#and then when she's gone everything falls apart

[skhv67]

age gap hyun-ju

wc: 2,4k

cw: age gap (hyun ju is in her late 30s-early 40s and reader is in their early-mid 20s), smut with just enough plot to set the scene, fingering, oral (reader receiving), reader is afab and wears a dress and make up, low-key voyeurism? and tiniest mention of post-op Hyun-ju

a/n: this was gonna be a drabble but i got carried away 💀anyway im beyond OBSESSED w her

Hyun-ju has strong morals, and she's always stuck to her ideals fiercely. Her years in the military plus her innate composure have always made it so easy for her to have control over her desires.

That is until you come around and test her so well-trained auto discipline.

She first sees you carrying some huge boxes to the apartment next to hers. She notices how beautifully your hair frames your face, and how weirdly cute your face scrunches due to the weight of the box... And she also notices you're terribly younger than her.

She should've looked away by now, but for some reason her body is not cooperating with her brain. There was something so inexplicably alluring about you, and she's only known of your existence for a minute.

Once you let the box down in front of your door you look at her, still short on breath, and smile awkwardly at the staring woman. Her attention goes down to your glistening chest for a second, but she corrects herself quickly before you notice.

She must compose herself, did you say hi? She'd swear you greeted her while she was distracted but she wouldn't swear on it. Did she imagine it?

Panic was quickly replaced by confusion. Why was she overthinking something like that? It wasn't like her to be so dense. Whether she said it or not, it's just polite saying hello anyway.

The polite smile on your awaiting face grew when she greeted you back. Hyun-ju couldn't help but stare at you again, as if to take a mental note of everything she was seeing. The wrinkles near your eyes, your sweet smile, the drops of sweat falling down your neck...

"Do you need help with that?"

"Oh, sure, if you don't mind"

That day she rejects your kind offer to invite her to a cup of tea in gratitude for her help. She couldn't bear to be in your presence any longer, the turmoil in her mind was driving her crazy. She felt disappointed in herself for the thoughts she was allowing herself to have, knowing she was about twenty years your senior made a sense of guilt sit on her heart. She knew she wasn’t like this, it wasn’t like her to deviate like this from her principles.

She played the polite neighbor for months, pretending she wasn't going crazy whenever you brought someone home late at night and had to sleep with her TV on to drown out the sounds of some useless dude being where she'd die to be in.

She'd have a few conversations with you here and there and you had even been over at each other's houses a couple of times to talk about trivial stuff. All without completely shaking off that feeling she tried her best to repress. All the times she has had to stop herself from flirting with you when the perfect occasion was given or having to play dumb when she said something a bit too intimate for your surface level relationship.

Despite her moments of weakness, her discipline proved to be efficient enough to keep herself in line. She had no business with someone like you, her morality winning even during the nights she hears you pleasuring yourself, pretty moans reverberating against the walls of her room like a punishment.

But after all, she prevails.

__

One fateful night she found you in the hallway when she came back late at night from a long, tiring shift. You were just staring at your door, without the intention of opening it, and you looked so exasperated that you didn’t even notice her presence. But more than the strange situation, what really caught her attention was the skimpy dress you had on. She assumed you had gone to the club, but it was too soon to have come back.

"Hey" your voice brought her roaming eyes back to your face, which had softened when you saw her.

You told her that you were going out tonight, but it was cut short when your friend found someone to spend the night with, and she'd ask you for your apartment for some... Privacy.

"I don't want to bother you, you seem tired, but could you spare me your couch for tonight?" the sight of your frail smile melted her tired heart.

Much to your surprise, she didn’t even need too much convincing to let you into her house. No further questions were asked, nor any other alternatives were brought up, she just seemed eager to offer you her help, which made you feel a sudden tingle deep in the pit of your stomach.

Unbeknownst to you, the little dress you were wearing quite helped your case — or quite much just clouded her better judgement and self-restraint.

She offered you tea and some treats as well as a nice conversation. It was hard to ignore how easy it was to talk to her; she was so interesting and such a great listener. You watched enchanted as she spoke, her voice was so soft and honeyed, you couldn't help yourself when your mind drifted to how she'd sound talking you through it. She looked so patient and careful, the type to take her sweet time with someone...

Your thighs closed tighter, subtly trying to relieve the sudden ache between your legs. And you were so distracted, you didn't notice the way her eyes drifted down to your thighs, the movement not going unnoticed to her cautious eyes. She had been trying all this time to avoid your exposed legs, but she had realized a long time ago she was way too weak for whatever spell you have on her.

Repressing her ongoing thoughts, she cut the conversation early by offering you her bed to sleep, pointing out how tired you looked. She felt dirty masking her lust with kindness, but that'd be a battle for another day.

You had been around Hyun-ju for long enough to notice her so self-sacrificing and kind heart. But you just couldn't accept her bed without a fight. After what seemed like a never-ending back and forth you offered to share it. You weren't going to settle for leaving her on an uncomfortable couch under any conditions, but especially after a long shift and her generous help.

Seeing her prepare for bed felt so intimate, and you had to repress your excitement when she brought you some comfortable clothes to change into. On her part, she was still planning on sneaking on the couch when you fell asleep, unsure if she'd get any sleep knowing you were just some centimeters away from her. Not after seeing so much of you tonight, not while being so exhausted to fight her own desires.

You stared at her through the mirror in her bedroom as she took off her earrings, realizing how beautiful she looked on her work attire. It was just a basic knee-length skirt and a white blouse but she still managed to look like an angel. Her hair was down and fell on her shoulders so gracefully, you just couldn’t stop staring mesmerized.

You didn't know what had gotten into you, it could've been that you were sensitive tonight, or that the faint sounds of your friend's "private time" through the wall of the bedroom were driving you insane, but you felt ridiculously attracted to the older woman. Not that you weren't usually, but there was something in the air tonight.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked, tone slightly worried, as she stared back at you through the mirror.

"I-" the words threatened to leave your mouth, but you were too scared of her rejection, of having to hear her politely decline and have her smile awkwardly at you.

