quiet.

Natasha wakes up early, drawn to the quiet sounds of the house. The thoughts from last night linger, but she tries not to overthink. She'd rather focus on how warm she feels, how the smell of coffee is wafting through the rooms. Slowly, she gets up, her feet padding across the floor as she approaches the kitchen.

You're in front of the stove, dressed in pajama bottoms and a loose top. You have a cup of coffee that you're sipping on while simultaneously preparing Nina's breakfast. There's a soft, familiar warmth to you — one that she remembers so well from times that were simpler. It makes Natasha pause and lean against the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Good thing Nina has her back turned to her, otherwise she probably would've blown her cover again.

But no, you don't notice her at first. Natasha just stands there, watching you as you put some oatmeal into a small bowl. It's a peaceful, fleeting moment — one that can't last forever, but she pretends it will.

Finally, you look up. Your eyes meet, pulling you into a moment of shared connection. It's easy, like it always used to be, and you find yourself putting your mug aside.

Without thinking, you step closer, and Natasha follows in suit. It doesn't require words.

Her hands on your waist, yours on her face. Your lips meet in a lazy, unhurried kiss, carrying all the affection you've never been able to truly let go of. All you focus on is the taste of her lips, the gentle pressure of the kiss, transporting you back to a place in the past.

For a moment, everything else fades away. No missions, no lies — just the two of you and the feeling of what once was.

You pull away slightly, your hands resting on her face. Your thumb brushes over her mouth, eliciting a sleepy smile from her.

"Morning", she mumbles, her voice still raspy with sleep.

"Morning", you reply, not taking your hands off her cheeks even when you start to flush a little. The color on your face sends a thrill through Natasha, little sparks of electricity shooting down her spine and making her heartbeat quicken. You can feel it against your chest, the rapid thumping of her heart underneath her ribcage, and you smile at the realization.

Still a little flustered, you pull away before Nina turns around and sees you. You keep stirring her oatmeal to make it cool down quicker, a small smile playing on your lips as you steal a glance at Natasha.

"Want coffee?", you ask, trying to appear casual.

"I'm good for now", Natasha says, leaning against the counter. "How's Nina?"

You look at your daughter, who's happily making faces at the spoon. It never fails to amaze you how easy it can be to entertain a child.

"She's in a good mood, apparently."

Nina, finally realizing that a) Natasha's here, and b) the adults are talking about her, looks up. She smiles when you put down the bowl of oatmeal in front of her, instantly digging in.

Natasha watches the girl with fondness, then directs her attention towards you again. "What did you have planned for today?"

"Oh, the usual", you say, filling the remaining oatmeal into two bigger bowls. "Run some errands, clean up around the house...that kind of stuff. Nina's not going to preschool today, so we'll just hang out a bit."

"Sounds peaceful", Natasha says, subtly moving behind you. Her arms snake around your waist before she can stop herself and reconsider whether this is a good idea, and her mouth places a kiss on the back of your neck. You freeze before melting into her embrace, but she's already stepped away again.

"Yeah, it-" You clear your throat, the flush on your cheeks making you look like you're sunburnt. "It's all I can manage right now, I guess."

"Mhm." Natasha smiles, her arms now crossed in front of her chest.

Trying to distract yourself, you decide to check on Nina. The girl's chin is smeared with oatmeal, but she looks completely content like this, oblivious to the world outside of her little bubble of joy.

You exchange a look of both amusement and fondness, then you nudge the chair next to Nina's aside and sit down. You wipe her face, ignoring her halfhearted attempts at protesting.

Natasha wasn't expecting this moment — this simple, fleeting slice of normalcy —, yet here you are. No espionage. No dangers. Just the three of you.

She may not have all the answers yet. Truthfully, she has no idea where this is headed. But the smile on your face, so soft and disarming, makes her feel like she's exactly where she's supposed to be.

Natasha will never know what life would've been like if it had taken you down another path. What she does know, however, is that this, right here, is something worth holding onto.

. . .

— A SWISS AFFAIR —

"You're so paranoid."

"I am not paranoid", Ethan replies, irritated, and keeps scrolling through his phone. He's been checking it obsessively — scanning emails, cross-referencing encrypted notes, making sure his location is turned off. He looks out of the window of the sleek black car, almost as if expecting to be followed.

But the quiet streets of Zurich are empty. Snow is covering the sidewalks, glittering under the streetlights, and there are no people to be seen. No cars, either, lucky for them.

"You're going to give yourself an ulcer", Isabelle teases, swirling a glass of champagne that was offered to them by the driver.

"This isn't some charity gala, Izzy", he says, briefly glancing at her. "One wrong move, and we're done."

"Paranoid", she repeats in a teasing tone, her red lips moving exaggeratedly with each syllable. She leans in closer and plucks the phone from his hands. "Relax. We're here to spend money, not stage a coup."

"You can be exhausting", he says, slumping into the seat and scrubbing a hand down his face.

The car drives up to the gate of a private mansion on the outskirts of the city. It's secluded, surrounded by sprawling, snow-dusted grounds, with ornate stonework and high arched windows. The tall iron gates are manned by heavily armored security, which scan their car with a device.

Ethan rolls down the window to show their invitation. The security guard nods and waves them in, two other men opening the gates for them. The car rolls up the driveway, coming to a halt in front of the mansion.

"Why would they need to check the car?", he mutters once they're out of earshot, unbuckling his seatbelt. "What are they expecting?"

"Oh, I don't know. Explosives?", she says, laughing softly. They exit the car, the air around them icy and fresh. Isabelle leans closer to him as they approach the building, her voice a whisper: "Honestly, it's endearing. You want to look like you belong here so desperately, but you're always so tightly wound. Charming in its own way."

Ethan just shifts uncomfortably, adjusting his tie. Her words are teasing, but there's truth to them. He's out of his depth here, and she knows it. No tailored suit, no Swiss watch, no polished shoes can hide that. Every choice carefully considered, but lacking authenticity. A constructed mask, one that Isabelle sees right through.

They make their way into the mansion, passing through the upper floors. Laughter and champagne flutes clink freely, creating a stark contrast to the basement they're now approaching. Down there, the air is heavier and the light dimmer.

The auction room stretches wide, with antique archways framing the space. Polished marble floors, bare stone walls, a touch of severity to it all. In the corners, alcoves host private conversations between guests.

Ethan steps into the room, feeling more and more out of place with each second he spends in this place — one that is filled with people who seem too at home, like they've been living in this kind of underground world for years.

"You see her?", Isabelle whispers as they walk deeper into the darkened room, nodding at a woman in a green dress. "She's the one who gets the 'deliveries' to the right people."

Ethan stiffens. "Don't talk like that."

"What?" She scoffs, smirking. "You're here, Ethan. You know what this is. Don't play innocent."

"I am innocent", he snaps, his tone too harsh for discretion. "I just-" He looks around, quickly lowering his voice. "I'm not involved in any of this. I just buy art, Isabelle. That's it."

She rolls her eyes and leads him to their reserved seats. "Keep telling yourself that, darling", she mumbles, sitting down and crossing one leg over the other. "Without payers like you, there's no auction. No money. Everything would crumble."

His hands clench and unclench as he rests them on this thighs. He wants to argue, find a way to tell her how wrong she is.

It's easier to focus on the artwork, to tell himself his hands are clean, than to admit that he's guilty.

The auction starts with the ring of a bell. All the conversations die down, and a woman in a black dress steps up on the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen", she begins. "Welcome. I'm delighted to see so many familiar faces tonight..."

Ethan tries to focus on her words, but his eyes drift to the display area. Multiple paintings and statues, lined up neatly. One painting catches his attention — a bold, abstract piece with thick strokes of crimson and black. Something about it draws him in — it's violent, chaotic, unlike anything else that's being auctioned here tonight.

He briefly glances at Isabelle as she shifts next to him.

Isabelle Durant. Auction facilitator, middlewoman, laundering specialist. Although she tries to avoid direct contact with the human trafficking side, she's definitely more involved in this than he is.

She ensures the auctions go smoothly, she helps conceal the origin of funds. And, unlike him, she's completely aware of the fact that she's financing the system. She has no delusions about it — she knows she's a complicit, but she simply doesn't care.

Sometimes, he wonders whether she feels any guilt at all. Whether she has made peace with it.

Part of him knows she has. Maybe that's the thrill of it all.

. . .

Ethan manages to win the piece he laid eyes on after a dramatic bidding war. It's supposedly from a reclusive European artist, and it'll certainly look good in his gallery — but the knowledge that this painting helped funnel an enormous amount of money into the trafficking organization sours his mood.

He gets into the backseat again, Isabelle joining him from the other side of the car. She looks completely unfazed — happy, even. The hard part of the day is over. What comes now is alcohol, a nice suite and maybe some good food.

"Don't look at me like that", she says, leaning in. Her fingers brush along his jaw, making him look at her. Sometimes, he still wonders what drew him in — her good looks? Her sophistication? The fact that she seemed to know everyone worth knowing?

A mix of that, probably, but she also had a certain gift: she knew how to make him feel special, especially in the beginning. With her, he felt like the smartest, most desirable man in the world. You'd never made him feel like that (granted, you didn't make him feel stupid or unlovable either — but a narcissistic little part of his brain craved the validation that he's better than the best, that he's more than anyone could ask for).

While he does appreciate the fact that he has a family with you, one that makes him look good to the public, he also knows that he can't appreciate the simplicity of what he has with you.

Ethan grasps her hand and pulls it away from his face, his expression stoic. He's aware that their affair has turned into a relationship that is a toxic web of dependency and control — he still keeps telling himself that he could leave whenever he wants to. Her influence, however, is undeniable.

"It's been a long night", he finally says, grazing his lips over her knuckles. She smiles, cupping his face with her other hand.

"That's true", she confirms, kissing his stubbly cheek. "But it's worth it. You're one of them now", she adds, her voice more teasing this time.

Guilt and exhilaration flood his brain. Before he can dwell too long on either, Isabelle pulls him into a brief, charged kiss, her lips moving against his.

. . .

— LETTER WITH CONSEQUENCES —

Receiving a letter in an unmarked envelope is never a good sign, but especially not after an anonymous number texted you to check your mailbox at half an hour prior to midnight.

At this point, Natasha and you have spent the past three days together. She hasn't gone home once — she's been sleeping on your couch, showering in your shower, wearing your clothes. She's spending her days with you and Nina, and you haven't been this happy in a long time. Even your daughter noticed, telling Natasha that she "makes her mommy smile."

You're still both trying to keep your distance, although it's become more of a one sided effort. Something about the ring on your finger makes you hold back from anything that's more than a simple kiss. Even that little display of affection makes you feel nauseous with guilt, which Natasha knows and understands. She doesn't know what it's like, since she's never been married, but she understands anyway.

You've basically forgotten about Ethan by now. He's somewhere in Switzerland, doing his usual business. You're still not sure what to believe regarding him possibly having an affair, but you've decided that you'll deal with that issue once he's back home.

If only there wasn't that damned letter.

The text message lights up your screen right as you're about to go to bed. Natasha's on the couch downstairs, reading a book, so she doesn't notice it or the way your eyebrows knit in confusion.

ANON: Check your mailbox. — 11.32am

In retrospect, you'll realize that obeying a command from god knows who is not the smartest idea — especially not this late at night. But right now you're tired and puzzled, as well as a little curious, so you make your way down the stairs and open the front door.

The air outside is cold and crisp. It smells like it's about to snow, which is a feeling nobody but Natasha has ever managed to understand.

You can't smell snow, can you?

Yes, you can, you think, carefully approaching the mailbox. You open the small compartment and pull out a letter. No sender, no recipient, nothing — the envelope is completely blank

Frowning, you quickly pad back into the house and gently shut the door, then you walk into the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, you use a knife to cut the envelope open. You pull out the neatly folded piece of paper and open it, your eyes immediately skimming the text.

It was typed and printed, clearly trying to keep whoever sent it to you secret. But that's not the only thing that makes you pause — the contents of it are far more unsettling.

「 Dear Mrs. Bailey,

You don't know me, and I have no intention of revealing who I am. What I do know, however, is that your husband isn't the man you believe him to be. For your sake — and for your daughter's — I strongly urge you to open your eyes to the truth.

Ethan has been lying to you for months. His late-night meetings, his frequent business trips, the people he surrounds himself with — it's all a carefully constructed web of deceit. While you've been holding your family together, he's been tearing it apart behind your back.

He's been cheating on you — but he isn't just unfaithful.

The company he keeps and the deals he makes aren't just unethical — they're dangerous. If I were you, I'd take my daughter and leave before his sins catch up to him.

Consider this a warning from someone who knows more than you think. You deserve better.

Signed,

A Friend 」

At first, you don't dare believe what you're reading. Surely, this is a prank. A manipulation tactic, something that's meant to freak you out.

But the details hit too close to home. Whoever sent you this letter knows at least as much as you, but probably way more.

No, they definitely know more. This isn't something they could guess, or lie about. It's way too serious for a prank, especially considering that they mentioned your daughter twice.

Nina. Innocent and oblivious, asleep in her bed upstairs, a heart-patterned blanket covering her. The mere thought of something happening to her makes you sick to your stomach.

How dare you, you think, your hands shaking as you stand frozen in place. You built a life with him, trusted him. You gave birth to his child, set your own dreams aside in order to allow him to fulfill his. And this is how he pays you back?

You feel a mix of emotions, but most prominent of them all: anger. All the lies, the betrayal, crash over you in waves.

You're aware of the lingering distance between you and Natasha, the way everything has shifted since she reappeared in your life. But in this moment, all doubts and reservations vanish. You need to do something, need to feel something that's not the crushing weight of your life.

Without thinking, you put the letter aside. Your legs carry you to the living room automatically, where you're met with the sight of Natasha. She's on the couch, now looking up from the book she picked from your bookshelf.

All words die in her throat when she sees the storm of emotions in your eyes. Raw, intense, but also mixed with something soft and familiar.

You cross the room without saying a word, your heart pounding in your chest. You hesitate for only a moment, your breathing shallow.

"I'm not really sure what we're doing", you say, "but I know I can't keep staying away from you." She stares at you, her blood rushing through her veins and clouding her brain — it's a quiet admission that Natasha's been waiting for, but didn't expect to come this way.

She doesn't have time to respond. You close the gap between you and her in a single step, your lips meeting hers in a desperate, messy kiss.

An explosion after years of suppression, resulting in a heat that consumes you both. Her arms wrap around your waist as you sink into her lap, feeling like they've always belonged there. Your fingers tangle in her hair, tugging at the strands, your movements frantic and needy.

Natasha's hands push under the fabric of your shirt to feel the warm skin of your back. You let out a muffled moan, breaking the kiss reluctantly to start trailing kisses along her jaw.

There's no time for second guesses — not this time. All that matters in this moment is you and her, your bodies tangled together on the couch, heat enclosing you and shielding you from the world. You'll deal with the consequences later.

You tug on her shirt, needing to feel more than the soft fabric. Natasha doesn't hesitate to let you take it off, the piece of clothing being tossed aside carelessly.

When you finally feel her skin against yours, it's like a million fireworks going off inside your veins. The closeness is electric, but also full of tension. The way she runs her hands along your curves is familiar, mapping them out and tracing the scars you got all those years ago. She remembers every single one and how you got them, the pictures vivid in her mind.

Then, her hand grasps yours, sliding the wedding ring off your finger. It clatters hollowly as it meets the floor.

You push forward and box her in against the couch, meeting her lips with your own again. You taste her tongue, her hands palming at your sides, your heart beating erratically. She moans quietly, her fingers starting to toy with the waistband of your sweatpants and finally pushing past it.

You break the kiss for just a moment, pulling away enough to look into her eyes. You both pause, hands stilling and breaths mingling in the small space between you. Natasha's gaze searches your face, her expression unreadable, but the look in her eyes tells you everything you need to know.

"Nat...", you begin softly.

Natasha doesn't respond right away. Her fingers brush along your cheek, the touch featherlight but purposeful. You swallow, tracing the outline of her collarbone.

"We can stop this", she finally says, her voice quiet. "If you want me to leave, say it now."

You swallow hard, your heart pounding against your ribcage. You shake your head, not saying anything. You don't need to say anything — because you don't want her to leave. Not now, not ever.

Instead, you sink into another kiss. At this point, it's a language of its own.

. . .

Bodies naked and entangled on the couch. Natasha brushes her fingers along your spine, her lips pressing a kiss to your forehead. You're fast asleep, your body curled against hers. For the first time in way too long, you both feel right — even if the situation is wrong.

It's been a few hours by now. Natasha slowly disentangles herself from you and gets up. She puts on some clothes before leaving the room, deliberately keeping her footsteps quiet to make sure she doesn't wake you.

The kitchen tiles are cold underneath her feet. She grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water, but her gaze drifts to the abandoned letter on the counter. She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder toward the hallway that leads to the living room, where you're still asleep.

Curiosity gets the better of her. She's a spy, after all — if something seems off, she'll investigate it.

Natasha's eyes skim over the text, her chest feeling tighter with each word. She's so fixated on the letter and what it means that she doesn't even think about the fact that she's not completely innocent either.

She doesn't know what to feel — concern? anger? disappointment? — and she also doesn't know who to direct it at.

This is it, she thinks bitterly, her grip on the letter tightening so much that the edges crumple, This is the reason for last night. This is why you came to me with such desperation.

The faint clink of glass in the kitchen was what pulled you out of your slumber. You shift on the couch before sitting up, the blanket pulled to your chest.