Her eyes didn't leave you for a second. You fell quiet but she still stared at you intrigued. Her eyes only looked away from yours when they noticed you shifting uncomfortably on the bed, her eyes roaming around your fidgety body for way too long. Or at least long enough for you to finally notice.

A small bit of confidence bloomed on your chest at her stare. Carefully you left the bed and slowly walked towards her slightly bending frame, eyes locked on hers through the mirror. She hurriedly took her other earring off and stood straight, but she wasn't as subtle hiding her nervousness as before.

"Have you ever heard me?"

She quickly turned around to face you, unfortunately making it easier for you to get closer to her. A puzzled expression on her face as she tried to understand what you meant.

"The walls seem thin," a low chuckle blurted out of your lips.

Realization washed over her face like a bucket of cold water. She could now hear the vague sounds through the wall and the implication of your comment flustered her.

Her eyes looked at you disapprovingly, stern, as if she was scolding you without actually addressing the situation. Your name left her lips with a sigh, advising you not to go that way.

"Have you?" you insisted despite her warnings.

"Quit it."

Her stern tone made you reevaluate the situation, thinking you might've misunderstood the signs, but her ragged breath and the poorly hidden lust in her eyes gave her true intentions away.

Bringing a hand up to her cheek, you caressed her soft skin gently, as if trying to calm her down, but she knew it was a mere tease. You were poking fun at her awful attempts to keep control of herself. It was terribly adorable in your eyes.

"Don't you wanna touch me?"

Your thumb rubbed the gloss on her plump lips, which just fell open at your words. Her frown dissipated, too caught off guard by your words to keep up the façade. The ghost of an answer hung on her agape mouth, the battle on her mind was painfully evident and you were relishing yourself watching her struggle to not give in. Your question felt like venom in her veins despite your irresistibly sweet tone.

"Because I really wanna touch you," you purred, every breathy syllable blown against her lips felt warm, tantalizing.

In a second your feet stopped touching the floor. Hyun-ju picked you up like you weighed nothing and quickly threw you on top of her bed. Her polished black nails gripped your thighs tight, forcing them open to stand between them. Before you know it, she crashed her lips firmly against yours, her gloss and your lipstick making a beautiful mess on each other's faces.

Your desperate attempts to deepen the kiss were quickly corrected by a tight hold of your head, warning you to follow her pace. Her hold on your thigh tightened when she heard you whine in protest against her lips.

She left you unbutton her shirt as a reward for obeying despite your cries, and ran her tongue across your bottom lip, finally allowing herself to taste you. A moan threatened to leave her mouth when she felt your warm hands touching her exposed chest and she got back at you pressing her knee against your core. You break the kiss with a broken moan as you start grinding against her.

"Yes," Hyun-ju breathes against your neck, leaving open mouth kisses along the curve of your throat. "I heard you."

As she stood up to take off her skirt, she couldn't stop herself from pausing to stare at your mesmerizing form for a second. You were still panting, your make-up was all smudged and your dress was up to your waist, giving her an amazing view of your soaked panties.

She helped you out of your dress and wasted no time kissing her way down to your legs, where she positioned herself between your thighs, not without giving them the proper care and kisses first.

After putting her hair up in a ponytail, she slide your panties out of the way to finally taste what she had been forbidding herself all these long, agonizing months. But her eagerness didn't stop her from admiring and confirming how beautiful you were all over before starting to give you teasing licks.

She noticed the difference between the moans she was hearing and when she heard you through her wall and she felt a pride flourish in her chest, as well as shame for the indecency of her thoughts in contrast with the sweet moment she was enjoying.

"C'mon, please" the ache in your voice destroyed any intentions she had of teasing.

A moment later she was devouring you with an expertise you have never had before. Just a few seconds in and your legs were already jelly against her hold.

Tears began to form on the corner of your eyes and threatened to spill when you felt the semi-sharp end of her nail on your entrance. Your worried look was returned with a soothing gaze, she assured you she'd be careful. And she was, the slow pace of her finger combined with the work of her tongue on your clit had your legs nearly shaking.

Hyun-ju felt your walls clenching around her finger, and she sped up the ministrations of her mouth on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Are you holding it in?" she questioned, breathe fanning over your clit tauntingly. "You can let go, baby"

Your teary eyes locked with hers and she could feel herself clenching around nothing at the sight.

"Fuck- 's too soon" your trembling voice felt like music to her hears.

"Just let go" there was again that stern voice so uncharacteristic of the sweet, soft-spoken woman you know.

Offering no resistance you cum around her fingers and you swear you see stars before you let your head fall to her lavender scented pillow. You don't notice yourself dozing off for a bit until you feel a wet cloth against your sensitive core. You fight to open your eyes to see Hyun-ju cleaning you up and you try to get up despite your exhaustion.

"No, wait! I wanna touch you too" you whine pushing her hand away.

"Maybe in the morning after you rest" she lets out a soft giggle at your antics and resumes her work.

She carefully wiped your mascara smudged cheeks before placing a small peck on the corner of your lips before tangling herself to your side to get her well-deserved rest too.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Behind her eyes||Charles Leclerc x Fem!reader

Summary—what started out as a headache and blurred vision turned out to be something much worse, when y/n passes out while making dinner she get rushed to the hospital where she learns she has a low-grade brain tumor pressing against her optic nerve.

Warnings— y/n passes out, hospitals, mentions of tumors angst.

Word count —2628

The kitchen was warm with the scent of garlic and rosemary. Y/N stood barefoot at the counter, humming softly as she stirred the pasta sauce, the soft clink of the wooden spoon against the pot lulling her into a moment of calmness. She did all the cooking because lord knows Charles bless his heart couldn’t cook to save his life and she didn’t mind doing it after all it was her love language but tonight like all the other nights her head throbbed a sharp, nauseating pressure behind her eyes but she ignored it. Again.

She had grown used to the pain. The headaches. The flashing lights. The creeping black spots that danced in her vision when she stood up too fast.

Charles had noticed. Of course, he had. He was too attentive not to. But she had brushed him off every time.

“I’m fine, baby.”

“Just tired. It’s nothing.”

“Probably stress. I’ve been working too much.”

Now she wasn’t so sure and wished she had listened to her mom when she told y/n to go to the doctor.

She blinked. The world tilted.

Her grip on the spoon faltered. Her legs suddenly felt far away heavy, and unresponsive. A low, sharp pulse thundered through her skull.

“Charles?” she called out weakly.

He was walking in from the living room, holding two wine glasses, smiling until he saw her sway.

“Y/N?”

Then everything went black.

The world seemed to slow down for Charles; his heart sank in his chest as he watched her fall. He dropped the wine glasses and ran to her, the glass crunching underneath his shoes. He caught her just before she hit the ground.

Her body was limp. Her head lolled back in his arms, and for a second just a second Charles thought she was gone. No breath. No response.

“Mon amour—Y/N?” His voice cracked.

He lowered her to the kitchen tiles, trembling hands brushing hair from her damp forehead. Her skin was pale. Her lips were slightly parted. The pulse was faint, yes, but there.

Panic roared in his ears.

He grabbed his phone, shook his hands, and dialled emergency. He barely remembered the words he spoke. All he could think was:

Not her. Please, not her, or anything else, just not her. He thought. He begged.

10 minutes later – flashing lights, pounding feet

The front door slammed open. Red and blue lights strobed through the apartment, casting long shadows across the walls. Two paramedics rushed in, their movements fast and efficient.

“She’s in here!” Charles called out, still on the floor beside her.

They knelt beside her instantly, checking her vitals, shining a small light into her eyes.

“Unresponsive but breathing,” one murmured. “Pulse is weak. Let’s go. We need to move.”

Charles backed away only because they told him to.

A stretcher rolled in. Straps clicked. Plastic rustled. An oxygen mask was placed over her face.

One of the paramedics turned to him. “Sir, is she on any medication?”

“No. No, I—she’s been having headaches. And blurry vision. And—and she passed out. She just—she collapsed.”

“How long has she been experiencing symptoms?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks? She said she was fine.”

The paramedic nodded, scribbling notes. “We’re taking her to Princess Grace. Do you have her ID? Insurance?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll grab it—just please take care of her.”

“We will. You can ride in the back with her.”

Charles nodded, breathed shallow, and sprinted toward the bedroom. The apartment felt unreal, too quiet, too normal, like it hadn’t just watched the love of his life collapse. He snatched her purse from the nightstand, rifling through until he found her wallet. Her ID. Her insurance card. Her phone, too, he tucked inside, just in case. His hands were still shaking.

He paused for only a second, glancing around the room like it might give him some kind of answer. It didn’t.

Then he was running back.

The stretcher was already being wheeled out the door, and paramedics were focused and urgent.

He followed close behind, climbing into the ambulance as they lifted her inside. The interior was a blur of sharp scents antiseptic, plastic, something vaguely metallic. Monitors blinked to life. Wires trailed from her skin. A paramedic adjusted an oxygen mask over her face while another hooked up an IV.

The siren screamed to life and the ambulance tore through the narrow Monaco streets.

Charles sat beside her, gripping her hand in both of his, whispering her name like a prayer.

She didn’t stir.

He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “It’s okay, mon cœur. I’ve got your bag. I’ve got everything. Just—just hold on.”

A paramedic leaned over. “She’s stable for now. But we’ll need imaging as soon as we arrive.”

Charles could only nod, jaw tight, eyes never leaving her face. His thumb moved over the back of her hand again and again, desperate to feel something, anything.

The lights overhead flickered with each bump in the road. Her body jolted slightly with the motion. He flinched every time.

He didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Not until they reached the hospital.

Not until they took her away.

Not until he was alone.

The stretcher disappeared through a set of swinging double doors.

Charles tried to follow, but a nurse stopped him with a gentle, firm hand on his chest. “You can’t go in. Please wait here. The doctors need space to work.”

He blinked at her. “But she’s alone. She doesn’t like being alone.”

The nurse gave him a look that he couldn’t read, soft but professional, and said, “We’ll come get you as soon as we can.”

And then she was gone, swallowed by the bright white hallway, her footsteps echoing off the tile.

He sat. Or maybe collapsed.

Everything felt like static to him. The smell of antiseptic and other smells burned his nose. The vinyl of the waiting room chair stuck to the back of his knees.

He stared at the floor. His palms were streaked with blood, not hers, he realized absently. Just the wine glass. The one he dropped when she fell.

He hadn’t even felt the cuts.

Time stopped meaning anything.

At some point, someone handed him a clipboard after a nurse cleaned and wrapped his hand. He signed something with a pen he couldn’t hold steady. He answered questions in a language he didn’t understand even though it was French. Her birthdate. Allergies. Medical history. Emergency contacts.

He hated how automatic it felt. Like a routine. Like they did this all the time.

Like people collapsed and never woke up all the time.

She was still unconscious. They had run a CT. Then an MRI. Then the blood work.

A doctor came out with a tablet, her expression unreadable.

“Charles Leclerc?”

He stood so fast that the chair skidded backward.

“Yes. Yes, what’s wrong with her?”

She hesitated. That pause alone made him nauseous.

“We’ve found a mass in her brain. It’s pressing on her optic nerve and possibly her brainstem.”

His mouth went dry. “A mass?”

“A tumor. Likely slow-growing, but it’s in a dangerous location. That’s what’s been causing her symptoms.”

He couldn’t process the words. They echoed. Repeated.

Tumor. Brain. Dangerous.

He stared at the doctor like maybe if he looked hard enough, she’d say she was wrong.

“We need to admit her. Run a biopsy. But right now, she’s stable.”

“Stable,” he repeated, the word feeling like glass in his mouth. “She passed out in my arms. That doesn’t feel stable.”

The doctor sighed. “We’ll let you see her soon.”

Charles sat in the sterile waiting room with his hands covered in hers, brushing his thumb over her knuckles as machines beeped steadily behind the curtain. Y/N was still unconscious. The doctors had done scans. Blood tests. Hooked her up to IVs and oxygen.

Now he waited.

His knee bounced relentlessly. His heart had not stopped racing since the moment she collapsed. Charles called her mom and told her that Y/N was in the hospital and what the doctor had told him. He even stayed on the phone as her mom cried he didn’t have the heart to hang up on her. She kept asking the same question over and over:

“Is she awake? Has she woken up?”