"Nat?", you call out softly. Natasha tenses when she hears your voice, then she slowly walks back into the living room. You hesitate when you see the look on her face. "Everything okay?"

For a moment, she doesn't say anything. She simply thrusts the letter toward you, making your heart drop.

"Is this why you slept with me?", she demands, her voice low but trembling with emotion. "To get back at him?"

"Nat, I-", you start, your mind scrambling to explain.

"Don't", she cuts you off, her voice rising slightly. "It was never about us, was it? It was about him."

"That's not true!" You quickly get up, trying to wrap the blanket around your body. You're way too conscious of the fact that you're still completely naked. "I just..."

"Don't lie to me", Natasha snaps, tossing the letter aside. Her voice cracks as she speaks, the rawness of her emotions spilling out. "I let myself believe, for one second, that maybe we-" She shakes her head, swallowing thickly. "Forget it."

Your brain takes a few seconds to realize that she, in fact, has turned around and stormed out. Car keys in hand, only wearing a hoodie and some shorts. The front door shuts, finally ripping you out of your frozen state.

"No", you say, scrambling to get some clothes on. You hurry after her. "No, no, no! Wait!"

Natasha's outside, fumbling with her car keys. The air is cold on her skin, but she doesn't care — she needs to get away.

Your panic spikes as she slides into the driver's seat, the car starting. You bolt for your own car, jamming the key into the ignition. But nothing happens — the engine sputters once, twice, and then falls silent.

"Shit!", you curse, slamming your hands against the steering wheel. You look up and see the Natasha's taillights flicker to life, the car pulling out of the driveway. "Fuck!"

Without thinking twice, you lean on the horn. The sound — loud and insistent — cuts through the quiet suburban morning like a scream, probably waking everyone who's asleep, but that's not important.

"Natasha!", you yell, throwing open the car door and stepping outside. Snow, icy and numbing, melts under your bare feet. You didn't even notice it before. I was right, is all you manage to think as tears run down your cheeks. "Natasha, stop!"

You press the horn again, desperate and frantic, hoping it'll at least make her hesitate.

And it does.

Despite her better judgement, she instantly stops the car. For a moment, she considers driving off, letting her anger take her somewhere else, anywhere else, to a place where it won't hurt so much.

She should protect herself, and she should protect you. She should put some distance between you and her, finally stop you from stirring up all these feelings — but she can't.

Natasha sighs, her forehead dropping against the steering wheel. Then, finally, she steps out of the car.

Your face is tear-streaked, your chest heaving from the yelling and crying and everything else that's happened in the past five minutes.

For a long moment, you just look at each other. The air is heavy with unspoken words; words that feel too dangerous to say.

"You sure know how to make a scene", she mutters, her voice low but not unkind.

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your eyes. "Yeah, well, you know how to run", you reply.

Natasha steps closer, her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest. Her breath comes out as visible little clouds in the icy morning air. She stops a few feet away from you, hesitating briefly.

"Well, you've got my attention", she finally says. Her voice is softer now, but still tinged with frustration. "What is it, Y/N?"

"Look, I-" You brush some hair out of your face, trying to find the right thing to say. "Don't run. Just...just don't run. Please. I know it's messy, I get that. I also know that I should explain, but..."

"Explain what?", she asks cautiously.

"That I don't know what I'm doing", you say, your voice wavering. You take a careful step closer to her, and to your relief, she doesn't back away. "That I've made a thousand mistakes. But sleeping with you last night? It's not one of them."

She goes quiet for a moment, studying you. She swallows and looks at the ground, the footprints left in the snow. "And what was that letter about?"

"I was going to tell you about it. I just didn't know how", you admit, your fingers curling into the material of your sweater as you cross your arms. "Someone sent it to warn me about Ethan. I had an idea that something wasn't right, but I didn't want to accuse him before knowing for sure. And I guess..." You sigh and shake your head. "It doesn't matter. All I know is that I'm done pretending my life is something it's not."

Natasha's shoulders sag slightly as they loosen up. Her eyes dart around your surroundings for a moment — the dark sky, the hint of sunlight peeking over the horizon, the mansions around you — before meeting yours again. "You have a funny way of showing it", she mutters, though her tone is more resigned than biting.

Your lips curl into a tentative smile. Maybe you didn't screw things up completely. "You have a funny way of staying."

"I haven't decided I'm staying yet", Natasha points out, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips despite herself. She doesn't move an inch, however, staying right in front of you.

"You're not running, either." You stay silent for a moment, your eyebrows narrowing. Natasha's smirk fades as you search her face. "You knew, didn't you?", you finally say.

"Knew what?", she immediately deflects.

"Natasha", you say, taking a step closer. "Don't lie to me. You knew about Ethan, about what he's involved in. Didn't you? I mean, you always know more than you let on."

For a moment, she considers lying. It'd be pointless — you definitely know that she knows —, but it'd be worth a try. She wants to protect you, but she's not sure from what exactly at this point.

"I've been investigating him", she eventually admits. "Not just him. Everything he's involved in. I've been trying to take it down."

"And you didn't tell me", you say quietly, your jaw tightening.

"I couldn't", she quickly says. "Y/N, I didn't know how deep you were in. I didn't know if you'd be safe."

"'Safe'? You think you were keeping me 'safe'? I deserved to know what was happening behind my back! I don't even want to think about the kind of danger my daughter and I could've been in!"

Natasha shakes her head, her expression bordering on pleading. "I didn't want to put you two into more danger! All I've been thinking about since running into you that night is how I'm going to keep you and Nina safe."

You go quiet, watching her with a guarded expression. "Is this why you suddenly decided to be in my life?", you then demand. "To get intel?"

Her face falls. She exhales and her defenses crack. "Maybe at first", she admits. "I needed information. It was an opportunity to get closer to a him. He's been involved in a human trafficking ring, which is being financed by the auctions he attends — complicated stuff, you know. I was focused on the mission. But then..." She pauses, looking up. "...then I saw you again. Really saw you. And then it all changed."

"How am I supposed to believe that?", you whisper, feeling like something's stuck in your throat.

"Because it's the truth", she says firmly, her green eyes unwavering. "I don't know what this is, or where it's going. But I know I want it. I want us."

"Nat, it-" You look away, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment to blink away the tears. "It's not that easy. I don't know if I can do this. Ethan has power, resources. If I leave, if I even try to leave, then what happens to Nina? What happens to me?"

She hesitates before placing her hand on your arm. "I can protect you both", she says softly. "You and Nina. But you have to trust me."

You shake your head. "You don't understand", you say weakly. "He's not just some guy I can walk away from. He'll ruin me, Natasha. He'll take Nina away from me."

"No, he won't. Not if I have anything to do with it."

You give her a doubtful look, but the conviction in her eyes doesn't fade. Natasha is a woman of her words — in all these years, she's never lied to you, unless it was to protect you. Not even when she probably should have. And you also know that she knows what she's doing. She's not someone who'd put the people who are important to her in danger. Her entire life has been about protecting others, but you were always her priority.

"I'm scared", you admit, searching her face for reassurance. It softens under your gaze.

"I know", she replies. Her hand shakes as she lifts it to your face, brushing her fingers across your damp cheek. Then she cups it, her eyes meeting yours and the outside world seeming to fall away.

Finally, she leans in. It's a tentative kiss, salty from your tears and so warm it creates a striking contrast to the icy air. You sink into it, prolonging it for just a few seconds and soaking up the feeling. The part of you that is scared thinks that this may be it — your last kiss.

The circumstances could be worse, though. You're standing in the snow, feeling so cold that both your fingertips have started to turn blue. Your only source of warmth is each other, as it's been so many years ago.

You both pull away, not saying a word at first. Natasha's hand drops to her side, but the ghost of it lingers on your cheek.

"I don't have an answer yet", you admit quietly. "I just...I just don't know. I'm sorry."

It was what Natasha expected to hear. She nods and exhales sharply, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a bitter laugh.

"Don't apologize", she says, her voice low and rough. "Just...figure it out. Before it's too late."

There's a pause, heavy and suffocating. Then she steps back, her walls slowly being rebuilt already — you can tell by the way her expression is becoming unreadable again.

Natasha turns around and walks away. The car door shuts, the engine fires up, and you watch her leave.

. . .

— "COME AFTER ME" —

It's been days since the morning on the driveway — days since Natasha left, since you last saw her or heard from her. Apart from the email she sent you, at least. One that contained a bunch of information about Ethan and the human trafficking ring and black market auctions. Reading it gave you the headache of a lifetime, but it also gave you clarity.

The house has felt colder since, quieter in a way that has nothing to do with the November chill creeping in through the windows. It's as if a fog has settled over your mind, muting every noise and color.

It happens when you're running errands, a mundane escape from the stillness at home. Ethan is supposed to return the next day, which makes you all the more tense. Thankfully, Nina hasn't picked up on it — she's as happy and chatty as ever, skipping along next to the shopping cart and looking at the bright display of cereals on the shelves.

"Oh, marshmallows!", she says, clearly delighted, and grabs a box of Lucky Charms. You sigh, shooting her a faint smile.

"You can have one thing, honey. We agreed on that when we left, remember?"

"I want this", she says, nodding, and gets on her tiptoes to drop the box into the shopping cart.

"Sure", you agree, continuing to push the cart. Your daughter keeps a firm hold on the basket of the cart, giggling when it makes a noise.

"It's squeaky!" She rocks the cart back and forth a little to make the noise louder. "Like a mouse, mommy."

"Like a mouse", you agree, smiling distractedly, and glance at the shopping list in your hand again. But her continuous laughter, bright and bubbly, pulls your attention for a brief moment, and you manage a quiet chuckle. Nina smiles back at you, her hand letting go of the cart to grab yours.

You eventually approach the checkout, and Nina asks if she can help put some items on the conveyer belt. You agree, putting her in the shopping cart and placing everything on the conveyer belt together. The barcode reader beeps whenever the cashier scans an item, and Nina imitates the sound every time.

You barely notice that, though. The cashier tells you the total, and you nod and start rummaging through your purse. As you reach for your wallet, your fingers brush against something unfamiliar. A small piece of paper, smooth and folded precisely in half.

Frowning, you pull it out and open it. The ink is smudged, but the handwriting unmistakable.

You stare at the three simple words, not even registering when Nina tugs at your sleeve and tells you that it's your turn. All you can do is stare at the note, the red ink stark against the blank page.

Come After Me

⧗

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @scarletsstarlets @upsidedowndanvers

[cbartonscoffee]

You know what's infuriating? The way it would make so much sense for Jack to knowingly be head over heels in love with Robby while Robby's none the wiser and he just greatly appreciates the level of connection and understanding he has with Jack in a "we're such good friends :) i'm so lucky to have him :)". But also, when I try to picture it, I arrive to the unavoidable conclusion that, actually, Robby would be very aware of his sexuality and how attractive he considers Jack (making him more susceptible to realizing when he falls in love), while Jack would not call into question his sexuality unless someone forced him to (he's always had more pressing matters to attend to, questioning his sexuality? why would he bother?). Which means that out of the two of them Robby would build a relationship aware of the underlaying sexual tension while it would hit Jack like a brick to the face a couple of decades down the line.

[theosang3ls]

Crawling back to you

inspired by Hozier’s version of “Do I wanna know?”

pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

summary: Mattheo is your new neighbour who quickly becomes obsessed with you and finds rather creative ways to talk to you

warnings: mentions of blood, fluff

A/N: in my mind every single song by Hozier is Mattheo coded. I had so much fun writing this! English is not my first language! Hope you enjoy reading this!

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You stood quietly over Mattheo, his left palm bloodied and trembling ever so slightly beneath your touch. The harsh scent of disinfectant clung to the air between you as you dabbed at his wound with a cotton pad, each movement slow, deliberate, and tender. Your fingers moved carefully, reserved in their precision, as though he were made of fragile porcelain and might shatter under the weight of anything more. The sting of the antiseptic hitting his torn skin made Mattheo hiss under his breath, his jaw tightening—but the pain barely registered compared to the storm of emotion twisting in his chest.

He couldn't take his eyes off you. There you were: utterly focused, lips pressed into a firm, concentrated line, your brow slightly furrowed as you worked. Your hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, a few loose strands falling across your cheeks, catching the light in a way that made you seem almost otherworldly. You were breathtaking, ethereal, and completely unaware of just how beautiful you looked like that—lost in the task of patching him up with a quiet determination that made his heart ache.

Since the moment Mattheo had first seen you, since his gaze had landed on your soft, unassuming figure in the hallway of your apartment block, something inside him had shifted. You had smiled at him— just a polite, neighborly smile—but it had been enough to snare his thoughts entirely. He hadn't believed in fate, not until the day he realized he'd moved into the unit just two doors down from yours. And now, sitting on your worn-in couch, his injured hand in yours, it felt like the universe had led him here with purpose. You were kind, graceful, quietly radiant— a walking contradiction to the chaos that often lived inside him. And he wanted to stay in this moment for as long as you'd let him.

"You're all patched up," you murmured, voice soft as you smoothed the final fold of the bandage over his palm. Your touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, gentle and warm. Then you looked up at him, a small smile pulling at your lips. "Can I get you anything else?"

Mattheo's heart stuttered. That smile—god, that smile—was enough to make him weak. He felt something in his chest unravel. "Just a glass of water," he replied, offering a smile of his own, the kind he didn't give to many. It felt unfamiliar on his face, but it bloomed easily in your presence. You nodded and rose from the couch, heading toward the kitchen, your silhouette briefly disappearing into the dim light.

As you turned the tap and filled the glass, you finally summoned the question that had been sitting on your tongue since he first stepped into your apartment. "You want to tell me how you got that?" you asked, voice casual, but laced with curiosity as you leaned your back against the counter, arms crossed.

Mattheo hesitated. His mind spun quickly through the easiest lie, one that wouldn't spark more questions. "I broke a jar," he said finally, tracing absent circles over the bandage you had so gently applied just minutes before. "Tried to pick up the glass, tripped a little. Guess I wasn't being careful."

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and offered him a look that made him simultaneously want to laugh and squirm. "Nice story," you said, chuckling slightly. "Now tell me what actually happened."

Mattheo pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, his features twisting into a playful expression. "Are you implying that I'm lying to you?" he asked, tone exaggeratedly wounded, though there was amusement glinting behind his eyes.

"That's exactly what I'm doing," you shot back, your smirk deepening, your eyes dancing with the challenge.

And just like that, something unspoken passed between you—a shift in the air, a charge that neither of you fully understood, but both of you felt.

"What makes you think I'm lying, hmm?" Mattheo asked, his voice smooth and low, edged with amusement. He cocked a brow, a smug little smirk dancing at the corner of his mouth—a smirk you'd seen far too many times in the hallways, in the elevator, in passing glimpses at your mailbox. You hated that it affected you the way it did. Hated how your pulse picked up every time you caught sight of him. How your breath always stalled for just a second too long.

There was something about him—something magnetic and consuming. Maybe it was his unwavering confidence, or the lazy way he always seemed to lean against doorframes like he had nowhere to be, like he had all the time in the world just to look at you. Maybe it was those dark curls, often tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed, or those impossibly deep brown eyes that made it hard to look away. Or maybe it was the small scar on the bridge of his nose—a subtle imperfection that made him all the more perfect. Whatever it was, he left you flustered in a way you hadn't been in years. You weren't the type to get distracted by someone so easily—but Mattheo was an exception, and your thoughts betrayed you constantly because of it.

You pushed yourself off the edge of the counter where you'd been leaning, suddenly aware of how close he still was, and walked over to hand him the glass of water. As you did, your fingers brushed his, sending an uninvited jolt of electricity through your veins. "One," you began, coolly, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I didn't find a single shard of glass when I was cleaning your hand. Two, that cut's far too straight to have come from a broken jar. And three..." you looked up at him, your gaze unwavering, "we live close enough that I would've heard something shatter in your apartment. But I didn't."

Mattheo's eyebrows rose, genuinely impressed. He hadn't expected you to pay such close attention—to every sound, every detail, every flicker of inconsistency in his words. God, it only made you more irresistible. The way your voice held firm, the way that one loose strand of hair curved down your cheek—he was hopelessly enamored. "Aren't you a bright one," he teased, the words curling out of his mouth like a purr. His gaze locked onto yours, heated and steady.

You tried to hold it, really, you did—but the intensity in his eyes was unbearable. It made your stomach flip, made your throat tighten. You hummed in response, barely audible, before quickly turning away and heading back toward the kitchen. You didn't need anything from there—not really. But the nearness of him, the way your skin still tingled where his hand had touched yours—it was too much. You needed distance. Space to think. Space to breathe. Because if you stayed too close, for even a moment longer, you might do something stupid— like lean in and kiss him.

"Care to explain how it really happened?" you asked, your voice a little quieter now as you fiddled absentmindedly with a spoon left out on the counter.

Silence.

You glanced over your shoulder, expecting a response—but he was still watching you, like he was drinking you in. Your heart jumped at the intensity of his stare, and something twisted in your chest. You narrowed your eyes slightly, thinking through the details. That kind of wound—clean, precise—it hadn't come from glass. It looked like the kind of cut a blade would make. But... how the hell did someone slice the inside of their palm like that?

And then it hit you.

"Oh my god..." you whispered, eyes widening slightly as you turned to face him fully. "Did you... cut yourself, Mattheo?"

Your voice softened on his name, barely more than a breath—but it stopped him cold. The way you said it, laced with concern and a quiet, blooming anger, made something primal shift in him. He could barely handle how it made him feel.

He grinned, far too casually for what he was admitting to. "Only so I could be taken care of by my favorite neighbor," he replied with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Your cheeks flushed instantly. Heat rose to the surface of your skin, betraying your every effort to remain composed. You hated how easily he disarmed you—hated even more how much you liked it.

You didn't respond. Couldn't. Your body betrayed you with silence, and that was all the confirmation Mattheo needed.

"Are you turned on?" he asked, letting out a quiet, breathy chuckle that wrapped around your spine like silk. "What? No!" you blurted, your voice too quick, too defensive.

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk growing. "Now look who's lying."

And then he stood up.

You should have stepped back—your mind screamed at you to create space, to run before it got worse—but your body stayed rooted in place as he crossed the room in long, confident strides. Each step toward you made the room feel smaller, warmer, heavier with unspoken tension.

His hand came up gently, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing a featherlight path across your skin. Your breath hitched. Your heart pounded. You looked up into his eyes—god, those eyes—and felt like you might melt right there.

"Tell me," he murmured, leaning in closer, his voice dipping into something low and intoxicating. "What is it that turns you on, hmm?" Your gaze faltered again, flicking downward in a futile attempt to escape the intensity. But his other hand rose, cradling the other side of your face, holding you in place with a kind of softness that made your knees weaken. "Don't shy away from me now," he whispered, eyes searching yours.

And for a moment —just a moment— the world stopped spinning. You couldn't breathe. Or maybe you were just too aware of every breath, every inch of space between your bodies—what little was left of it. His hands framed your face with such reverent gentleness, as if you were something sacred, something fragile. His thumbs moved slowly across your cheeks, tracing invisible paths that left your skin tingling in their wake. And his eyes... god, his eyes were devouring you—full of heat and curiosity and something deeper, something almost tender.

He leaned in just slightly, just enough for you to feel his breath ghost over your lips, and it took everything in you not to close the distance.

"I mean it," he said softly, voice low and husky, as though the air between you wasn't already heavy enough. "Don't look away."

You didn't. You couldn't.

Your heart thundered against your ribs, your lips parted ever so slightly, and time stilled around you. The kitchen disappeared. The world fell silent. All you could feel was his touch and his gaze and the way every part of you leaned toward him like a tide being pulled by the moon.

"Say something," he whispered, his lips barely inches from yours.

But you didn't need to. Because in the next heartbeat, you closed the space between you.

Your lips met his—tentative at first, like a question you didn't know how to ask—but the moment they touched, everything else unraveled. His hands tightened ever so slightly on your cheeks, pulling you closer, grounding you in the softness of his mouth against yours. He kissed you like he'd been waiting forever—slow, deep, savoring every second like he never wanted it to end. You felt his breath hitch, the way he exhaled into the kiss, like you'd stolen the air from his lungs and he didn't mind one bit.

Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you needed something to hold onto. And maybe you did—because kissing Mattheo felt like falling. Like diving headfirst into something dangerous and beautiful and completely out of your control.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he'd thought about this a thousand times and none of those daydreams came close to the real thing. His hands slid down, one settling lightly on your waist, the other brushing the small of your back, anchoring you to him.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your foreheads touched, and your noses brushed. His eyes were still closed for a moment, as though committing every second of the kiss to memory.

You didn't say anything right away. Neither did he. You just stood there—hearts pounding, breathing each other in. "I knew it," he murmured finally, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. "You were turned on." You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," he whispered, tilting his head slightly, brushing his lips against yours again in a teasing ghost of a kiss, "you kissed me."

You didn't argue.

Because you already knew you'd do it again.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

A/N: this was so cute I loved writing it! Hope you loved reading it as well!

!Reblogs, Likes and Comments are highly appreciated¡

masterlist

…until next time lovelies💋

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

it is 2am rn i should be asleep but i'm high on the buzz from reading literally everything you've written with her so i'm doing something i've never before and asking: Furina confession?

also, again, love the writing, tumblr one-shot writers truly make the world... something idk i need to sleep

(Genshin Impact) Furina Confessing to Reader

I exist because content for the girls does not (or at least anything recent besides myself and others I can count on like one hand. On tumblr anyway, on AO3, BOY IS THAT A LOT OF SMUT)

Furina stood in the mirror, staring at herself and taking a deep breath.

Right now, she was in nothing more than a plain shirt and baggy pants since there was no home.

Her hair was also a bit disheveled, but appearances didn't matter right now!

Exhaling finally, Furina nodded to herself and recited her line.

(Furina) "(Y/N). I'm in love with you-!"

She elegantly gestured outwards with her hand, ready to go off on a mini-tangent, endlessly showering them with praise and dramatics...

...Until she sighed, shaking her head. Theatrics wouldn't do. This was something that deserved to come from her heart.

For the fat lot of good that was.

Furina slowly tapped her finger against the sink, eyes trailing down as her thoughts began to wander.

She had impersonated an Archon for centuries, performed in countless theater productions, faced the music of her people's judgement, and came out a new person, truly her own.

And yet, confessing to (Y/N) was up there in the most stressful of tasks.

They were one of the few people to treat Furina normally after the truth was revealed, and actively stuck around in her life after the fact much to her relief.

(Y/N) treated her as a friend, first and foremost, even when she was still under the guise of an Archon.

Any time spent with them caused her heart to race, and before she realized it, she fell head over heels for them.

And with the disaster looming over Fontaine averted, Furina could finally follow her heart.

And that terrified Furina to no end.

(Furina) "Ugh...! Focus! It shouldn't be that hard!"

Shaking her head again, she decided to leave the mirror and flop onto her bed, face first.

It wouldn't really help, but it'd at least just get her distracted. At least it would've, if she didn't hear a knock on her door.

Not bothering to check or remove her face from the mattress, a very muffled-

(Furina) "Who is it?"

Answered the knock.

(Y/N's Voice) "Furina. Are you okay? I can barely hear you!"

Furina quickly rolled onto her back and shot up straight like a bullet, eyes widening in surprise.

(Furina) "(Y/N)?! Oh, um! A moment, please! I'm not decent yet!"

She cursed her clothes that were still drying, rapidly darting left and right to see if any of her fancy dresses were ready!

Why was this happening now?! (Y/N) was supposed to meet up with her tomorrow!

(Y/N) "I just came by to drop off some food, I had leftovers and figured you would want some! I can leave if you-"

(Furina) "N-NO! Don't!"

After realizing that she said that a little too fast, she quickly cleared her throat and attempted to compose herself.

(Furina) "I wished to talk to you about something, actually!"

Realizing what she just said, she could hear her inner self screaming.

(Furina) WAITWAITWAIT! Maybe if I can say, later, I can have time to-

(Y/N) "May I come in now?"

(Furina) "Yes! You may-"

(Furina) WHY IN THE HELL DID YOU SAY YES?! (Also Furina) I DON'T KNOOOOOWWW!

(Y/N) entered the room, putting aside a picnic basket on her drawer, before turning to Furina with a smile.

(Y/N) "Hah, dress still in the dryer?"

(Furina) "Tch, unfortunately! Though, I was not expecting anyone to show up today either."

(Y/N) just smiled at that and sat on her bed, growing a little more serious.

(Y/N) "What did you wanna talk about?"

Furina's heart threatened to bust from her chest, but she did her best to calm it down and sat next to them, a respectable distance away as well.

Taking one last deep breath, she closed her eyes and turned to (Y/N), giving them a stare and speaking directly from her heart.

(Furina) "I bike you."

(Y/N) remained still, hands still in their lap, and a moment of silence passing between the two of them.

Furina clenched her fists, watching to see if (Y/N) would react in any negative way.

After what seemed like an eternity, (Y/N) finally gave their answer:

(Y/N) "...Bike?"

(Furina) "...Eh?"

(Y/N) "You bike me?"

(Furina) I MESSED UP?! NONONONOTHISCAN'TBEHAPPENINGHOWCOULDIHAVEFLUBBEDTHISUPSOBAD?!ICANNEVERFACETHEMAGAIN-

(Y/N) mercifully noticing her face turn bright red, only chuckled lightly before trying to help calm her down, by grabbing her hands and squeezing them.

It seemed to have worked as Furina was anchored back into the real world instead of her self-berating thoughts, (Y/N) smiling softly.

(Y/N) "Do you want to try that again?"

With how carefully Furina's hands were being held, she was confused.

Did they...Return her feelings?

The way they were smiling, the way their eyes seemed to glow with affection.

A small smidge of confidence coming back to her, she again steeled herself and spoke slowly.

(Furina) "I like you, (Y/N). You mean more to me than just a friend. You have been by my side for all these years, and have never stepped away, no matter what came. Will...you continue to do so?'

Not knowing her heart could beat even faster, she saw (Y/N) nod, moving closer to close the gap.

(Y/N) "I'd love nothing more, if you'd have me."

The corner of Furina's eyes were pricked with tears, Furina immediately going in for a hug, one that (Y/N) happily reciprocated.

After a far too brief dozen or so seconds, they pulled back and just smiled at each other. Until (Y/N) spoke.

(Y/N) "I came in while you were practicing to say that, didn't I?"

Furina stammered, quickly pouting while her blush gave her away.

(Furina) "I didn't need to practice! I just needed to speak from the heart is all!"

(Y/N) "So bike is how you really feel about me then, huh?"

(Furina) "D-DON'T TEASE ME!"

Furina squeaked when (Y/N) embraced her again, though after a defiant moment, she sighed and returned their affection, the two saying nothing and staying like that for a little while longer.

Even if it wasn't the way she intended, at least it ended happily.

...Maybe this was a better way to convey her feelings anyway.

==

Bonus:

The panel that directly inspired the dialogue in this ask

A/N: I wasn't even gonna mention this last part, but my writer's integrity refuses to pass that bit off as original. Credit where credit is due, it's from an original Doujin called "The Show Must Go On!" by an artist named Chicken. I cannot link the source because it's AHEM, a spicy one, but nevertheless! I found it too cute to not utilize! And also because that absolutely seems something Furina would do.

[multifandombabe]

Strong, Hot, Cream and Sugar - Prologue

Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader x Jackson!Tommy Miller

description: a series that has our lovely Miller brothers crushing hard on reader and they do a ton of little things (both publicly and privately) to try to win reader over :)

word count: 700

warnings: cuteness, jealous Miller brothers, eventual angst

author's note: suggestions for chapters welcome in my asks! also, I'll write alternate endings for the very end of the series so everyone is happy, don't you guys worry :)

⋆｡°✩₊⋆☽༓☾⋆₊✩°｡⋆⋆｡°✩₊⋆☽༓☾⋆₊✩°｡⋆⋆°✩₊⋆☽༓☾⋆₊✩°｡

The dining hall was still waking up, wrapped in the hush of early light that streamed soft and silver through the frosted windows. It painted the world in that quiet kind of magic only morning can manage- muted edges, softened sounds, everything slowed. People moved through the breakfast line like ghosts in flannel and denim, shoulders hunched against the chill, clutching warm plates piled with scrambled eggs, dry toast, and oatmeal that steamed but somehow never seemed hot enough.

The air held the scent of burnt coffee and old woodsmoke, familiar and a little comforting. Somewhere, a chair scraped gently across the floor.

You moved through the line on autopilot, grabbing a cup of coffee as a final addition to your tray before you made your way to the back corner- their corner- where Joel and Tommy sat in their usual spots.

Joel looked like he’d been carved from stone. Elbows on the table, his fingers wrapped tight around his mug, shoulders hunched as if the weight of morning sat heavy on his spine. He nursed his coffee with the same grim determination he gave to most things- quiet, slow, and probably too hot to actually drink.

Tommy, across from him, was already halfway through his plate, sleeves shoved to his elbows, a few crumbs dusting the corner of his mouth. His voice carried low and easy as he said something you couldn’t quite hear, but he grinned when he saw you coming.

You slipped into the seat between them, sliding in like a missing puzzle piece. The warmth of the mug kissed your fingers, but the first sip made you wince- bitter, sharp, unforgiving.

“Oh- I forgot to grab- ”

Before you could finish, Joel reached past your elbow, smooth and wordless, and nudged the little pitcher of creamer toward you. He didn’t look up, didn’t say a thing. It was subtle, nearly nothing.

But you knew him. Joel didn’t do anything without intention. That was his brand of care- quiet, almost invisible unless you were looking for it. Just like how he drank his own coffee: a little creamer, no sugar, no fuss. Practical. Controlled. Like him.

At the same exact time, Tommy slid two sugar packets across the table with a casual flick of his fingers. “Bet that coffee's bitter as hell,” he said, light and teasing, but there was a glint in his eye that said he’d been waiting for this.

You knew him as well. Tommy never touched creamer. Always sugar. Said bitterness was just punishment in a cup. His way of drinking coffee was like him- bold, unfiltered, always looking for sweetness in the dark.

Joel’s hand paused mid-sip, and Tommy’s smirk faltered, just for a heartbeat, as they both realized what just happened. 

It was small, the tension. Barely there. But you were sitting between them- you felt it. The silence stretched, soft but tight, like a held breath. Both waiting. Both watching to see which offering would be chosen. 

You looked at the creamer. Then the sugar. Your lips twitched, just slightly.

Without a word, you added both.

A small splash of cream. A torn paper packet. Stirred it slowly, like it mattered.

“Thanks,” you said, voice low, almost shy. You took another sip.

And the shift was instant. Joel let out a small breath through his nose- barely more than a sigh, but you caught it. Tommy ducked his head with a crooked grin and went back to his toast, a little victory in his eyes, like he’d won some silent contest neither of them fully understood.

But it wasn’t about choosing sides. You weren’t choosing. You liked the balance. The richness, softened. The bite, sweetened. Your coffee now- exactly the way you liked it.

And for a moment, just a quiet, flickering moment, the three of you sat there like that. No need for words. Just the scrape of forks, the low hum of voices in the distance, and the soft warmth of something unspoken curling in the space between you.

This was the first time the Miller brothers presented you with a choice. Unfortunately, this wouldn't be the last.

And balance wouldn't always be an option.

[jillvalentinezxo]

I will never forgive re6 for getting Chris so wrong <3

I have supporting evidence in the form of two things that happen in his introduction to Chris' campaign. 1. The sexist comment 2. The whole premise of Chris drinking his pain away instead of doing smth about it.

1. You might be like 'why is number 1 a big deal?'

In my opinion, it shows a fundamental misunderstanding of the character on a small scale that makes it easier to prove a point than trying to tackle the whole thing. I will only be addressing 2 points right now because they are fresh on my mind but they are INDICATIONS of the writers FUMBLING THE BAG.

When has Chris displayed language anywhere close to this? Twice. One in that scene, and another in a letter.

"Me? I just got back from a date with a hot chick. Bet you can guess what we got up to under her extra-large umbrella."

In this instance he's talking in code, and Claire finds it weird enough that she drops everything to try and find him. She specifically says that it doesn't sound like her brother.

Speaking of Claire, Chris raised her after their parents died. He clearly was good at it since she is so close to him and goes and risks her life twice for him. He only tries to keep her away because of her lack of training and her being his onlu remaining family, but when he realizes she can take care of herself he doesn't fight her involvement in things.

Jill is his partner in everything, they started the BSAA together and he trusts her full heartedly to take care of herself. He believed in her so hard that he was like "that girl ain't dead" even when it was very plausible that she was. His instinct is to protect her when she's weak but when she tells him to save the world he respects her wishes. Up until 6 he exclusively has female partners and never sexualizes or belittles them even jokingly ie Leon . Jessica THROWS HERSELF AT HIM and he actively unsexies every single thing she does or says.

He also trusts Rebecca back at the mansion to take care of herself too. He is the epitome of the man who is just unquestionably respectful of women and he doesn't make a big deal of it. It's shown through actions.

So when he said that I felt like it was out of character. It's like they were writing a scene for Leon and then the other team was like "we wrote a scene for Leon too and it actually has a presidential assassination in it which is cooler, you should change lanes".

It is way way more consistent with Leon's behavior from the line in question (I don't think he's misogynistic but this line wouldn't be that out of character for him) to the drinking himself silly. It just doesn't line up for Redfield.

2. Speaking of the drinking to Forget it is SO out of character for him.

Chris doesn't give up. He is like a hunting dog that can only ever be thrown off a scent for a little bit before he finds it again. This dude does not ever back down. He chases his work and goals *relentlessly*. He doesn't ever give himself a break. From the mansion incident he immediately takes off to chase a lead. And from there he does work against bioterrorism until he loses Jill and then he relentlessly attempts to *find* her even after she was declared dead. Realistically, outside of his sister, losing Jill would be the most devastating loss he has left but it didn't break him. The BSAA searched for her for a pretty long ass time and even after they gave up Chris didn't.

And I think that while Chris is burnt the fuck out the thing is that he always *chooses* to go back. It's a sort of twisted vocation. The difference between Leon's motivation and Chris' is crazy because Leon *didn't * choose this. Chris continues to. Leon's coping mechanism is drinking off his nightmares, and Chris' is throwing himself at impossible odds until he succeeds or it kills him. He's just been very lucky that it hasn't killed him yet. Chris doesn't cope by escaping..he copes by trying to fix everything even when its unrealistic. So in my opinion 6 doesn't do Chris justice. They seemingly don't understand what drives him, which i believe is a hope for justice/a better world and maybe a little bit of a harmful coping mechanism.