Each time he answered no, something in him cracked deeper.

Eventually, her mom had to make calls to the rest of the family to let them know. Charles sat in the too-bright hospital room, phone resting silently in his lap, surrounded by machines that were keeping her body functioning while her mind drifted far away.

The world here was warm.

Too warm. A perfect kind of warm.

Sunlight poured through tall windows, honey-gold and soft, lighting up dust motes like fireflies. Y/N sat on the edge of a bed, bare feet brushing the floor, fingers laced with Charles’. The duvet was tangled around their legs. There was music somewhere in the background, something slow, calming, and peaceful.

Charles leaned in close, his forehead touching hers.

“I made you breakfast,” he whispered.

She laughed, voice full of sleep. “You never cook.”

“I do now. I’m domestic.”

“Oh God.”

They laughed together, the kind of laugh that made your chest ache, the one that left behind little echoes of joy long after it ended.

Then a sound.

Beep.

Soft. Barely there.

Y/N blinked. “Did you hear that?”

Charles didn’t react. Just smiled, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too.” She replied leaning in to kiss him. It was soft and warm the way kissing him is always like. His lips were familiar, grounding. Safe.

But the moment her eyes closed, she heard it again.

Beep.

A little louder. A little closer.

She pulled back slowly.

The music warped slightly. Slowed. The golden hue of the light dimmed by a fraction.

Y/N looked around. “What is that sound?”

“What sound?” Charles tilted his head, still grinning. Still glowing.

“Beeping,” she murmured. “Like a… machine. And it smells like—”

She stopped. Her nose wrinkled. Something sterile laced the air now, hiding beneath the citrus and sun-warmed skin.

Y/n shook her head “Never mind it’s nothing”.

Charles looked at her attentively “Are you sure?” He asked brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face.

“Yeah I’m sure,” she says letting out a contemptuous sigh and smiling “Come on I wanna see what you cooked for breakfast I’m hungry”

“We can’t have that now can we?” Charles asked, pulling her up from where she sat on the edge of the bed.

“No, we can’t, a hangry y/n is not a fun Y/n” Y/n replied jokingly just as another Beep. It could be heard faintly in the distance and the smell of antiseptic was more prominent than it was earlier.

“Charles, what is that smell?” She asked, taking in deep breaths trying to place the smell.

“Oh my love I need you to wake up now please,” Charles says softly.

“B-but I am awake aren’t I?” She asked, smiling.

“No you're not,” Charles says with a hint of sadness in his voice and his eyes.

Charles leaned forward and placed a small kiss on her forehead “I love you baby but I need you to wake for me.”

Y/n nodded “ok Charles I’ll wake up now”

She woke slowly. Groggy. Disoriented. Her eyelids were heavy.

Charles was already there, sitting beside her hospital bed, eyes red, hands clutching hers like lifelines. He looked like he hadn’t breathed since she passed out.

“Charles?” she rasped.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to her hand. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

“What happened?”

He looked up. His smile trembled. “You fainted. At home. They ran tests.”

Y/N blinked slowly. “Tests?”

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t say the word.

So he just broke.

His head dropped to the bed beside her arm, shoulders shaking. She felt the wetness of his tears against her skin.

“Baby,” she whispered, trying to lift her hand to touch him, but her limbs were too heavy.

“They found something, mon ange.” His voice was broken. Hollow. “In your brain. A tumor.”

Silence.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling.

“Oh,” she finally said. Quiet. Small.

“Don’t do that,” Charles whispered. “Don’t disappear like that. I need you to fight. We’re going to fix this, okay? We’ll find the best doctors, anywhere in the world. I’ll sell everything if I have to—”

“Charles—”

“No, listen to me,” he said, sitting up, cupping her face. “You’re going to be okay. You’re strong. You’re so fucking strong. And I love you. I love you so much I can’t breathe.”

Tears slipped down her temples.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

He crawled into the narrow hospital bed beside her, pulling her against his chest as gently as he could. Her IV lines tugged, the monitor beeped in protest, but he didn’t care. He needed to feel her heartbeat. Needed to hold her.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. “Me too.”

They lay there, wrapped in each other, as the machines hummed softly around them. Outside the window, the Monaco skyline glittered like it didn’t know the world had just cracked open.

A little while later a soft knock came at the door before it creaked open. A tall woman in a white coat stepped inside, clipboard in hand, expression calm but kind.

“Good evening, Miss Y/L/N. I’m Dr. Moreau the neurosurgeon on your case,” she said gently.

Charles reluctantly slipped off the bed and sat beside her again, never letting go of Y/N’s hand.

“You’ve had quite the scare,” Dr. Moreau continued, approaching with a practiced warmth. “But you’re stable now. And we’ve had time to look at your scans.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “It’s a tumor.”

“Yes. A low-grade glioma is benign, but in a very sensitive area.” She turned the clipboard toward them, showing a scan. “It’s pressing against your optic nerve, which explains the vision issues and the headaches.”

Y/N swallowed. “Is it fixable?”

Dr. Moreau gave her a steady look. “It’s operable. Delicate, yes, but not impossible. I’ve done several similar removals. We’ll need to act soon to prevent further vision loss.”

“And after the surgery?” Charles asked, voice low and strained.

“There may be some lingering effects such as visual distortion, fatigue, and possibly seizures in the short term. But with recovery and rehab, the prognosis is hopeful.”

Y/N blinked hard, her throat tight. “And glasses,” she added with a weak attempt at humor. “I’ll need them now.”

Dr. Moreau smiled. “Most likely.”

As she left the room, Charles turned to Y/N and tried to soften the tension, still gripping his face.

“Well,” he said, brushing his knuckles over her cheek, “if you’re wearing glasses, I suppose I should too. Solidarity.”

She snorted, the tiniest sound. “You already have glasses.”

“Yes, but I never wear them. I’ll start. For you. We’ll be stylish and blurry together.”

Her smile cracked open like sunlight through storm clouds.

“I love you,” she said.

Charles leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I love you more,” he murmured. “And when this is over, I’m making you breakfast.”