I think a counterpoint to this argument might be like "it was the point that he wasnt himself" but i think that could have been done in a better way. Specifically overexerting himself to the point of injury or dissapearing again to do something dangerous by himself. While two characters in a franchise can have the same vice, it would be preferable for stronger characterization to make it consistent, especially since Leon's alcoholism has been a documented part of his character since the 90s.

Thoughts? Xo

[alillenn]

I feel like I'm the only person who doesn't headcanon Jimmy and Curly as childhood friends. Idk why but I see them as meeting later in life as adults. Maybe it's that Curly says "I've known him for a long time," instead of something like "I've known him forever," or "I've known him my whole life," or something along those lines. I just think Curly would say something to allude to an even bigger chunk of time that they've known each other if that were the case, but maybe that's just how my brain works.

I think they'd be in their mid to late 30s with Curly being the older one by a few years when canon takes place and probably in their early 20s when they meet for the first time.

I think the way they meet is something like a mutual friend introduces them. They do share a friend group so that's not unlikely. Jimmy is standoffish and intimidating because he's never been good at meeting new people, and who was this dork that his friend was trying to introduce him to? In reality, Curly is way cooler than Jimmy and he can feel that. It makes him insecure about his place in the friend group.

Eventually, Jimmy realizes Curly isn't too bad. They even become closer friends with each other than either of them were with the mutual friend that introduced them.

Curly's surprisingly good at handling Jimmy's irrational thought process when he's having a bad day. He's a grounding force that can absorb the strays that Jimmy throws at him and guide him toward something more productive. To an extent, of course. Jimmy also knows how to hurt someone with surgical precision that even Curly has no defenses for. Jimmy knows when he goes too far, though, and has his ways of apologizing. None of which ever include the words "I'm sorry," of course, but Curly is generous enough to read between the lines. More generous than Jimmy deserves sometimes.

Jimmy may not be great with words, but when Curly can't muster the strength to get out of bed or leave the house, Jimmy has no problem hanging out on his couch or at the foot of his bed just to keep him some company. He knows what it's like to want to crawl into a hole and not come out, and sometimes another person just existing around you in silence is enough to help you snap out of it.

Both of them drink and smoke pretty heavily, and they enable each other horribly in that way. Constant shot challenges and trying to out-drink each other. Weekends become a blur from 5 pm Friday night to 6 am Monday morning. They grow out of this for the most part by their late 20s but not before both of them spend a night in the drunk tank and Jimmy loses his license once.

Curly is the first one to clean up. He wants something more out of life than his current reality. Luckily for him, he meets a recruiter for a long haul space freighter company who's hiring and offers (unpaid) on-the-job training, no college degree required! What an opportunity!

It's hard, being away from everything you've ever known for months on end, traveling to planets and space stations you never get to actually see for customers you never get to know carrying unknown cargo that must be valuable, because it's protected better than your own sleeping quarters.

There's a distance between Curly and Jimmy the first time he returns. Their friends throw a party, and Jimmy is genuinely happy to see him again, even if he is pissed that he decided to leave for some stupid job. Things are almost like they were before. Almost. Curly doesn't drink as much, and he doesn't smoke at all, not wanting to get addicted again before his next mission and all that.

It's like Jimmy's meeting him for the first time again. Sure he's still the same in the ways that matter, but... he's different. He's changed. And Jimmy hasn't.

Things never quite go back to how they were, but nothing ever does, right? They're both in their 30s now, they can't keep living like they're 25. It's a miracle neither of them ended up with a kid amongst all the other dumb shit they've done. Curly's always been a romantic, waiting until he finds "the one," whatever that means, before he ditches the condoms. And Jimmy's sperm count is too low to make unprotected sex a meaningful risk. Juvenile behavior aside, they still make the most of the time that they do get together.

It's during one of these "off seasons" that Jimmy isn't able to pretend. He got fired about a month or two ago, and his unemployment is going to dry up soon. A lightbulb goes off in Curly's head. Turnover is pretty high at Pony Express, and another crewmember just quit after this most recent mission ended.

It takes a lot of convincing and breaking through Jimmy's reinforced walls, but Curly finally persuades his best friend to join him. Living on a spaceship is better than living on the streets. For the first time in years, they'll get to see each other more than a few times every other year. Who knows, they'll be seeing each other every day, maybe they'll even get sick of each other.

Just because Curly's co-captain now doesn't mean his best friend can jump the line. Jimmy has to climb the ladder the same as everyone else did. But connections do matter in this business, and Curly has always vouched for his friend. It's only a few more years before Curly gets the captain's seat, and he has just the person in mind to fill the chair to his left.

[forsaken-headcanons]

Random Chance headcanons that are fueled by me being a Chance fictive.

- Chance has ADHD (and probably autism, but he never got that diagnosed)! Casinos and casino games are a long time hyperfixation, but he's also hyperfixated on card + magic tricks, bunnies, guns, languages and many random video games or series. Ultrakill was a past hyperfixation, and where they picked up flipping a coin. It's a stim.

^- The "Let's go gambling!" audio is also a stim.

- Chance flirts with so many people. Survivors, killers, random people he meets, old coworkers and very rarely, patrons at his casino. He doesn't even realize he's doing it sometimes. He just starts talking, and next thing you know, he's being saying pick-up lines in between stories and lines and jokes. Sometimes it is on purpose. It's a coin flip.

^- When they don't realize they're doing it, they get shocked and confused when people start hitting on them. They take it in stride, most of the time, but are massively confused the whole time.

^^- He also sometimes just shuts down when someone flirts back. They don't know how to interact when someone actually shows interest in him?? They just. kinda go with as best they can, while panicking inside over it. The only time he doesn't struggle with people flirting with him is casino patrons. He often just shuts that down as quickly and easily as he can.

- Chance has a habit of falling for. anyone and everyone they meet. He just gets intrigued and infatuated by people easily. They can't really tell if it's an actual crush though, since romance confuses them, because of his ADHD.

^- This means that he probably has thought, or actually had, a crush on many of the killers and survivors. The main ones are Two Time, Noli, Mafioso and ITrapped.

^^- Two Time, simply because he thinks they're very intriguing and loves the way they speak and act. Yeah, it's a little weird sometimes, but very endearing. And they don't ever question or look at him weird for his ADHD symptoms and lets him infodump.

^^^- Noli? Okay, listen. Peak meme guy that responded to Chance's flirting and nonsense with passion. They kinda just. became dazed and confused by that. Everything about Noli is just eye-catching to him, and he just thinks they're cool, in ways he can't really explain. He just likes the killer. (Purely self indulgent. I just really like the Noli in our partner system.)

^^^^- Mafioso? Knew his group from the casino, and bonded with the group, and never really outgrew his admiration for the boss. Similar situation with ITrapped. Past / old feelings that never really died out.

- Really, really hates cheating of any kind. Which is why he hates anytime c00lkidd says the survivors are cheating. Because they don't want to be a cheater, but they also don't want to die, so he can't "play fair" in c00lkidd's eyes. So anytime he has a round with c00lkidd, Chance will have the habit of. kinda hiding and waiting it out. Try not to interact with c00lkidd as best he can.

^- The others have called him out on this and asked about it, but they don't really have an answer that would make sense to anyone that isn't them. (It feels almost physically painful to be considered a cheater.)

- Being without his meds, has fucked with Chance a bit. They've been on them for most of their life, so he doesn't really know how to act without them. He tries to mask as best he can, but they are failing. Badly /lh.

Uhhh. I think that's all for now!! Got no more in our brain.

THESE ARE ALL SO REAL OH MY GODDDD. FALLING FOR EVERYONE?? INFODUMPING?? ULTRAKILL MENTION?? HELL YEAH

we relate SO so much to the whole "physically painful to be called a _____" part holy shamoly. just?? that feeling that you know damn well you did everything in that Specific Way You Like Doing Things, handing over the results to someone, only for them to frown (even jokingly) and be like "nuh uh you probably did something else." like?? excuse me?? we're the same about that when it comes to being called a liar grgrhjgraksgkld. yoinking these for self-indulgent purposes too hehehehehe

[jtargaryen18]

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 4

Series Masterlist

Words: 8k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, sabotage, gaslighting, head games, x-rated fantasies/thoughts, drugging, voyeurism, panty kink, manipulation.

You deliver the painting to Dr. Crane, hanging it in his office. The simple act sets your fiance off in a way you never could have anticipated. In the span of a day, your life comes apart around you with Ares' very sanity in question. Is Jonathan Crane your savior or the architect of the trap you and Ares fell into?

Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

She knocked on Jonathan's office door the next day. The sound was gentle and polite, neither rushed nor hesitant. He liked that. She'd arrived at her usual time, time she normally spent with Ares. And she chose to spend it here instead. Whether she realized it or not, the shift had already begun.

When Jonathan called for her to enter, she stepped in, carrying the painting, the crows in oil-dark chaos on canvas. She balanced the frame carefully against one hip, as if it were more fragile than it actually was. 

Jonathan rose from behind his desk and crossed the room. "You brought it yourself," he said, a faint curve of a smile at the edges of his mouth.

"Delivery service was overbooked," she joked lightly, shifting the weight of the painting. "And anyway, art installation is one of my many hidden talents." She offered it like a peace offering. Or maybe she didn’t even realize that’s what it was.

Either way, he accepted it.

She was dressed elegantly today. Nothing obvious, but it pleased him because it marked a return to her pattern. The details were there in the smooth line of her blouse, the subtle gloss on her lips, and the faint shimmer along the hem of her sleeves where the fluorescent lights overhead caught it. The sleek heels she wore today made her legs look endless. The shiny nylon covering them made him wonder. Were they stockings? Jonathan loved stockings both for aesthetics and restraints. Or was she wearing full panty hose? A fragile covering with nothing underneath so he could just rip through the crotch and push his face into that sweet, heated cove. 

None of it was necessary for a delivery, nor accidental.

Jonathan logged it with quiet recision. Presentation. Awareness. She thought about coming here, and how she’d look when she did. Still, he was aware of the danger of believing it was for him. Perception creates pattern. Pattern creates meaning. And meaning... is a weakness if it isn't real. He was struggling with letting his growing personal hopes contaminate the data.

She shifted the painting in her arms, lifting it slightly. "Is it okay if I install it now?" she asked in a careful voice. "If not, I can come back another time." She offered the out so casually, like it didn't matter either way. 

Jonathan knew it was benign, an offer of convenience and nothing more. Still, some part of him unraveled at her offer because even in something as simple as this, even here in a sterile office with bad lighting and worse furniture, she was offering herself to him. Did he allow her to stay in his space? Could he pretend, even for a few minutes, that this was normal? That they were normal?

Stay. Choose me.

He hated how much he wanted it, how easily the fantasy bled into reality. Her choosing to stay, even for something as meaningless as hanging a painting in his office, fed the illusion. And illusions are harder to dismantle once you start needing them.

Jonathan smiled. "Now is perfect," he said.

And when she smiled back, bright and easy, turning toward the wall to measure placement, Jonathan allowed himself the smallest indulgence of believing that maybe, just for this moment, it was true. "Where do you want it?" she asked.

The simple question caught in his mind like a snare. Where do you want it? It wasn’t just about placement, but about agency, control. About her standing there, waiting for his instruction.

Where do you want me?

The thought struck fast and sharp. He curled one hand loosely behind his back to still it.

"Above the credenza," Jonathan said smoothly. "Center it between the shelves."

She nodded, already moving, already trusting his decision. Jonathan watched her stretch slightly to measure the space. He noted the careful way she balanced the frame, the ease in her posture. Mostly, he noted the unguarded comfort of her body in his office, on his time. He noticed the graceful lines of her body. The curve of her neck as she tilted her head. The smooth extension of her arms as she reached high, unaware, or unconcerned, that he was watching her so closely. Those long, graceful legs... He wanted to know what it was like to have those on his shoulders or wrapped around his waist, his face...

She moves like she belongs here. And the worst part? He wanted her to. And that was when the internal warning flared, sharp and cold. Crane turned slightly away, adjusting his stance, forcing his breath to steady. 

Observe. Don't attach. Classify. Don’t react.

Jonathan was a doctor. A scientist, a strategist... He didn’t feel. He mapped behavior. He didn't crave it. He forced himself to look at the wall, not her. To think of the composition of the painting instead of the way her fingers brushed the frame. But it was already too late. The system had been altered. 

She doesn't even know she's already staying longer than she meant to. And he wasn’t about to remind her.

That was when Ares appeared in the doorway with no knock or announcement. Just a shadow stretching long across the tile. "Everything alright?" Ares asked, his voice casual. Too casual.

Jonathan turned slightly to address him. "Perfectly." He kept his posture open and relaxed. He had to stay away from anything defensive or possessive. 

Still, he didn’t miss the way Ares's gaze moved from her to the painting and then back to him. Her fiancé didn't say anything else, just stood there, half inside the office, watching. Jonathan could almost see the suspicions floating through the man's mind. 

"Almost done," she said brightly, stretching to reach the top of the frame. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Ares in his doorway. She flashed him an easy smile. "Hey, Ares."

Ares didn't react. Jonathan moved a little closer to her, but not too close. Just enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo, something clean and unassuming.

Ares tensed. Good. Jonathan smiled faintly. Let him wonder.

"Thanks for your help," Jonathan said, his voice warmer than it usually was around staff. "It’ll look better with a professional touch."

She smiled back, easy and natural, focused on adjusting the level. 

Ares was still staring when Jonathan finally turned back to him. "Was there anything else, Ares?"

Ares blinked, caught. His mouth opened, then closed again. "No," he muttered. "Just checking in." He stepped back into the hallway, throwing one last glance over his shoulder before he disappeared around the corner.

Jonathan watched him go, then turned his gaze slowly back to her. "You really do have a talent for this," he said quietly.

She grinned. "Told you."

He watched as she carefully adjusted the final nail, completely unaware of the new fracture she’d just helped him inflict on Ares.

When she stepped back from the painting, she brushed her hands lightly against her skirt. "There," she said. "Perfect."

Jonathan smiled. "Thank you," he said warmly.

She glanced briefly between him and the now-vacant doorway, then adjusted the strap of her bag. "I should take Ares his lunch," she said, the words casual but just a little rushed.

"Of course," Jonathan said, waving her off like it was nothing. Watching her leave, he noted the small hesitation just before she turned the corner toward Ares’s office.

Jonathan closed his door and moved calmly to his desk, drawing open the second drawer. Pulling out his phone, he pulled up the camera feed. He'd hidden the camera in Ares's office over the weekend and hadn't needed to use it until now. The video feed flared to life, and he had a perfect view of the conversation about to unfold in Ares's office. 

She entered his office, the usual brown paper bag in her hand. Jonathan almost felt pity for her as she went in, smiling and soft. It had been his suggestion that she return, to reestablish the routine, and offer Ares comfort. And she’d listened. Of course she had. He'd learned that she would always listen when she felt she had the opportunity to help someone else. She had no idea what she was likely walking into. And it wasn't his intention to put her in that position, but as his plan evolved, it was necessary at this point on the timeline. Now, as the timeline accelerated, as Ares forced his hand, her presence had become necessary.

She was the last pressure point. The final variable in the sequence. Ares wouldn't break completely until she was there to witness it. Nor would she walk away unless she sees what Ares has become. So Jonathan let her go, let the moment unfold. 

You wanted to save him. I needed you to try.  Now you’ll understand why you can’t.

Jonathan observed from a quiet corner of his office, phone in hand. The camera angle was just right, wide enough to capture both of them. He hoped the audio would be sufficient too.

Ares stood stiffly behind his desk, arms crossed, his posture coiled tight. There was nothing welcoming or relaxed about his stance. He waited, watching her. 

That's when Jonathan saw the real change in him. He remembered the first time he met Dr. Ares Katsaros, his first day at Arkham. Ares had been poised and well-liked, a man who operated with ease and charm, within the illusion of control. And now? The man's shoulders were stiff, nearing his ears in his agitated state. His jaw was set tightly, his gaze frantic and sharp. Ares no longer trusted his surroundings, even worrying about speaking too loudly. What if his voice gave away the cracks in his composure?

Fascinating.

Even though the ending had been moved up, Jonathan hadn’t rushed the process. Hadn’t even had to push very hard. He'd just made a few adjustments to the system as they'd progressed. The result was a few perfectly placed fractures that were fully on display here. Isolation. Paranoia. Doubt.

And fear. Always fear.

She set the bag down gently on the desk between them. "I thought you could use something special today," she said, smiling. "It's your favorite. Monte Cristo."

Ares didn’t move to open it. His gaze was cold on her. "What was that?" he asked, pointing in the direction of Jonathan's office. 

She blinked, surprised. "What?"

"Hanging a painting in Crane’s office?" Ares scoffed. "Where did that come from?"

Her laugh was as easy and genuine as it always had been. She had no walls up. "He bought it at the gallery," she said. "I offered to deliver it. I figured, since I’m already here most days anyway."

Ares's shoulders twitched.

Jonathan leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth tugging into something too slight to be called a smile. He’s slipping.

Ares’s voice cut again, harder. "What was Crane doing at the gallery?"

She frowned, confused but still calm."He visited. People buy art, Ares. It's not a conspiracy." She hesitated, just a breath. "And honestly? He mostly came to talk to me about coming back here. For you."

Ares stiffened, the tension in his frame suddenly palpable.

She didn’t seem to notice. "I guess he thought... I was helping you," she said, shrugging, still trying to explain it away. "He said my absence might have been making things harder for you."

And there it is, Crane thought, watching the feed with cold satisfaction.

She had no idea how that sounded to someone already cracking. No idea how much damage those simple, honest words would do.

Ares didn’t answer immediately. He just stood there, tight and silent. Torn between trust and suspicion, he was losing. He took a step closer to his desk. It wasn't aggressive, but sharp. "You think he came all the way to the gallery just to talk to you about me?" he asked, voice low.

There was an edge beneath the words now. A pressure she hadn’t heard from him before. She blinked, thrown off by the sudden coldness.

"Yes?" she said cautiously. "He said he was concerned about you."

Ares let out a sharp, humorless breath. "Concerned," he repeated flatly. He ran a hand over his face, then dragged it down his jaw, slow and tense. "Jonathan Crane doesn’t get concerned. He takes what he wants."

Let him say it. Let him tear the ground out from under himself.

She shifted her weight, folding her arms, defensive without meaning to be. "You’re overreacting, Ares," she said carefully. "It was just a painting. Just a conversation." 

"You don’t see it," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"See what?"

Ares shook his head like he was trying to clear it. He was trying to find the right words, and failing. "Don't spend time around him," he said in a rougher voice.

She blinked at him, genuinely surprised. "I really haven’t. I've barely talked to him outside of--" She stopped herself, realizing too late what that sounded like.

Ares latched onto it immediately. "Outside of what?" 

She exhaled sharply. "Outside of trying to help you. That’s all."

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” Ares' voice took on an angry tone. 

There it was. The edge of truth inside the spiral. Even half-shattered and coming apart at the seams, Ares had noticed.

You weren’t as invisible as you thought. Not to him. Jontathan wasn't panicking. It was calculation. Because if Ares had noticed… others might too. And she might start to question. The game board shifted. Ares wasn’t just in the way anymore. He was interfering, and that Jonathan wouldn't tolerate. 

She looked away, lips parting like she wanted to speak but was struggling for an answer. Discomfort. Doubt. A crack in the foundation he built with her.

She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said to Ares, voice small. “I don’t… I don’t think that’s fair. He’s trying to help.”

She was already doing the work for him, trying to rationalize his presence and explain away the pull between them like it was context instead of something deeper.

You’re not ready to look at it yet. That's fine. I can wait.

But he knew it was coming. She would bring it up soon, and when she did, he'd have the perfect words ready. He'd reframe it instead of denying it. It wasn't dangerous or obsessive. It was a genuine connection.

“You felt it too. You just didn’t know what to call it.”

The tension between her and Ares right now thickened. He took a step closer to the desk, gripping the edge like he needed something to anchor himself. "You don't understand what he is," Ares said tightly. "You think he’s cold, clinical. He’s not. He’s worse."

Jonathan leaned back slightly in his chair. Careful, Ares. You're almost making my case for me.

"Why would you say that?" she asked. Her voice was low with hurt creeping in. "Why would you even think that?"

Ares hesitated, and just that one second was everything. It wasn’t reason Ares was speaking from now. It was fear. Not fear for her, but of losing her. A brand new fracture that he hadn't been aware of before today had appeared.

She stood there for a second longer, searching Ares’s face, looking for something to hold onto. Anything. But all she saw were his suspicion and anger. 

Dropping her arms to her sides, she said, "Maybe..." She forced herself to meet his gaze. "Maybe I just shouldn’t come to Arkham anymore."

On the other side of the phone screen, Jonathan went still. The pleasant buzz of control, of watching the fracture widen, tightened into something sharper.

No. Jonathan wasn’t ready to lose her. Not from proximity nor from habit. And certainly not from some misguided attempt to keep the peace.

You’re part of the system now. You don't get to walk away.

The words seemed to knock the air out of Ares too. "No," Ares said immediately, too fast.

She took a half step back, small, but visible. 

Jonathan leaned in slightly, his eyes fixed on the moment unfolding. 

“But then… if I don’t come to Arkham, I’m never going to see you, am I?” she asked in a voice tinged with something he recognized instantly. Loss.

Ares said nothing, and the pause hung in the air like a final verdict.

Jonathan saw the way her shoulders dropped, the way her gaze dropped and didn’t return to Ares’s. That wasn’t the moment she gave up on him, but it was the moment she realized he already had given up. Jonathan blew out an exhale. Control. The fracture widened and it wasn’t about proving Ares was dangerous anymore.

Now she was feeling the distance herself. And soon, when fear came for her... She’ll have nowhere else to turn.

Ares ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I just..." he started, then faltered. "I just don’t want you caught in the middle of something you don’t see coming," he finished weakly.

Jonathan listened to the words collapse in real time, smiled faintly. You already lost the ground you’re trying to protect. Now all I have to do is offer her another one. He saw the way she took them in. The disappointment in her eyes and the soft retreat of someone who’d just gotten their answer.

She stood there another long moment, torn and hurting. "I’ll think about it."

And then she left, like she couldn’t get out of the office fast enough.

Jonathan watched her go, the careful way she held herself together. He didn’t stop watching until the door swung closed and Ares slumped back behind his desk, looking hollow.

Jonathan slowly lowered his phone onto his desk. 

You almost lost her. Not Ares. Him.

Her quiet offer, Maybe I just shouldn’t come to Arkham anymore, had struck deeper than he expected. She would have left trying to spare Ares and do the right thing. Jonathan couldn't have that.

He stood, began pacing in his own office, one hand clasped loosely behind his back. 

You’re part of me. I'm not letting you go.

That was the problem with emotional ties. They could be cut and softened, wrapped in guilt and worn down. But dependence? Dependence binds. There would be no need to lure her back to Arkham anymore. Not if he removed the obstacle entirely.

Let Ares fall. Let him become what Jonathan had always seen beneath the surface. Unstable, weak, and cracked down the middle by fear. He'd no longer be the protector. He'd become the one who needed protecting. Once Ares was a patient in Arkham, everything would shift.

She’d stay at Arkham in the hopes that Ares could be saved. She’d come to Jonathan with her questions and concerns. With her pain. And he’d have the answers, shape the narrative. Jonathan would manage Ares’s care himself with precision, control, and compassion, if that’s what she needed to believe.

When she reaches for someone...It will be me.

The timeline could no longer stretch. Ares was watching, and Jonathan now knew he was. The window was closing.

Good. That meant it was time to act. 

You left Ares’s office with your heart racing in your chest, your mind spinning. The lunch bag still sat unopened on his desk. You doubted he even noticed.

Crossing the hallway slowly, the familiar halls of Arkham suddenly felt heavier, smaller. Had the walls shifted while you weren’t looking? 

You’d honestly thought hanging the painting would be harmless. A small kindness for a man who, strange or not, had seemed to genuinely appreciate it. Ares's reaction took you completely off guard. You hadn’t expected the accusation in his voice. The warning.

Don't spend time around him.

The words still ran through your mind. You hadn’t been, not really. You barely spoke to Dr. Crane outside of a few polite exchanges. Talking, hanging out would be something of a miracle, because the man was just what Ares described, clinical and distant. 

And yet, something about today had been different. There'd been warmth in Crane’s voice. The faint smile he gave you. He didn't just accept your help, but he genuinely seemed to want it. You'd been taken by surprise, but not in the way Ares seemed to fear.

It wasn't because you distrusted Crane. It was more that you didn't. Was that worse?

You thought, for a second, about stopping by Crane’s office again. Would he be sympathetic now? Ares wouldn't talk to you about what was happening. It would have been nice to get someone else's take on it. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not after the way Ares had looked at you and the things he said about Crane. 

You weren't afraid of Jonathan Crane. It was fear of what it would mean if you stopped and talked to him now. Of how easy it would be, or how much you wanted to. 

No. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself and kept walking. Out the doors and back into the cold. Back into the illusion that everything could still be fixed.

Across the upper windows of Arkham, behind the tinted glass of his office, Jonathan Crane watched her leave.

She didn’t look back or stop. But she had hesitated. A brief, almost imperceptible falter in her steps as she passed his office in the hallway. And for him, that was enough. 

She’s pulling away from him.  Not from me.

He leaned back slightly from the window, hands folding behind his back.

Jonathan stood in the observation room, his arms crossed, his coat crisp, his face unreadable. The two-way glass between him and the consultation room was polarized. They couldn't see him and his four top students. But he could see everything. 

Inside the room, a man sat hunched on the couch. Restless and sweating. He was remarkably ordinary and forgettable. Except for what he took.

Jonathan’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. The man had a name and a career. He had a wife and daughter. He also had real trauma now. Witness to a brutal crime orchestrated by Falcone’s network though he himself wasn't a criminal nor the enemy. 

But he's not innocent either. Because he had her. And that, for Jonathan, made all the difference.

The session continued. The attending psychiatrist offered reassurance, soft language, and all the standard interventions. A diagnosis of PTSD, mild-to-moderate. Recommended a low-dose prescription. It was standard protocol.

His students, clustered around the notetaking table, scribbled in their binders. It was a textbook case. A form was printed, signed. A nurse entered with a plastic cup of water and a small pill. A dose to ease the symptoms. The man accepted it without hesitation, swallowing it down. He thanked them. 

Jonathan’s hand remained loose at his side, his fingertips brushing the pocket where a second vial had rested earlier that morning. Not a standard beta-blocker or an antidepressant. It was a new compound. His compound. The first generation of the fear toxin he'd been developing, in slow-release form. He had engineered it specifically to trigger panic, hallucinations, and violent survival responses within a delayed window. 

Clinical trial zero.

And the man, the one who had taken what was supposed to be his, was the perfect candidate. He almost wanted her to know that he was the one who had taken her husband.

Jonathan told himself it was scientific curiosity. An opportunity, nothing more. 

Liar.

Hours later, back in his apartment, Jonathan heard the news. A man had suffered a psychotic break in downtown Gotham. Driven his truck straight through the front windows of a busy coffee shop, killing three and injuring eleven. Witnesses said he screamed about shadows, about blood on his hands. That he grabbed a shard of glass from the wreckage and, before anyone could stop him, cut his own throat. He'd bled out in front of survivors right there on the sidewalk.

Jonathan stood in the dark of his living room, watching the breaking news report, video footage of the scene. He didn’t move nor speak. He just listened carefully. The man’s name was never mentioned. Just another tragedy in Gotham’s endless cycle, another casualty. Nothing that could ever be traced back.

Jonathan closed his eyes for a moment. And when he opened them again, he was smiling. 

Not for the data. Not for the science. But because that man never deserved her in the first place.

The success was undeniable. Fear isn’t a symptom. It’s a tool.

And now, it was his. His to direct, to shape... His to unleash on anyone he chose.

In that moment, Jonathan Crane stopped believing in treatment and rehabilitation. In hope and mercy.

There was only cause and effect. Stimulus and response. Fear and obedience.

And soon, they would all learn what it meant to fear properly.

Hours had passed, and it was nearly ten at night. Jonathan received the summons he had been anticipating. The message came through a staff intermediary, a woman who was tight-lipped and tense. “Dr. Crane, Dr. Katsaros has asked to see you in his office. Immediately.”

The phrasing was careful. It wasn't a request. To her credit, the woman's gaze was sympathetic on him. Jonathan nodded. The fact that the staff were so concerned about Ares' rapid deterioration would only make the man's downfall easier. 

Jonathan closed the notebook in front of him gently and locked it in his drawer. Retrieving his briefcase from the shelf, he opened it again to make sure everything was in place. The concealed dispersal unit was ready, along with a fresh vial of the perfected toxin. He'd been planning to use it for an experiment on subject 034 this weekend, but he had a better use for it now. 

And last, but not least, the mask he'd just completed. It offered him protection to observe the results of the toxin in person, not behind protective glass. But protection wasn't its only purpose. 

The mask was crude by design. He'd fashioned it using leather and burlap with jagged stitching and two hollow eyes that saw nothing but forced his victims to see far too much. There was no symmetry in the design because it wasn't meant to offer comfort or to express humanity. 

Jonathan could have chosen anything for the symbolism of it. But the scarecrow? It was inspired by the painting he bought from her gallery. A perfect symbol, one that lingers. Scarecrows by nature didn't hunt or kill, nor did they speak. They just stood there, waiting and watching. Truly a symbol of fear where they should be nothing.

Like the birds in that church...

That’s what made the mask work. The understanding that the human brain doesn’t fear violence first. It fears implication. Specifically, it fears what might happen. The scarecrow wasn’t a monster at all but a mirror. And fear, true fear, started when the mind began to fill in the blanks.

Let them project their worst onto me. Let their imaginations do the damage. I don’t need to be a god. I just need to be the thing they can’t explain away.

When he arrived at Ares’s office, the door was already slightly open. Ares waited for him, standing behind his desk with his hands braced wide, his knuckles white. His gaze went immediately to the briefcase in Jonathan's hand, and his face twisted. 

“You bring notes to a fight, Jonathan?” Ares asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Jonathan didn’t respond, just stepped in and set the briefcase down in front of the desk before calmly shutting the door behind him, flipping the lock.

“You’ve always been a smug bastard,” Ares said, glaring at him.“I should’ve seen this coming the moment they hired you.”

Jonathan folded his hands behind his back. "Then why didn’t you?"

Ares stepped around the desk, slower this time. “Because you’re good at hiding it. I’ll give you that.” He stopped just short of Jonathan’s space, his gaze stone cold. “But I dug a little deeper. Took a look at your old university files. Or what’s left of them.”

Jonathan’s expression didn’t change. Of course he did. 

“You weren’t fired for policy disagreements,” Ares said. “You were fired for experimenting on your own students. On patients you were supposed to be observing. You violated every code in the book, and they covered it up to protect the institution.” A pause. “You think I’m scared of you? I know what you are.”

Jonathan blinked slowly. "No,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

Ares' laugh was a sharp, bitter sound. “You drugged kids. Gaslit psych patients. You used fear like a plaything.”

Jonathan dropped his voice. “Not a plaything. A lens. Then fear shows the truth.” His hands dropped to his sides, calm but coiled. “And they were subjects, not victims.”

Ares was furious. “And that drama you staged with my fiancée today? Yeah, stay the fuck away from her. Whatever it is you think you're doing, whatever game this is, you don’t get to use her.”

Jonathan just observed him, no emotion. Just scalpel-sharp calculation. "What makes you think it’s a game?"

Ares stepped closer, his voice rising. “She’s not like you.” He gestured to Jonathan with his hands, wide and mocking. “A woman like her, warm and kind -- and you? What exactly do you think you have to offer someone like that?”

Jonathan’s jaw twitched before he could avoid the response and Ares saw it.

“You think a few quiet conversations, a shared lunch, a fucking painting changes anything? You think she sees you?” He spat the word. “She’d never want someone like you.”

Jonathan's silence deepened. It wasn't avoidance, but focus. 

The insults themselves didn’t sting. He’d heard it all before. Variations of it from so-called colleagues, mentors, the first her. Jonathan used to question that. Now he saw it for what it was: a limitation.

Ares's voice cracked with certainty, but Jonathan heard the undertow -- his insecurity. He saw it in the way Ares’s hands moved, in the way his body leaned in like force could fill the gap fear had cracked open inside him.

He wouldn’t be trying to convince me if he wasn’t trying to convince himself.

And that question. "What do you have to offer someone like her?" That was projection. Ares was asking it about himself. For all his warmth and charm, Ares realized she was pulling away from him.

And she wasn’t running to Ares anymore. No, she was circling Jonathan.

I don’t need her to see me as kind. I need her to see me as inevitable.

And Ares? He’d just given him the perfect justification to act.

“You’re not capable of love, Crane. Or affection. I know your type. You’re a hollow man in a suit playing scientist.” Ares jabbed a finger forward at him.“And she is not yours to play with.”

Jonathan's voice, when it came, was quiet. “And yet… She keeps coming back.”

Ares snapped. That was the final straw. He moved fast, like Jonathan knew he would. Two strides forward, fury overtaking reason. One hand curled into Jonathan’s collar, shoving him hard against the office wall, the other still clenched in a fist.

Jonathan didn't resist. He’d been waiting. The dispersal unit was already primed, tucked into the sleeve of his coat. At that range, it was effortless. With a flick of his wrist, he released the trigger. A faint hiss. Barely audible.

Ares froze mid-threat, blinking. The first inhalation always did that. Then he coughed, staggering away from Jonathan before going completely still. 

Jonathan adjusted his collar like brushing off dust. Moving fast to the desk, he hauled the briefcase on it and popped it open, quickly grabbing his mask. 

Let the fear find shape.

He slipped it on with intention. And when he turned back, Ares began to scream.

Staggering backward, both Ares' hands lifted to his face like he could somehow wipe the hallucination away. He gasped, short, ragged breaths, eyes wild and unfocused.

Jonathan stepped closer, slowly, the mask casting jagged shadows across the floor. 

Ares screamed again. Louder this time. Only he wasn’t looking at Jonathan anymore. He was looking at everything else. The toxin was working beautifully. There was no visible resistance or delay in onset. Just fear, pure and undiluted, pulling the strings now. Ares was reaching for something that wasn’t actually there. Slapping the air, turning in place as if he could find a corner to hide in.

Jonathan just watched, becoming the shape behind the scream.

You tried to define me as a hollow man. A suit. A ghost in a lab coat.��Now you see what I really am.

And still, Ares writhed, dropping to the floor in his terror. 

His words came out broken, desperate. “No... no, they’re watching...make them stop...”

But behind the mask, Jonathan's exhale was pure satisfaction. This is what truth looks like when you take off the blindfold.

A soft knock, three taps, pulled him out of his observation. It was her. What was she doing here this time of night?

Then her voice, muffled but unmistakably hers. "Ares?"