“Oh god”

“What you don’t want is my cooking. Burnt toast. Runny eggs. The full disaster?” Charles jokingly asked.

She laughed softly and really.

“Mmm mmm,” she says smiling and shaking her head side to side as best as she can.

And for a moment, the monitors still hummed. The IV still dripped. But the room felt lighter.

They didn’t know what came next.

But they knew they’d face it side by side.

[formulafanfics13]

I have this image of us maybe having an argument with Charles and he’s angry and will just take us over his shoulder back home to punish. With charles making us extra sensitive first and just continuing to tease and dominate us till we are like crying for him and he’s still in a super smug mood. Just edging and playing with us, punishing till he finally gives in when he can’t control himself.

punish her properly - CL16 🔥

Masterlist

SUMMARY After a brutal fight in their Monte Carlo apartment, Charles snaps — tossing the reader over his shoulder and punishing her with ruthless, drawn-out control. He teases, denies, and dominates her until she’s sobbing and begging to come, refusing to let her break until she’s completely ruined. It’s mean. Possessive. Filthy. And when he finally fucks her, it’s deep, hard, and claiming — like he’s staking a flag. She comes over and over, undone by the way he takes everything and still gives more. By the end, she’s trembling, breathless, and his.

WARNINGS Explicit smut. Rough sex. Fighting/argument leading to sex. Power play. Dom!Charles. Orgasm denial. Spanking. Overstimulation. Manhandling. Hair pulling. Dirty talk. Intensity. Possessive/claiming language.

It starts with a fight.

Not a soft one. 

Not a stupid bicker. 

A full-blown, loud, venom-laced argument in the hallway of your Monte Carlo apartment. You said something. He said something worse.

He’s pissed.

“You never fucking listen,” he snaps, voice low and dangerous.

You scoff. “And you think I’m just supposed to do whatever you say? Like some groupie who just waits around for you to give a shit?”

His eyes darken. His jaw clenches. “Be careful,” he mutters.

You push. Harder. “Or what?”

And then it happens fast. He grabs you. Spins you. Tosses you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You shriek, pound at his back, legs kicking.

“Charles, put me the fuck down-”

“Not a chance,” he growls, already striding toward the bedroom. “You want to act like a brat? Fine. You get treated like one.”

The door slams behind you.

He throws you onto the bed. Stands over you, chest heaving.

“Clothes. Off. Now.”

You stare, wide-eyed, but your hands obey before your brain can catch up. Shirt. Bra. Shorts. Panties. Gone.

He’s still fully dressed. Doesn’t even take his shoes off.

“Lie back,” he snaps. “Legs open.”

Your mouth is dry. You do it anyway.

He kneels at the edge of the bed. Presses one palm to your inner thigh.

“You’re mad at me, baby?” he murmurs. “Think you can scream at me and walk away like you didn’t just get fucked last night with my come still dripping out of you?”

Your breath stutters.

He smirks. “Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

Then he leans in and ruins you.

Tongue slow and devastating. Fingers teasing your folds, never quite giving enough. He licks through you like it’s casual. Like you’re just breakfast and he has all morning.

You buck your hips. He pins them down.

“No,” he says sharply. “You don’t get to come yet. You don’t get anything until I say so.”

He keeps going. Two fingers inside. Mouth on your clit. Slow circles. Just enough to make you pant. Not enough to let you fall.

“I can feel you clenching,” he whispers. “Right there. You’re so fucking close.”

You nod. Desperate.

He pulls away.

You cry out. “Charles, no, please-”

“Shut up.” His voice is ice. “You don’t get to beg until I say you can.”

The next hour is torture.

He brings you to the edge four more times. Fingers. Tongue. His cock sliding through your soaked folds but never in.

He spanks you once. Then again.

“Brats get punished,” he says against your ear. “You want to argue? You want to mouth off? Then you take what I give you and you thank me for it.”

You’re crying now. Not sad. Just wrecked. Overstimulated. Shaking. “Charles, please. Please let me come. I’ll be good. I promise.”

He moans. “Yeah. I bet you will.”

But he still doesn’t give in. Not until you’re sobbing into the sheets. Not until you’re clawing at the headboard like your body is going to break in half from the tension.

Then he groans. Deep and broken. “Fuck. I can’t. I need to be inside you.”

He flips you. Slams into you. One brutal thrust. You scream.

He’s unrelenting. Fast. Deep. The kind of rhythm that makes the bed frame slam against the wall.

You come instantly. Hard. Clenching around him like your body is thanking him for the mercy.

He doesn’t stop. You come again. And again.

He fucks you through it. Growling. Biting your shoulder. Slapping your ass and calling you his.

When he finally comes, it’s with a groan against your ear and his hand tangled in your hair.

“Take it,” he whispers. “All of it. You belong to me.”

And when it’s over, when your body is limp and ruined, he kisses your temple.

“Still mad at me?”

You shake your head.

He laughs. Soft this time. “Good girl.”

[nightcourtnovels]

Matchmaker

Azriel x reader (part 6.5)