Jonathan froze. For the first time in hours, true stillness. His heart sped up, a response he could control most of the time. 

Ares, writhing on the floor, had descended into full hallucination. Crawling toward shadows only he could see, at invisible threads.

Jonathan turned sharply, arms crossed loosely, watching the chaos unfold.

When it went quiet on the other side of the door, Jonathan had his answer. She's going to find security, someone with a key to let her in. 

Collecting the briefcase and returning his mask to it, he closed the door quietly behind himself, making sure it locked. Ares was just conscious enough to scream himself empty. 

By the time she made it to the main desk, Jonathan was back in his office. Why was his office dark when she came up the first time? Jonathan had been busy making the evening rounds. He just returned to his office. A perfect alibi.

You ran, your shoes thudding against the tile. You didn’t even process the confused look from the nurse on call, you just demanded her help. "Ares is screaming! His door’s locked. Please, something's wrong!"

The nurse didn’t argue. She grabbed her keys and waved down a security guard. You heard them running behind you because you were immediately heading back to Ares' office. You didn't stop until you reached the administrative wing. 

Dr. Crane’s office was dark when you ran for help. But now, the light was on and he was inside.

Your hand hit the doorframe first, then your words came out in a panic. “Jonathan, something’s wrong with Ares!”

He looked up immediately, stood. No questions. No hesitation. Just your name on his lips for the first time, low and urgent. “What happened?”

You didn’t wait. You barely registered the nurse and security guard catching up behind you, your eyes were fixed on him. 

Crane moved quickly, already stepping into the hallway before you could say more. “Where?” he asked, voice calm but sharp.

“Ares -- he was screaming. His door was locked... I didn’t know what to do...” You couldn’t finish, as fear welled up in you. Was Ares okay?

Crane turned to the nurse with quiet urgency. “He’s been exhibiting signs of increased agitation for days. I asked him to take medical leave.” He looked at you then, earnest and regretful. “He didn’t want you to worry.”

The nurse nodded. The security guard stepped forward with keys already in hand. Crane walked beside you now, fully present and engaged.

The door opened, and everything exploded at once. “Ares --” you muttered.

Your fiance's gaze locked on you, before going wide with terror. He screamed your name like it burned, coming at you with no recognition in his face. Just madness and fear. His hands grabbed for you, rough and too fast. 

“MAKE THEM STOP!” Ares howled. “GET THEM OUT OF MY HEAD!”

Ares grabbed your arms hard, and started shaking you, his terror-filled eyes full of things you couldn’t see.

You screamed his name again, trying to break through to him. His grip on you was punishing and painful. 

Someone pulled you out of his clutches. Crane moved you swiftly, pulling your body behind his with surprising speed. 

“Hold her,” he told the nurse in a low voice.

Jonathan moved himself into Ares' line of sight, pulling a syringe from his coat and popping off the safety cap. Then he pressed the needle into Ares's neck. It took effect immediately and Ares went silent, collapsing in mid-lunge. His body folded in on itself like a light switched off. 

Jonathan crouched next to him a moment longer, just long enough to check his pulse. When he rose, he turned to you. 

Every inch of you shook but the nurse kept a grip on you, keeping you away for your safety. 

“It’s over,” Jonathan said softly. “You’re safe now.”

You stared down at Ares, collapsed but still breathing. What happened to him? Everything was wrong.

Your arms ached where he’d grabbed you, and your pulse thundered in your throat.

He just looked through me. Like I wasn’t even real.

Jonathan stood between you and what was left of him, moving with confidence. Turning to the nurse, his voice was low but firm. “Page Dr. Hilu. Full evaluation. I want Ares moved to observation and monitored continuously until I review his condition personally.”

The nurse nodded, rattled but obeying. What caught your attention was that she didn't seem surprised or unnerved. 

Jonathan continued, already shifting into a role no one questioned. “I’ll notify the board myself. If this episode is tied to his previous concerns, his ability to function as an administrator is compromised. He'll need to be relieved pending assessment.”

The security guard didn’t even blink. The nurse was already calling it in, cell phone at the ready. You… couldn’t speak. Your knees were about to give out.

Jonathan turned toward you now. And for the first time, you saw him soften. "I need you to sit,” he said gently, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and steering you in the direction of his office, helping you sit in the chair in front of his desk. Shrugging off his coat, he wrapped it around your shoulders. “You’re in shock.”

You didn’t argue, just shrinking into his coat. Now you couldn't tell if you were shaking from what you just saw or because you were so cold.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered. “He… he looked right at me, and…” Your voice cracked. “He didn’t know me.”

Crane crouched beside you, his gaze meeting yours. “That wasn’t Ares,” he said gently. “Not the man you know. That was fear, unchecked and weaponized by what I suspect may be an undiagnosed chemical imbalance.”

It all crashed in on you then, how Ares' behavior had been changing over the last several weeks. Had you been so worried about yourself that you didn't see the warning signs? Had you let him down?

Like he could read your thoughts, Crane sighed, pulled off his glasses. “You were right to be worried," Jonathan continued. “Now he'll get the help he needs.”

You blinked hard, your vision blurred with tears you couldn’t let fall. And Crane didn’t push or try to crowd you. But he stayed close. It made you feel safe.

You stared at the floor, your breath shaky, your thoughts worse. You wanted to get up and go to Ares, to sit beside him. Say his name again and hope something came back. But you couldn’t move, and fear ran through you like electrical current. You were afraid he’d scream again, or he wouldn’t recognize you. Considering how he acted when he saw you, maybe you should be afraid that he would recognize you.

“Can I see him?” you asked quietly, not looking up.“When they move him, I mean. I just… I need to talk to him. When he’s himself again.”

“You can,” he said, gently. “But not yet.” His hands clasped lightly in front of him, his voice soft and even. “The sedative needs to take hold. He needs time for the hallucinations to fade. If you see him too soon, it may only compound the trauma -- for both of you.”

Crane looked like he actually cared. “I promise you’ll be updated. And I’ll speak with him myself first. I’ll make sure he’s lucid… safe… himself again before we let anyone in.”

You nodded, slowly. It made sense and it was... kind.

Blowing out an exhale, you didn't know what else to do. But Dr. Crane did.

“Come to my office in the morning,” he added, his voice still low. “We’ll talk through everything then. I want you to understand exactly what happened today.”

Your gaze met his. Something about his steadiness and patience... It made the room stop spinning.

He rose when the nurse walked into his office, but you were having a hard time focusing on their words. Both him and the nurse helped you to your feet. Everything around you moved in soft voices and medical terms.

“You’re not driving home,” Crane said, back in your field of vision. There was no judgment in his voice, just certainty. “You’re in no condition.”

You opened your mouth to argue, because independence was easier than panic. But he was right. So you just nodded. He spoke with the nurse for another moment, his arm around your shoulders to steady you.

“I’ll take her,” he said. 

The passenger seat of his car was clean. Predictably so. Not a speck of dust nor a thing out of place. You buckled in without thinking after he helped you into the car. He didn’t turn on the radio to fill the silence.  Dr. Crane just drove, his steady hands on the wheel, his eyes forward, his posture composed. Outside, the city blurred by. Inside, your heart still raced. You were too tired to cry. Too confused to speak.

And somehow, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. There was just stillness in the cabin of his car. Like a waiting room for thoughts you weren’t ready to have.

“It’s not uncommon for stress reactions to feel delayed.” His voice was soft beside you. Not clinical. “You may feel disconnected and exhausted. You might even convince yourself that today wasn’t as severe as it was.”

You didn’t respond. It already felt like a dream you couldn’t interpret.

He glanced at you once, briefly. “That’s not weakness,” he said. “It’s human.”

The rest of the drive passed in soft turns and low streetlights. When he pulled up outside your apartment building, he killed the engine, exiting the car to walk around to you. It never occurred to you how he knew where you lived that night.

You didn’t argue when he opened the door for you. The night air was cold against your skin, but his jacket was warm. His hand was steady, settling gently at your back, then your shoulder.

Because this was Jonathan, and he'd saved you. Wait--Jonathan? You blinked, realizing you’d just called him that back in the hospital. You blew out a shaky breath, tried to collect yourself. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to… I should’ve said Dr. Crane... earlier.”

He didn’t correct you. Just walked beside you in silence, his arm staying around you for support. You walked in silence to the elevator in your building, your feet heavy, your thoughts heavier. You reached your door. Fumbled with the keys, relieved when he took them from your hands.

His voice was soft beside you. “Just one more moment.”

You turned toward him, your brows drawn, barely processing the words... And then you felt it. A pinch at your neck, sharp and quick. And then there was nothing.

She collapsed softly into him, just as he had expected. Jonathan caught her easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back. Her head dropped against his chest, the way a tired child might fold into sleep, peaceful and vulnerable. 

Mine.

Unlocking the door without a sound, he carried her into her apartment, gently laying her on the couch, arranging her carefully. He left his coat wrapped around her, pressing it around her like a second skin. Let her wake up with my scent on her. Let her wonder why it feels like safety.

He thought back to what she said to him on the way up to her apartment. “I didn’t mean to… I should’ve said Dr. Crane... earlier.” Jonathan hadn't corrected her or told her it was fine. Because it wasn’t. Not to him. 

Dr. Crane was what everyone else called him. Jonathan was different, it was personal and familiar. Soft at the edges.

You gave me your fear weeks ago. Now you’ve given me your intimacy. Even if you didn’t mean to.

And she’d apologized for it because she still didn’t understand what she’d done. That was fine.

You’ll say it again. But next time… you won’t flinch. You’ll say it because you mean it. Because I’ve become the only constant you have left.

Her apartment was warm and modest, a collection of paintings on the walls. Photographs in soft frames. Colors that didn’t belong to him.

Yet.

Then he moved through her home. The sedative wouldn't wear off for hours, so he could take his time. He walked through the space like a man reading a new text, studying. Books on the table. Spices in the cupboard. A spare key in the dish near the window.

He took that, sliding it into his pocket. 

Jonathan stepped quietly into her bedroom. No hesitation. The room was small, but layered in details. A bedside table cluttered with books, the spines cracked and pages dog-eared. There was a journal, closed with a worn elastic band around it. He looked forward to reading it at some point, but not yet.

One pillow was indented, but the others were barely touched. She slept curled up, always on the left side of the bed. There was a throw blanket at the foot, pulled halfway up like she reached for it unconsciously. A restless sleeper who likely had vivid dreams.Emotional fatigue compounded by inconsistency in routine.

The lamp by her bed had a low-watt bulb, casting amber light across the sheets. A comfort light, not for reading. 

His gaze moved to the dresser, its top drawer left slightly ajar. Inside, a shining wave of color-coordinated lingerie folded with care. With his index finger, he fished out one silky, cream-colored item. Delicate panties, trimmed in lace. Bringing them up his face, taking a deep breath. What did they smell like after she'd worn them? Were they diaphanous when her excitement soaked them through? He couldn't wait to find out.

Jonathan slid them into his slacks pocket with her spare key. 

There was a framed photo on the vanity, her and Ares dressed up, no doubt at some function to celebrate his achievements. Jonathan stared at it for a long time. You don’t smile like that for Ares anymore. He set it gently face-down.

By the door, he found something he hadn’t expected. A canvas, tucked behind a chair, a painting half-finished. Paints beside it. It wasn't from her gallery, it was personal.

You paint. You never said.

A woman, hunched slightly forward on the canvas, surrounded by long strokes of charcoal and dusk-blue. No face, just emotion. Grief and loneliness. Is this how you see yourself?

He committed it to memory, all of it.

When he returned to the living room, on the side table next to the couch was a photograph with her smiling, her arm around Ares. Again. Tilting his head slightly, he turned the frame facedown as he did the others.

Finally, he returned to the couch, standing over her with his eyes tracing every detail of her. She’d never know how long he stood there, thinking about the future ahead of them. The first her never let me get this far. This time… This one is going to stay.

Jonathan walked out and locked the door behind him.

[thesorrowoflizards]

one thing i love about harry and sophie's whole thing is that they are both wholeheartedly theater kids. like it's more obvious with sophie given it's explicitly explored in canon but with harry i mean. CMOOON. have you seen how much he SAVORS his roles?? he throws his whole pussy into every con ESPECIALLY when he gets to play a weird little freak (actually very funny that harry's two roles are almost always 1. himself, sometimes literally 2. insane campy little freak. says a lot about 1 doesn't it.) and he's so overjoyed and so dramatic about it he loves it. it's great. anyway honestly this could be a post good enough on its own but i was thinking about sophie being a director and the idea of a like generally-non-criminals au wherein sophie's the director at a local theater and harry is either a) an unhappy corporate lawyer who takes improv on a whim and ends up getting WAY too into it to a frankly embarrassing degree and it literally changes his life b) already quit his job and is looking for purpose and somehow ends up cast as a major lead in one of sophie's plays. there are different ways to take that too like. is this played seriously? is he in a comedy and getting a LOT of laughs and loving it? or are they playing leads opposite of each other and both of them are having the time of their lives hamming it up (harry keeps reminding her of her lines very unsubtly when she needs it which she appreciates) and playing off each other and occasionally veering wildly off the rails into improv and it's horrendous and a trainwreck and critically hated but they have SO much fun and also they may or may not gain a local cult following bc yes, that godawful, but holy shit was it funny. anyway im just saying. harry and sophie theater kids. harry the sad corporate lawyer getting some new life and energy from local theater, improv comedy, and charity work instead of crime. alternatively, all this happens bc sophie retired to do actual theater stuff while grieving and then fell into this whole thing with this weird new guy in her theater group and that could get so complicated so fast. her being aware of his background, him being very unaware of hers, eventually her life crashing into all that (first via her weird family whom he takes in stride bc honestly a central part of harry's character is just Rolling With It. they're so weird and he loves it and he will commit to the bit without fully understanding the bit. and then via some kind of disaster where he is rapidly realizing she is not a random theater director but also the team is reluctantly impressed with sophie's weird boytoy's ability to fast talk his way to helping with almost none of the information) and this really messes up all the themes of redemption and progression of arcs in canon but we're just having fun here so that's fine. i feel like there's more but my brain is messy rn so this is what i got at the moment

[ashortdropandasuddenstop]

Jamie glanced over as Eddie flopped onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight. He let himself laugh—quiet, but real—as Eddie cracked his usual jokes and that maddeningly smug smirk tugged at his lips. James could already feel the warmth of him nearby, not just in body heat but in presence. Eddie had always been larger than life to him, somehow—messy, loud, frustrating, but steady. Steady in a way James hadn’t realized he’d needed until now.

He shifted slightly, tugging the blanket higher around his waist. The clothes Eddie mentioned—oversized, soft, definitely not tailored—sounded… honestly, a bit nice. Comfortable. Safe. Like something he could finally breathe in.

“Well,” he murmured, looking at the drawer Eddie had rummaged through. “I suppose I’ll survive a few days without the suits. Might even enjoy it. Just don’t expect me to look good at any point this week. They’ll hang off me like bloody sails.”

Still, there was no bite to his words—just a touch of amusement, of warmth. The thought of curling up in something that smelled like Eddie, that reminded him he wasn’t alone, wasn’t bad at all. Actually… it made his stomach flip a little. Or maybe that was just hunger.

He blinked slowly and turned his head to look at Eddie again. His eyes lingered this time, softer than before, more open. That kiss still echoed between them—wordless, suspended, never fully addressed—but heavy with meaning. Jamie didn’t understand it yet, not fully, but he knew it hadn’t been nothing. He felt it still, like it had settled somewhere behind his ribs. He flushes. He still recalls the tingle of those warm lips on his own.

“You... really meant it, didn't you?” he said after a moment, voice low, almost ...shy. “All of it. The whole sticking together part?”

His eyes held nothing but gratitude, fondness, dare he say a —and something else, too. Something slow-burning and unspoken. He let himself look, just for a moment, at the lines of Eddie’s face, the curve of his smirk.

His stomach gave a low, audible growl then. He clears his throat.

“…Right. Before I start writing sonnets about your jawline, what was that about food?”

The more they spoke, the more Eddie noticed the usual Jamie return. The one he’d always known, the true Jamie. He was glad Jamie felt he could be himself around him. he wanted that. Just like he was himself too. No armour, no facade. Just him. Eddie wanted it to be known he could be trusted, and that despite all Jamie had been through, it didn’t change a damn thing. Of course it was a shock to hear and Eddie was still processing it all, but it didn’t change his opinion of Jamie. It didn’t change how he felt about him either.

Eddie gave a small nod of approval seeing Jamie take the pills and water, hoping it helped. He wanted Jamie to be able to relax and rest, to destress. He wanted this to be fun, to be the break they both so desperately needed. The break that was long overdue. Eddie laughed at Jamie’s comments, happy that his friend was back to his snap wit. “Now where’s the fun in that, eh? Besides, my method was very effective.” He fired back with a smug grin. Course it was all playful banter, but banter he’d missed. It was like the good old days again, and their time at the bar.

However, this time was different. They were different. There was something flickering between them. Eddie sensed it and he knew Jamie did too. That kiss hadn’t been forgotten, Eddie just didn’t want to jump to conclusions. It could’ve simply been how Jamie felt in the moment. He didn’t want to read into it too much. Last thing he wanted was to lose Jamie. And yet the way Eddie looked at him with such soft tenderness…he never looked at anyone else like that. Even as his fingers grazed bruised skin, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so gentle. He was a man for war, built to fight and withstand. He never considered he was the sort to be gentle. “Hmph.” Eddie let out a huffed laugh and gave a nod. “Well, that’s true. Least yours didn’t scar.” It was a jab but not out of malice.

Eddie’s gaze continued to search over Jamie, as if examining an art piece. As if looking at him with new eyes. And he supposed in a way, he was. He now knew the truth, knew what had happened. Jamie was different, and yet…he was still the same. Damaged, broken, just trying to keep his head above water. Just like Eddie. He had the scars to prove it. Scattered over his broad body. On both arms and even one dangerously close to his heart after a very close call. But that was the life of a soldier. It was difficult, but it didn’t have to be. Neither of them were alone in this anymore. “Yeah, that’s something, mate. That’s a very important something. One day at a time, yeah?” He spoke softly, warmly. There was no judgment, just pure understanding.

“Jamie, you didn’t make it my problem. I did. I made the choice. And it’s not a problem, not to me. I didn’t even need to think about it. I want to help. Just like I always have. And I know if things were the other way round, you’d be there for me. You don’t have to do this alone, mate. We’re a team, aren’t we?” Eddie had acted without question. It wasn’t something he needed to think about. Now that he and Jamie had been reunited, he would hold on and cling to that as tight as he could. Because Jamie was all he had left and out of all the bonds he’d made over the years, nothing ever came close to theirs.

Eddie got up then and headed over to the wooden drawer near the bed. His back now to Jamie, more scars could be seen. Some faint, others more noticeable. His body was a literal battleground, each one a fight he’d won. He rummaged around for a pair of sweatpants and stepped into them, pulling them up under the towel around his waist, then tossing the towel away when he no longer needed it. “There’s plenty of clothes here. They might be a bit big on you but at least they’ll be comfy. No more fancy suits for a while, I’m afraid.” He looked back over at Jamie with a smirk as he headed back to the bed and flopped down on the opposite side with a heavy sigh.

“Cut me some slack, mate. I can’t even remember the last time I had a holiday. Not even sure I know what they are anymore.” Eddie snickered, shifting an arm behind his head as he gazed up at the ceiling of the cabin. “But this place isn’t bad. It’s good if you want some peace and quiet, away from everyone. Thought it would be what you need right now.” He mused, gaze meeting Jamie’s as the two just looked at each other. Both mentally and exhausted, yet there was trust between them. A silent understanding.

Eddie laughed at Jamie’s comment and reached out with his free arm to playfully shove him. “I did ask. But someone was too fucking stubborn to listen.” He fired back with a smile of his own. “So, this is what happens. Consider it a lesson learned, old boy.” His voice took a mock British tone at the last part, mimicking the way Jamie said it. It felt good to joke again, to be playful. It’s what they needed. Some joy rather than misery. They deserved that.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

If it's okay can I please request yandere sir crocodile, who's who, Jack, denjiro, and katakuri with a reader who is like baby 5 and is always falling for people's traps even when they're obvious.

-----------

Haha, I kind of love the idea. And if you also mean like Baby 5-level falling too easily, especially for people who aren’t even them, that just makes it even funnier. I can totally see Katakuri and Who's-Who internally going like: “Girl… I’m literally right here.”

Still, for this to work the way I think you meant, the reader basically has to be yandere-proof when it comes to these fine gentlemen. Otherwise, they would've been married off to you ages ago. And even though every single one of them can still beat her in a one-on-one, I've written them in such a way that they want her to be willing to their advances. And kidnapping is supposed to be a last resort.

----------

Charlotte Katakuri

Totto Land wasn’t what you expected.

You’d come by accident, more or less. A failed navigation with a New World Log Pose, a rerouted current and a surprisingly unhostile welcome from a candy-colored dockmaster who offered you tea before questions.

You were used to chaos. Scarred coasts and crumbling towns. Droughts, revolutions, pirates howling for tribute. You were built for that. A lone explorer who would have a bounty high enough to make the World Government sweat a bit if it was ever assigned. You’d wandered the Grand Line and beyond helping where you could, rarely stopping to breathe.

You weren’t supposed to stay here.

But... Totto Land was strangely, stubbornly peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

You found yourself solving arguments over missing pets, pulling pranksters from trees, and, more often than not, walking straight into obvious scams from sobbing citizens pretending they’d lost a favorite teacup, blanket or gardening tool.

And despite your sharp instincts in battle, you always fell for it. You believed everyone. Gave away food, bandaged small injuries, handed out supplies like you were made of them. And the people? Well, they adored you. Even some of the homies started to follow you like loyal pets.

You were a walking contradiction: strong enough to level a ship, gullible enough to get scammed by a child in a mud costume.

You told yourself you’d leave tomorrow. Or the next day. Or after helping just one more person.

And then there was him.

Charlotte Katakuri.

You hadn’t met him right away. Just the whispers. Big Mom’s strongest Sweet commander. A future-seer. Stoic, undefeated and terrifying.

You thought you were under his radar.

You were wrong.

He noticed you immediately. He saw you. Every act of kindness and every moment of naive courage. He watched from a distance with unnerving stillness, reading the ripples you left in their territory. The precision of his Observation Haki turned inward.

And before he realized it, he was planning around you. Not for strategy, but proximity.

He didn’t understand it at first. The need to be close. To see your hands move. To hear you laugh, even if it was at him. Something about you bypassed the usual silence he kept between himself and the world.

You felt... real. Like something he hadn’t known he missed until it was suddenly in front of him every other day.

Marriage.

That word had never meant much to him before. Not in the halls of Whole Cake Chateau. Not in the way his family used it, tossed around at lavish tea tables or woven into political schemes- a matter of bloodlines, leverage and territorial ambition. It was a concept treated like a business merger, a footnote in the narrative of power.

He had never once paused to consider what it could mean outside of those expectations.

Until you.

You made it feel like an actual goal. Like something to earn. A milestone, not a tradition.

He tried to approach it respectfully. To observe. To allow you some space. To calculate a path that wouldn't corner you.

But it became clear. You were somehow resistant to him, of all people. Ironically immune to the very presence most others found crushing, or admirable.

It unsettled him more than he let on, especially after what had happened at some point in time. A traveler, bold and ridiculous, had asked for your hand in marriage right in the middle of a village square. You'd laughed, kindly, and actually said yes. Not sarcastically. Not to humor them. Just yes. Cheerful, amused and utterly unbothered. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The onlookers had cheered. The traveler beamed. And Katakuri stood frozen, unreadable behind his scarf. He didn’t interfere. Not then. But his silence held weight. Not jealousy, or at least, not that alone, but confusion, frustration. Hurt that came without warning. One that he was forced to witness twice without revealing his cards.

Hours later, that same traveler found themselves sealed into a prison book, thanks to Katakuri and Mont-d'Or. The charge was vague; disruptive behavior, false claims, perhaps a hint of trespass. Enough to justify it, but not enough to convince anyone truly paying attention. Mont had blinked at him once, lips twitching like he wanted to ask why. But he didn’t. Katakuri didn’t explain.

Not out of jealousy, or so he told himself, but out of... principle. That same principle he leaned on like a shield, one that frayed at the edges every time he remembered how easily you'd accepted that stranger's proposal. No hesitation. No caution. Just yes. Just laughter.

But never his. Never him.

You never mocked him. Never feared him. But every time he offered something; a gesture, a gift, a question too carefully phrased, to marry him, you blew it off with practiced ease. Called him reliable. Called him busy. Called him by his title, not his name.

You smiled at him like someone smiles at the sun. Distant, warm and unreachable.

You respected him. But it never went further.

And no matter how often he rehearsed the words in silence, they never made it to air. Not because he feared rejection, but because he feared you’d simply nod and say, "That’s nice," and carry on helping someone out instead.

So he broke his own rule. Because you had started pulling away on top of that. Not out of fear, but caution. You'd grown more skeptical of his presence, your normally boundless kindness sharpening just enough to draw a line around him.

The more he lingered, the more you distanced yourself. And that distance; slow, polite, but deliberate, rattled something deep inside him.

He asked two of his youngest siblings- twins, to stage something. A soft crisis. Something small. Children missing some of their most favorite balloons. Something Katakuri could fix in ten seconds.

But instead, he stood back, pretending helplessness.

You showed up immediately. Tools out. Warm words afloat in the air. And then...

You paused. Just for a second.

Your eyes narrowed.

And for the first time, you didn’t fall for it.

You turned around slowly. Looked over the scene. Looked at him.

"They could’ve asked you, couldn’t they?"

He had no answer. Not right away.

You sighed, brushing your hands on your coat. "Next time you need help, just say so directly. I don’t mind lending a hand. Even to someone as high-ranking as you. But don’t waste your family’s breath."

You turned to leave.

But before you could take a full step, his voice stopped you.

"I wasn’t trying to waste anything. I was trying to ask you to come with me."

You paused.

"Come with you where?"

He took a slow breath. "To the outer islands. There are small scuffles happening near the edges of Totto Land. Conflicts with other emperors. Territory disputes. Civilians are getting caught in it. People are scared. I’m not asking you to fight. But I could use someone like you. Someone who protects and makes people feel safe."

You blinked, surprised.

"Why not just say that?"

He looked at you then, as if seeing you for the hundredth time. "Because I didn’t want you to feel obligated. I just wanted you there. With me."

You didn’t speak.

You stayed another day.

He watched the horizon that night, still and quiet, doughnuts untouched beside him.

You hadn’t said yes.

But you hadn’t said no.

And that, somehow, was enough for now.

Denjiro

You had no business being in Wano. The country was sealed, impenetrable to outsiders. Wrapped in mists and monsters, hemmed in by rough currents and waterfalls that would crush the unprepared.

But then again, you were rarely prepared. Just determined.

The ascent up the waterfall had nearly destroyed your ship. You’d lost your sails, cracked the hull and nearly drowned twice. Still, when you washed ashore on Wano’s isolated coast, bruised and exhausted, you had looked up at the fog-shrouded mountains and whispered: “Worth it.”

Because this place... This place had stories.

You were an explorer, after all. Not by trade, but by obsession. You’d wandered through ancient cities swallowed by the Grand Line, danced through New World storms and had fought your way through more than one corrupted kingdom. If the Marines could catch you in the midst of a crime long enough, they'd pin a very high bounty on your name.

But strength didn’t mean wisdom.

You had a tendency to believe people. Dangerous ones. If someone wept, you helped. If someone begged, you trusted. You were like a more dangerous, less filtered Baby 5- if Baby 5 could bench press a sea king and blast through steel doors.

And somehow, your heart still cracked for every sob story.

Wano was full of them.

It was supposed to be a quick venture. In, explore, out. But you found hungry villages, children hiding beneath floorboards and ghost towns haunted by silence. You stayed. You fought. You healed. You vanished into the myths, and they began calling you "The Wandering Flame."

Denjiro noticed immediately.

He didn’t move on you with hunger, or like a storm. He watched, patiently, with the gaze of a man who had waited twenty years to make a single move.

At first, he admired you.

Then he worried.

You fell for everything. A merchant claimed he was robbed. You rebuilt his entire stall for free. A group of thugs posed as rebels. You gave them supplies. An old woman sobbed about her missing cat. You got bitten three times trying to rescue a gigantic boar.

You were chaos wrapped in sincerity, a force of nature with no filter, no brakes.

Denjiro had seen fools. Had watched Orochi play a nation like a shamisen. But you? You were a new kind of madness.

Still, you were careful around him. That was the most infuriating part.

You’d bow respectfully, always with the same poised elegance you offered elders or suspicious allies. Smile with just enough distance to remain warm but never vulnerable. When he offered protection, you declined politely with the practiced ease of someone who’d had to refuse too many hands with hidden knives. When he teased you, which he did, often and expertly, you laughed, but your eyes never softened, and you never leaned close. Not once.

Even as Kyoshiro- flamboyant, inebriated, and ostentatiously loud, he couldn’t sway you. You simply watched him like one might watch a storm from a covered porch: curious, alert, and entirely unwilling to step into the rain.

You didn't do this with another man. Someone who'd... Eventually disappeared underneath mysterious circumstances.

He still didn’t try to force it. Not because he wasn’t tempted, but because he respected you more than the ache he carried.

Because Denjiro had already done the manipulation thing. He’d lied for twenty years. Played loyal hound to a tyrant. He wasn’t going to taint you with those shadows. You deserved better. So instead, he helped. Quietly. He sent guards to follow you when you wandered off. He redirected real threats. He intercepted the assassins you never knew were coming.

He became your shadow. Not because he needed control. But because you were the first thing in years that made him feel something real. Not duty, not rage, not vengeance. Something soft. Something that made him forget how long he'd been pretending.

Every time he saw you darting into another village, speaking to another stranger, falling for another story that had more holes than netting, he felt it again. That ache. Not of longing, but of hope. That maybe there were still good people like you. People who didn’t need disguises or plots to matter.

He’d fought beside noble samurai. He’d killed men with names and legacies. And yet the one who stayed in his mind was you. A wandering firebrand who couldn’t stop helping.

The day he confronted you, it wasn’t under a mask or a fake name.

It was on the broken bridge between Ringo and Kibi, where you stood tossing rocks into the river, your coat tugged by the breeze and a quiet hum slipping past your lips like you didn’t carry half a country’s attention in your shadow.

"You’re going to get yourself killed," he said calmly, arms folded, blue hair swaying in the breeze.

You blinked. "You always start conversations like this?"

He didn’t smile. Not this time. His voice carried a weight, the kind born from watching good people fall to bad odds one too many times.

"You don’t know who to trust."

"Sure I do." You tossed another rock. "I trust people until they prove me wrong."

"That’s not trust. That’s gambling. And you’re staking your life on liars."

You looked at him then, expression unreadable. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I’m betting on you."

Silence fell. Thick. Meaningful. The kind that wrapped around a truth neither of you were ready to name out loud.

A quiet chuckle slipped past your lips. “That’s dangerous. I’m bad luck.”

“I’ve survived worse.” His voice was steady, the wind stirring his cape just enough to frame him like a man standing at the edge of something deep. It wasn’t arrogance. It was experience.

You stared at him longer than you’d meant to. And for once, you didn’t look away first.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t close the space. He just stood there and let the moment breathe. Like he was offering you the choice, and that choice alone meant more than any act of possession.

“You don’t have to stay in Wano, though I sincerely hope you do,” he said at last, softer now. “But if you do, then let me keep you safe. No secrets. No schemes. Just me. And only if you’ll let me.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him with the sort of curiosity that came just before trust. You could feel the shift in the air, something delicate unspooling between you.

“That almost sounds like a confession.”

He smiled. Not the charming grin of Kyoshiro, not the mask, but something small. Something real. “Maybe it is.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t walk away either...

Jack the Drought

You had climbed the waterfall with a cracked mast and stubborn hope.

It wasn’t smart. It wasn’t safe. But that had never stopped you before.

Wano had been a mystery. The kind that called to you like gravity. You were an explorer, a wanderer. A woman with a tendency to throw herself into lost causes with a grin and zero hesitation. Like a storm in delicate silk.

You could knock down walls, tear through lies and still fall for every sob story like it was the first. If someone cried, you helped. If they begged, you believed. You didn’t ignore red flags. They may as well just look like party banners to you.

And Wano was a festival of false alarms.

You weren’t supposed to stay long. You came for whispered legends. A quick look. But then there were the villagers with empty bowls. Smiling orphans who pretended not to be hungry. The quiet corners no one cared to save. And you couldn’t leave.

Jack noticed you the second you entered the country.

You didn’t exactly notice him. Not really.

He was used to terror. Used to being a shadow that made strong men sweat and children scream. When he walked into a village, it went quiet. When he made demands, things broke. Jack wasn’t elegant. He was a disaster in mammoth’s skin, and he liked it that way.

But you? You treated him like static.

At first, it made him curious. Then furious. Then obsessed.

He had seen you rip through ambushes like they were practice drills. Seen you shield strangers from blade and flame without flinching. And worse… He’d seen you fall for obvious cons. People faked injuries. Lied about lost children. Pulled tricks a toddler could spot. And you still walked right into them.

Only to punch through the roof five minutes later when the trap sprung.

You were chaos. And Jack couldn’t stop watching.

So he tried. He tried baiting you himself, dressing his men in tattered cloaks, staging desperate cries from forests and alleyways. But you never responded when he was near. You helped others. You followed false leads. But if he was too close, you hesitated.

You weren’t afraid. Just... aware. Of something wrong.

And that burned.

Jack wasn’t subtle. He didn’t do subtle. But behind your back? He learned restraint.

When a merchant tried flirting with you, Jack broke his entire body in at least six places, out of sight and just somewhere out of town. When a Beast Pirates officer offered you “shelter” during an inspection, Jack fed him to the Wano wolves. Quietly. Cleanly. You never saw the blood. Never noticed the silence that followed.

Because Jack wanted you willing.

He could level cities. Torture warriors. Rip a battlefield in half. But he couldn’t get you to look at him like anything more than a humongous hazard sign.

Not because you didn’t fear him. But because your instincts, your gut- the same one that betrayed you in every other direction, only sharpened around him.

And it drove him insane.

The day you finally spoke to him- really spoke to him, you were standing beside the ruins of an old farmhouse you’d helped rebuild the week before in Kuri.

He cornered you directly- approaching with the towering presence of a behemoth, his steps heavy yet eerily quiet, like a landslide building momentum in complete silence.

You didn’t run.

But you did pause as you looked up to the eight meter tall man. And for the first time since arriving in Wano, your hands curled tighter at your sides.

"You’ve been following me," you said simply, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest.

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even blink.