Summary: Azriel and Y/N get to have another date but this time in Velaris… and in Ritas;)

~~~~

She turned and froze the moment she saw him.

Her heart pounded like a drumbeat under her skin. Every nerve alive. She felt the dress cling tighter with the heat rising through her.

He looked devastating. Black shirt rolled at the sleeves, veins flexing along his forearms. Chest broad. Wings tucked in tight. And that face. Shadows flickered at his jaw like they, too, couldn’t resist touching him.

And his eyes. Gods, his eyes.

She’d always remembered them as cool and unreadable, but now they burned — focused entirely on her, devouring her in that golden dress like it had been made for his gaze alone.

Mother tits, he got hotter.

Y/N swallowed hard, the last of her drink burning down her throat as she tried to catch her breath — and her dignity.

Azriel took one slow step forward, and so did the male beside her.

The stranger — charming, persistent, attractive enough — clearly hadn’t gotten the hint yet. His hand was still lightly brushing her back, still thinking this was his moment.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to the male like a dagger unsheathed.

“May I cut in?” he asked — polite, velvet-soft.

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but Azriel didn’t look at her.

His eyes pinned the other male like a predator, voice dropping into something darker, colder, more final:

“I wasn’t asking.”

The fae male froze. His eyes darted between Azriel’s face and the shadows now writhing around his shoulders like coiled serpents, ready to strike.

He was already gone before the sentence finished.

Y/N blinked, stunned.

Azriel turned to her again, the tension in his jaw easing only slightly. And Cauldron help her, she liked that. She liked that he’d done it — that someone like him still got jealous. Still wanted her enough to make someone leave.

She tilted her head up at him, letting a slow, wicked smile curl on her lips. “That was dramatic.”

Azriel stepped into the space the other male had occupied, his hands finding her waist with the kind of certainty that stole her breath. “Don’t test me tonight,” he murmured. “Not when you look like this.”

His touch was fire. His shadows pressed close, nosing at the hem of her dress like they were every bit as possessive as he was.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Her lips parted just slightly. Her chest rose and fell too fast.

His voice was a caress. “Would a beauty like you care for a drink?”

That damn smirk touched his lips. His eyes never left hers—like he already knew the answer.

Y/N lifted her chin. She would not melt. She was not going to fall apart just because Azriel looked like sex and shadow and everything she’d ever wanted in a male.

Confident girl. You are a confident girl.

“Well,” she said, dragging her gaze over him like a slow sweep of heat, “I was getting quite parched.”

Yes, good one idiot.

His eyes darkened, gaze dropping to her mouth, and then lower—to the way her gold dress shimmered across her curves. His tongue swept over his bottom lip. Barely. But she saw it.

Cauldron save me.

Azriel smirked, eyes gleaming. “Come on, then.”

So, they slipped back toward the bar, shoulder brushing shoulder.

She felt Selene’s knowing smirk as she passed, Lalia’s delighted squeal—but none of it mattered.

Not when Azriel was walking beside her.

Not when his shadows reached for her, teasing at the hem of her dress like they wanted to know how far it went.

They made it to the bar. Ordered more drinks. He stood close. Too close. His scent wrapped around her—leather, cedar, wind after rain.

As they waited for their drinks, he asked, “So… how’d you find your way to Velaris?”

Y/N took her time before answering, letting her eyes roam lazily up his frame. “I wanted to see the City of Starlight for myself. And”—she sipped her new drink—“a certain High Lord was very happy to accommodate that request.”

Azriel’s jaw twitched. Rhys. He was going to kill him. And then thank him, but after he beat him.

He forced a breath and tilted his head. “Well? How are you enjoying it so far?”

Y/N’s lips curved, her eyes drifting toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the bar where the lights of Velaris shimmered like starlight across the Sidra. “It’s… magic,” she admitted softly. “Everything about it. The food, the people, the sky at night—how everyone looks like they belong, even when they’re wildly different.” She looked back at him, her smile quieter now. “I’ve never felt so safe and alive at the same time.”

Azriel stared at her.

That look on her face—unfiltered wonder, reverence—it did something to him. Stirred something old and tender. Because this was his home. His city. His blood in every street, every rooftop, every shadow. And she loved it.

She loved something that was his.

He wanted to give her all of it.

He continued to say something about Rita’s, how it hadn’t changed in a decade, but his words blurred as Y/N’s eyes flicked over his shoulder.

Her smile faltered.

There—at the Inner Circle’s booth—sat the same female from earlier. The one with the polished gold cuffs and perfect posture. The one whose hand had rested so comfortably on Azriel’s forearm. She laughed at something Mor said, but her eyes drifted toward the bar.

Toward them.

Y/N forced her gaze away quickly, but not quickly enough.

Azriel’s voice faded. His head tilted slightly, and she felt his attention narrow, zeroing in on her like a string pulled tight between them.

His fingers brushed lightly over the side of her hand where it rested on the counter. “What is it?”

She blinked up at him, trying to smooth her expression, but it was too late. The shadows around him had already begun to coil—alert, concerned.

“I’m fine,” she said, too fast.

His brow furrowed. “You looked like you saw something you didn’t like.”

Her throat felt thick. She hated this—how easily her heart twisted when she had no claim to make. No right to ask.

She tried to shrug it off. “It’s nothing. I was just—” Tried to deflect with a soft laugh, lifting the drink to her lips. “You interrogate everyone this much, shadowsinger?”

He didn’t smile. His voice lowered. “No. Just you.”

Azriel didn’t say anything at first. He just watched her.

She wished he would say something to break the silence—but instead, her mind filled it for him.

Of course she didn’t belong. Not here. Not next to him. Not when there were women like that.

Her gaze dropped to his arm, remembering that other hand there—delicate and poised and so casual in its ownership. Her own fingers twitched against the counter, as if she could erase the memory.

Azriel followed her line of sight. Then looked back up sharply.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Tell me.”

She bit her lip. “That woman. The one with the gold cuffs. She was sitting with you earlier.”

“Elain,” he said quickly, frowning now. “That’s… Elain.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “She had her hand on you. I— it’s not like I have any right to ask, but she was touching you.”