"And some people disappear when you’re close," you added, sharper now, every syllable laced with the suspicion you tried so hard not to trust.

Still, he said nothing. His silence was a weight that pressed down against your ribs.

Your jaw clenched. "You think I haven’t noticed? You think I don’t see what’s happening around me? The way paths close, the way voices go quiet when you’re near?"

Your instincts were blaring now. Louder than they ever had around the lies you willingly chased. But Jack? Jack felt wrong. He didn’t move like someone with nothing to hide. He moved like someone who’d already buried the evidence.

You stepped back slightly, your eyes narrowing. "I think I’ve stayed long enough."

That hit him hard. Not in the chest, but in the spine. Like something ancient inside him snapped taut.

You were going to leave.

So he spoke. Fast, rough, but with just enough calculation to hold you still.

"You want to help them? Then help me."

You blinked, caught off guard, the words hitting harder than any threat. "What?"

"You want supplies? Access to the people who need it most? Then you’ll need someone like me to open doors on this island. Doors that won’t even budge for anyone else."

You frowned, uncertain. The way he said it wasn’t boastful. It was matter-of-fact.

"The others here... They don’t listen to outsiders. But I can make them listen. I can make anything move. People, shipments, even silence when it’s needed."

He leaned down just slightly, just enough that you could feel the absolute weight of what he meant. "You don’t have to like me. But if you want to save Wano’s bones, you’ll need leverage. Let me be that. In exchange, you get what you want. Food. Resources. Access to every hidden part of this island that would slam its gates in your face."

He paused. Then added with strange clarity: "The freedom to keep helping."

You stared for a long moment, studying every line of his face, every scar that twisted across his features. Your gut still clenched. Something in you still warned… This is dangerous. But the offer was too precise. Too purposeful. And deep down, you knew the alternative meant turning your back on people who didn’t have the luxury to run.

Eventually, you sighed. "Fine. But the second you lie to me-"

"I won’t," he cut in sharply, with the kind of crushing force that made it feel like a vow.

You looked up at him again. Searched for something human in all that mass. And for just a second, you thought you saw it. Something raw beneath the fur.

And though your spine still whispered run, your heart, foolish as ever, decided to try.

"Then help me carry these tree logs. If you’re going to follow me around, you might as well be useful."

He moved without another word.

And for the first time in his life, Jack didn’t destroy something to feel powerful.

He just followed you.

Sir Crocodile

The desert sun is merciless, bearing down on the golden sands of Alabasta like a divine punishment, but Crocodile sits untouched by its fury. Cool shadows cloak the upper floors of Rain Dinners, shielding him from the heat and noise of the casino bustling below.

A cigar smolders lazily between his fingers, its scent mixing with the dry air. His golden hook taps a slow, methodical rhythm against the carved armrest of his throne-like chair. He isn’t pacing. He never paces. But that hook tapping means something. Irritation. Anticipation.

"She walked right into another trap," Miss All Sunday says flatly as she steps into the room. "A fake 'Help Us' poster set by a group of common bandits."

Crocodile’s jaw tightens. "And she's still alive?"

"Of course. They didn’t stand a chance. She broke the ringleader’s jaw with a rock and tied them all up before carrying them to the nearest town."

Of course you did. No matter how foolish the trick, no matter how exaggerated the lie, you fell for it. And then flattened your would-be captors like a natural disaster. That woman. That infuriatingly compassionate, absurdly strong, maddeningly unpredictable woman.

His golden hook pauses mid-tap.

"Did she say anything afterward?"

"Something about hoping that kindness will turn them around," Robin replies, her voice tinged with an unreadable note; part amusement, part warning.

Crocodile’s lip curls into a bitter smirk. "Tch."

It’s always the same. You- the wandering, reckless, overly forgiving creature, leave a wake of ruined traps and stunned enemies, never once realizing just how close the danger truly is or who exactly is pulling the strings. And despite your sheer strength, your reputation, your undeniable presence… You still fall for every plea, every fake cry, every trap... But his...

You should be smarter than that. Your name, whispered in the New World before you'd even set foot back on Paradise, should have commanded caution and fear. If the Marines caught wind of you crossing a line, they’d slap a four hundred million belli bounty on your head in an instant. And yet, you have the emotional defenses of a soap bubble.

He’s seen the picture of you tearing through a sea king as if it was cooked meat, its massive jaws crushed under your Armament Haki alone. He’s watched you walk out of an ancient ruin that crumbled beneath the ocean waves, a storm of traps and collapsing corridors barely slowing you down. You’d survived that place where many seasoned pirates would have drowned and marines vanished, all because someone claimed there was a missing child inside. And when a new Vice Admiral tried to take you in; miscommunication, they said, you nearly crushed his ribs with a single strike before realizing he was on your side.

But he’s never seen you question a sob story. Never seen you second-guess a plea. You always believe. Always say yes. No matter how flimsy the excuse, no matter how obvious the setup, your heart leans forward before your head can intervene.

You throw your strength at problems that never needed solving, offer comfort to liars and con men, all because someone looked at you the right way. The fact that you’ve survived this long is less about instinct and more about brute force and stubborn hope.

And through all of that, you never say yes to him. To everyone but him.

You should know by now that he’s in love with you. And you do not seem to care.

That, more than anything, infuriates him. It eats away at him in moments of silence and solitude, in the weighty hush between plans and calculated victories. You, the one person who’s now seen him at his most composed, his most vicious, his most transparent, and you remain utterly unmoved.

He still remembers how his affection curdled into obsession the moment you laughed off one of his carefully measured threats, mistaking it for sarcasm. He had tested your fear, but instead, you waved him off with a lopsided smile and a shrug. As if he were nothing more than a man with bad manners and a worse attitude. You brushed past him with no reverence, and most insultingly, without the warmth you seemed to offer everyone else so freely.

You're immune to him. He’s sent subtle threats and confessions alike. Taken out a man you’d fallen for. "Fallen" being a strong word for "agreed to marry within five minutes of hearing his sob story." You attended his funeral, placed flowers, and then said with a gentle smile, "He must’ve gotten in trouble with someone scary. I hope his spirit is at peace."

That someone was him. And you didn’t even notice. Hell, something similar happened again, and you reacted in a similar fashion, too.

Never once did your eyes narrow in suspicion. Never once did your fingers point back toward him directly.

Even now, he imagines you walking through Nanohana, handing out medicine to children, smiling at every stranger who tells you their sob story. You give them your supplies. Your time. Your faith. Things he would burn kingdoms for.

The sound of his fur coat shifting is the only warning before he rises. His golden hook gleams under the soft lamplight as he turns toward Miss All Sunday.

"Send Mr. 2. I want her brought to Rain Dinners. Now."

"Under what pretense?" Miss All Sunday asks, lifting a brow. Her voice is calm, but there’s a note of resignation beneath it.

Crocodile doesn’t hesitate. His smile is slow and deliberate.

"Tell her a child is trapped upstairs."

You arrive like a storm. Boots caked in dust, cheeks flushed, a water jug slung over your shoulder. The heat from the desert still clings to your clothes and you’re already half-preparing yourself to hoist a crying child from some cramped storage room. Mr. 2, in a perfect disguise as a weeping little boy, grabs your hand and leads you past the casino floor.

"The child’s up here?" you ask, breath catching, your instincts prickling with doubt.

"Yeah," he replies sweetly, with a sniffle and wide, innocent eyes.

You follow, wary now. The silence is unnatural. The marble floors too spotless, the air too still. The deeper you go, the more it feels like walking into a mausoleum dressed as a palace. You’re led to a tall, ornate door. It creaks open slowly into a spacious, dim room. Tall windows cast amber light across the floor, curtains drifting slightly in the hot breeze.

As the door shuts behind you with a soft but final click, you whip around.

"Wait-"

Crocodile is already there.

He stands like a statue cut from obsidian, framed by the glow of the setting sun, his golden hook resting just below his chest and his other hand curled on top of it. He says nothing at first, just stares, unreadable.

"There is no child," he says finally, his voice quiet and unrepentant.

Your stomach drops. You glare at him, fury quickly rising to your cheeks. "You lied to me. Again."

You already turn to leave, anger rising, but his voice catches you.

"Alabasta is dying."

The words hang heavy in the still air, too sudden to ignore.

You hesitate, frozen with your fingers brushing the doorknob.

"This kingdom is falling apart," he continues, stepping forward, his voice low. "The droughts, the unrest, the civil war… It's all spiraling. People are starving. Children are crying themselves to sleep. Whatever's behind it all… it doesn’t change what they’re living through now."

He meets your eyes. "If you really care about saving them, then help me do it. Don’t let them suffer because you chose to walk away from me."

You look away, uncertainty creeping into your anger. It’s like sand slipping through your fingers. You want to hold on to your indignation, your outrage, but it’s eroding quickly under the weight of what he’s saying.

"You want to help people, don’t you?" he says, taking another step toward you, his voice dropping to something almost gentle. Almost. "Then help them. I can get you where others can’t. I know the smugglers’ routes, the hidden bandit camps, the underground shelters no one else can access. The places where the real suffering lives. But I need you to stay. Not for me. For them."

His eyes bore into yours, searching for that inevitable flicker of compassion. And he finds it. He always does. It frustrates him how easily it comes. That softness. That instinct.

"This country will burn," he continues, with the solemn certainty of someone who’s already laid the kindling. "But maybe, just maybe, we can save some lives before it does. If you’re so set on being a hero, then here’s your chance."

Your hands tighten into fists at your sides. He’s manipulating you. Every word is laced with intention, wrapped in half-truths. And yet… If even half of what he said is true, if even one of those children is crying in the dark tonight…

You close your eyes, inhale deeply despite the cigar smoke, and let out a long breath as you lower the jug to the floor.

"Fine," you mutter. "I’ll stay and help you out. But only until the worst is over. I’m not here for you."

Crocodile says nothing, but the way the one corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly tells you more than words ever could.

He’s already planning how to make you stay properly. And this time, he thinks he’s finally found the key.

Who’s-who

You shouldn’t have been in Wano.

No one should’ve.

The country was sealed off from the world, hidden above waterfalls and whirlpools, its borders drawn with blood and fear. But curiosity had always outweighed common sense in your case, and when rumors of ancient traditions reached your ears, you’d slipped through the cracks. Literally. The falling currents nearly crushed your ship on the way up, but somehow, you made it, alone.

You didn’t mean to stay. Truly. But Wano bled beneath its mask of beauty.

Villages burned in silence. Children starved behind smiling teeth. And your heart, as recklessly soft as ever, couldn’t bear to leave.

What began as a brief expedition turned into months.

You fought bandits, snuck medicine into flowerless towns, and patched up rebels who dared not speak their own names aloud. You became a ghost. Powerful, kind and always moving. The people started calling you “the Wandering Flame.”

And that's what caught his attention.

Who's-Who didn't like mysteries.

He especially didn’t like your kind of mystery. Someone stronger than you looked, with too much compassion and too little caution. He watched you from a distance at first, amused. Then irritated. Then… obsessed. He’d seen it one too many times: some fool luring you into an abandoned building with an obviously fake cry for help, only for the entire roof to explode moments later as you punched them clean through it. You never hesitated, never questioned whether it was a trap. You simply reacted. And somehow, it always worked in your favor. That recklessness, that insane trust... It infuriated him. He adored it.

You were impossible. He wanted you.

You ignored all of his advances; direct and indirect.

He eventually tried cornering you with false leads and staged ambushes himself. You slipped past.

He tried sending spies pretending to be injured villagers. They were deliberately bruised and bloodied just enough to sell the lie, though never as badly as they claimed. You healed them anyway, saw through the exaggeration with a look, then vanished before the trap could spring. And worst of all?

You'd chosen some poor sod over him. He disappeared in three hours time after he'd confessed to you, and after you'd said yes...

You were Who's-Who-proof.

It grated on him.

Everyone feared him. Revered him. Even the other Tobiroppo tread lightly enough around his snarling moods and lingering grudges. But you? You smiled politely when he eventually tried to intimidate you into his arms instead, cocked your head when he spat threats, and once… Just once… You told him he was being "weirdly dramatic for a fearsome pirate."

It haunted him.

Today, he waited atop the cliffs that overlooked the village of Ebisu, pacing like a caged sabretooth tiger. The sun dipped red against the mountains, casting long shadows over the dried fields below.

“She’ll come,” he muttered, though no one asked. “She always comes.”

And you did.

You moved quickly over the brittle earth, your coat flaring behind you, a basket of herbs in your arms. There had been a small fire in the village earlier. A real one, and he knew you wouldn’t ignore it.

He stepped out from behind a dead tree near the base of the hill, the cracked ground shifting slightly beneath his sharp dress shoes. He stood tall, over three meters, with long legs carrying his lean, powerful frame with a predator’s grace. A mane of wavy, pink hair trailed down his back, swaying with the wind. Smoke curled from the cigarette perpetually stuck in the corner of his mouth.

He loomed in front of you like a warning. All height, muscle and menace wrapped in crimson. The golden hoops in his ears swung faintly in the breeze, cigarette smoke curling around his horns and the heavy red mask that hid everything but the square of his jaw and the cruel twist of his mouth. His presence was thunder in slow motion, tense and boiling beneath the surface. That mouth grinned now, jagged and crooked.

"You're late," he said, voice nearly gravel-dry, smoke slipping past his teeth.

You stopped mid-step, one brow raised. "Didn’t realize I had an appointment."

He tilted his head slightly, cigarette bobbing. His teeth flashed again in a grin that didn’t reach the yellow lenses of his mask. "You’re always late when people need you most."

You sighed, exhaling a breath heavier than the moment deserved. "Funny. I was just thinking you were always early when no one asked you to show up."

Then you maneuvered to walk past him, the basket of herbs still balanced easily in your arms.

"Still following me around like a lost cat? Shouldn’t you be terrorizing someone who actually cares what you think? Or are they all tired of your mask routine too?"

That hit a nerve. You heard it in the hiss of his breath, the barely perceptible twitch of his fingers.

He moved, fast and silent, and grabbed your wrist, fingers firm and unrelenting like a trap springing shut.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink. That blank, effortless steadiness of yours… That refusal to react to him always twisted something deep in him.

You looked down at his hand, then back up at his mask, unimpressed. "Let go," you said, your voice a low hum. Your tone didn’t waver, not even a fraction, and your eyes didn’t betray even a flicker of tension. It wasn’t just bravery. It was indifference. And to someone like him, that was worse than fear.

"They don’t deserve you," he hissed, his voice rising with intensity. "These people. You patch up their wounds and then what? They send you chasing another sob story. They make you run until you bleed, and when you fall, they’ll find someone else just as stupid to replace you. They use you. They all do."

You tugged your wrist free with a sharp jerk, eyes narrowing. Not in threat, but in mild annoyance. "Maybe. But at least I’m helping someone," you said. "That’s more than you can say."

He hated how calm you were. How you never yelled back. How nothing he did could get in. You didn’t rise to his threats, didn’t coil with fear or spit back rage. You treated his anger like background noise. His obsession like background wind. Like a gust that stirred your coat but never touched your spine. And it was driving him absolutely mad.

“I know what you are,” he growled, voice tightening into something venomous. “You think you’re better than us. That you can wander in here, untouched, above it all. You act like you're saving them, but you just want to feel important.”

His hands twitched, the grip on the cigarette between his teeth tightening. He was spiraling. And you just watched him do it.

“And I think you’re just lonely,” you said, cutting cleanly through the resulting silence.

That stunned him.

You didn’t say it like an insult. You said it like a fact. A quiet, almost regretful observation. The kind that pierced deeper than any blade.

He stepped back without realizing it, the dry earth crunching under his shoes. His yellow lenses flickered toward you, but he didn’t speak.

You kept walking, basket swinging gently at your side. “And angry. And clinging to the past so hard, it’s strangling you.”

The wind picked up, catching the edge of your coat, making it ripple behind you like a cape.

You didn’t look back.

He watched you vanish into the village light, your shadow trailing behind like smoke- impossible to pin down, impossible to contain.

Who's-Who didn’t move for a long time.

The wind shifted around him, dry and sharp, tugging faintly at the edges of his jacket. Smoke from his half-burnt cigarette spiraled lazily around his mask, glowing faintly in the evening light. The place felt empty, like his chest.

Behind him, one of his subordinates stepped out, hesitant. “Should we still tr-”

“No.” The word was a snarl, a jagged edge of frustration wrapped in finality. But there was a gleam behind the yellow lenses now. A dangerous kind of calm. His grin had returned. Wide, deliberate and full of teeth. Not triumphant. Calculating.

He’d tried charm. He’d tried force. He’d even tried fear. Nothing worked. But he wasn’t finished.

He would find a way into your heart. Not with chains. Not today. He wouldn’t try to cage you anymore. Not until you walked into the trap willingly. He had time. He always did.

You had a weakness. And it wasn’t just sentimentality. It was conviction. The belief that every whisper of pain was worth chasing. That every cry was real. That everyone, even strangers, deserved saving.

And soon… Some would be.

A whisper you couldn’t ignore. A cry folded inside a half-truth. Something believable. Something cruel.

He wouldn’t need to lift a hand.

Not when rumors would begin to spread. Carefully placed, whispered on wind and ash that a group of orphaned children had somehow crossed the perilous waters to Onigashima. Alone. Starving. Desperate. Trapped among monsters. You wouldn't question it at all.

He didn’t need to watch to know your steps would lead there. He knew you’d go, even if you knew he would be there.

You always walked into fire for someone else.

And this time, he’d be waiting in the smoke.