“She always does that,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I don’t ask for it. I don’t… want it. She and I aren’t—anything. Not anymore.”

Something flickered in his eyes then. A quiet desperation, as if he needed her to believe it.

“I didn’t want to assume,” Y/N said, her voice thin. “I just… I didn’t want to let myself hope if…”

Azriel reached for her hand then—not a brush, not a ghost of a touch, but a sure, grounding grip. His fingers slid over hers, warm and solid.

“You’re not hoping for something that isn’t already yours.”

She stared at him. Her heart beat against her ribs like wings.

He leaned in just slightly, shadows curling protectively around them both. “Whatever you want from me… I’ll give it. All of it.”

And when she said nothing—because she couldn’t breathe—he added, voice gentler, “You don’t need to question your place here. Not with me.”

Y/N swallowed, blinking up at him. And for once, the ache inside her started to ease.

Because she believed him.

“I’m sorry for acting so possessive—it’s not like me.”

Azriel chuckled, low and warm. “You should see me when someone talks to you. I almost threw that male across the bar.”

That startled a laugh from her—a breath of relief and disbelief tangled into one. She let it fill her chest, let it settle the last of that ache in her gut.

Azriel’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Would you like to go sit down? Somewhere quieter?”

Y/N nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting again. “As long as there is more alcohol.”

Azriel grinned as he gently guided her through the crowd, his hand low on her back, shadows trailing like silk behind them. “Need some liquid courage?”

Y/N just giggled as they settled into a booth in the far corner—half-shielded by a velvet curtain.

As they sat down, Azriel asked, “Alright. Let’s start simple. Favorite color.”

Y/N laughed. “What, did we not cover that on our last date?”

He chuckled. “I don’t think so.”

“Wow. Such a deep question,” she said dryly. “Okay, let me guess. Yours is black.”

Azriel gave a slow, faux-offended blink. “That’s profiling.”

“You are literally wearing black right now.”

“And you wear everything yellow and gold,” he replied smoothly, eyes dipping again to where the dress clung to her.

She flushed and took another drink. “Okay, Shadowsinger. Real answer.”

“Blue,” he said. “The color of the Sidra just before dawn. Yours?”

“Purple. The deep kind—like thunderclouds.”

At some point, she moved to cross her legs and their knees bumped—and didn’t move apart again.

Her voice dipped lower. “Alright. Truth or dare.”

He arched a brow. “You’re playing dirty now.”

“Truth,” she said, smug.

Azriel leaned back slightly, studying her. “What did you think the first time you saw me?”

Y/N laughed, cheeks already warm with wine. “I thought you looked like a sin I’d commit twice. And then ask for a third round.”

Azriel let out a low groan, dragging a hand over his face. “Cauldron.”

“Your turn,” she said, smug.

He leaned in, shadows curling toward her like fingertips. “Dare.”

She blinked. “I thought you were a truth kind of male.”

“I already know my truths. Let’s see what you’ll make me do.”

Her lips parted slightly. “I dare you to… tell me something you want. Right now.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to her mouth. Then her collarbone. Then the curve of her bare thigh, pressed close to his.

“You,” he said.

The air turned molten.

He didn’t move—not yet. But his shadows tangled tighter around her ankles, brushing up her calf. She felt their tug like a whisper against skin.

Y/N’s breath caught. Her glass was empty again, she wasn’t sure when.

She dared, “And what would you do if I said I want you, too?”

Azriel’s pupils blew wide.

His voice was nearly a growl. “I’d take you out of this place. Now.”

And gods help her, she was tempted.

Their knees touched. His hand was now on the seat behind her, thumb brushing slow circles against her shoulder.

“I should’ve danced with you first,” he said. “Should’ve never let another male near you.”

“You didn’t even know I was here,” she teased, eyes heavy-lidded.

Azriel leaned in. His nose brushed hers. “Didn’t have to. My shadows did. They were frantic the moment you walked in.”

She smiled. “Possessive, remember?”

His grin was wicked. “You make it hard not to be.”

And she knew—if he kissed her now, she’d never want to stop.

As the next round arrived, they slipped deeper into conversation, the space between them disappearing inch by inch. Every word built something. Every glance tightened the unknown thread between them.

And after awhile, the bass shifted, slow and sensual.

Y/N’s breath caught as his fingers ghosted near hers, not touching—daring her.

She couldn’t think of anything.

“Do you still know how to dance?” she asked, feigning casual even as her heart raced.

“How could I forget?” he murmured, offering his hand.

Y/N slid her fingers into his as she got up from the booth and Azriel pulled her into the crowd, into the rhythm, into him.

The way he moved—smooth, controlled, predatory.

His hands found her hips like he’d always known exactly where to touch. She swayed against him, body sliding against his.

Mother above, he feels like sin. Like trouble I’d let ruin me.

Her back brushed his chest. She felt his breath at her neck. Her heartbeat thundered.

They moved together, grinding to the beat, hips locked in time. His palms pressed lower on her waist, pulling her in.

She turned—slow, seductive—arms curling around his neck. Her fingers played with the ends of his hair, tugging lightly. His hands slid across her bare back.

He looked down at her like he wanted to devour.

She was drenched in heat. And not just from the dancing. Every place they touched sparked. Every shift of her hips a tease.

He smells so good. Looks like a damn fantasy. His hands are so—

He dipped his head—closer, closer.

She swore her knees wobbled. Her lips parted on instinct.

But, someone bumped into them.

A deep voice said, “I am so sorry, Azriel. Didn’t see you there.”

They both looked up—and were met with a familiar, wicked grin.

Cassian.

Azriel turned his head slowly, smile tight. “All good, brother. Though it’d be a shame if someone stepped on your toes with how clumsy you are.”

Cassian just smirked, glancing down at Y/N and then back to Azriel. “Would be an even bigger shame if someone stepped into your spot and stole your date.”

Azriel’s hand twitched as he reached to grab Cassian’s collar—but the general twirled away with a bark of laughter, sauntering back to Nesta, who just shook her head and waved at Y/N.

Y/N laughed, waving back. “That must be the famous Cassian.”

Azriel groaned. “Unfortunately.”

She grinned. “I like him.”

“Of course you do,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to her mouth. “You like trouble.”

“You’re one to talk,” she whispered, pulling him back into the rhythm of the music, their bodies finding that sweet, slow sway again.

~~~

Later into the night, Y/N could barely feel her feet anymore.

Whether it was the dancing or the drinks or the molten heat of Azriel’s gaze burning into her all night, she wasn’t sure. But standing still now, body still buzzing, she realized something very important:

She was drunk. Like… really drunk.

And Azriel was right in front of her.

Cauldron, she wanted to ask if they could leave together. Wanted to close the distance and whisper something wicked against his jaw. Her lips practically tingled with it.

But walking was a risk. Speaking? Even worse.

Not that what she had in mind involved much talking.

But before she could do anything, Selene and Lalia appeared at her side, cheeks flushed, makeup smudged from too much laughing.

“We’re very drunk,” Selene announced, clutching her arm. “Like, we’re gonna fall into the river if we don’t go home.”

“So, we decided it’s best that we go to bed. My friend is going to take us back,” Lalia added, nodding slowly. Then her gaze flicked to Azriel and she grinned at Y/N. “You can stay though. And have fun.”

Lalia, drunker than she realized, said it way too loud. And the wink that was made was not subtle.

Azriel chuckled behind her.

Y/N’s eyes went wide. She turned, face flushed. And then—of course—she tripped in her heels.

Azriel moved instantly, catching her by the waist. Her hands fisted in his shirt as he steadied her, and she clung there for a moment, laughing breathlessly.

“Oh, I am way too drunk,” she laughed. “I really, really want to stay with you tonight but… I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Azriel tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into that devastating smirk. “Why?” he asked, voice a little husky. “Scared you might jump into another pool?”

She snorted, laughing. “That. And I think you might be holding my hair back over the toilet instead of… in the sheets.”

The second the words left her mouth, her eyes blew wide.

She slapped a hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

Azriel barked out a laugh, the sound low and genuine and unguarded. “Cauldron,” he grinned, “you’re trouble.”

She groaned and hid her face in his chest. He didn’t move away. In fact—he clung to her tighter.

“I wouldn’t mind helping in both ways,” he said, voice lowering, one hand rising to tip her chin up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Although I vastly prefer the second.”

Her lips parted. Her heart sprinted.

“Don’t tempt me,” she whispered. “You’re bad. Very, very bad.”

Azriel leaned in, slightly swaying, the alcohol in him loosening the ever-tight restraint he wore. His forehead rested against hers, his shadows curling lazily around her hips.

“Will you be at Starfall?” he murmured. Cauldron, he couldn’t even think straight.

Y/N nodded. “Wouldn’t miss you—it.”

His smile was slow. Warm. Wrecking. “Good. Then go home and get your beauty sleep. We’ve got tomorrow.”

Y/N pouted, swaying a little. “Very, unfortunately, very good idea.”

He dipped closer, voice brushing her ear like a secret. “If you look half as good tomorrow as you do tonight, I’m not letting you out of my arms. Just so you know.”

She shivered. Then leaned up, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“I hope you do hold my hair tomorrow. But not for throwing up.”

Azriel stilled.

She pulled back, winked. “Goodnight, shadowsinger.”

Then she turned, hips swaying in that damn gold dress as she walked away, tipsy and glowing and completely his.

She will be his.

Azriel exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and watched her vanish into the night with her friends.

Yeah. He was drunk.

And very, very smitten.

Oh Mother, the headache tomorrow from the alcohol and his brothers was enough to make him realize he also very much needed to go bed as well.

[mamiobesssionfics]

All the Quiet Things

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Summary: As a single mother who was left behind, you never expected to find love.

It had been a long time since someone looked at you the way Rhea Ripley did.

Not just with affection but with presence. Like she saw you. Like she’d memorised the tired lines under your eyes and the way your shoulders curled protectively when you felt like the world asked too much. Like she admired how you held everything together with trembling hands, even when it all felt too heavy.

But that didn’t mean you trusted it.

Because you remembered what it felt like to be left.

Your son had barely been a flutter in your belly when his father walked out.

He said he “wasn’t ready,” said he “didn’t sign up for this,” and you said nothing at all, because your mouth couldn’t move around the shards of your heart.

Now, years later, love didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like a loaded question.

And Rhea, kind, slow-moving, dog-loving, bedtime-story-reading Rhea, was answering it without even knowing.

You knew she was falling for you.

The way she looked at you when you were laughing with your son. The way she reached for your hand while you pushed the trolley through the supermarket.

The way she always asked how you were doing before she asked about anything else.

But you pulled back, gently at first.

You told yourself it was about space. About being cautious. About doing the right thing for your son.

But of course, she noticed it.

One night, after she’d fixed your wobbly garden gate and stayed for tea, she looked across the table and asked softly, “Are you pulling away from me?”

Your fork stalled in mid-air. You looked at her, cheeks warm, guilt flooding your throat.

“I just… don’t want to mess anything up.”

“Mess what up?” she asked. Her voice was quiet but steady. “This?”

You nodded. “This. You. Him. All of it. What if I let myself want this and it all falls apart?”

Rhea leaned back in her chair. Ran a hand through her hair.

“You think I’d leave?”

“I think people do,” you whispered. “Even when they love you. Even when they promise.”

She didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then she stood up. Moved around the table. Knelt in front of you.

“I’m not him.”

“I know.”

“I’m not here for a version of you that’s easier or simpler or less tired. I’m here for you.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away. “Rhea, I’m not good at trusting people.”

“I’m not asking you to trust me right away,” she said. “Just don’t run from me while I’m standing still for you.”

But still, something inside you held back.

A wall built of old heartbreak, bricks labelled with shame, with fear, with the endless echo of what if you’re too much?

You didn’t realise you were breaking her heart too, in your silence, in your fear, in all the half-answers you gave her when she reached out.

It came to a head one evening.

Your son had just gone to sleep. You were folding laundry. Rhea had come over to bring you dinner. You hadn’t touched it.

“You’re pushing me out again,” she said suddenly. “I can feel it.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I think I should go,” she said, her voice breaking for the first time. “I keep trying, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Your heart twisted.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you whispered.

“Then why are you still so afraid of me?”

And just like that, something snapped.

You dropped the shirt you were folding. Turned to her, hands trembling.

“Because I love you,” you said. “And I don’t know how to let myself have something that doesn’t hurt.”

The silence was thick. Your chest heaved. Her eyes were shining.

You stepped forward. “You look at me like I’m something good. Do you know how terrifying that is?”

She reached for you. Held your face in both hands. Her thumbs brushed your cheeks.

“You are something good,” she whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

And that was it.

The wall crumbled.

You sobbed into her shoulder, and she held you like she’d been waiting her whole life to. No promises. No demands. Just presence.

Just her. Just you.

Just love.

Later, curled up together on the sofa with your head on her chest and her arms tight around you, she kissed your hair and murmured,

“We’ll go slow. We’ll make our own rules.”

You nodded. “He already loves you, you know.”

She smiled into your hair. “Yeah. I kind of love him too.”

Then, after a pause…

“And his mum.”

You looked up at her.

“I love you,” she said again, firm this time. “Even if you don���t believe it yet.”

You believed her.

Finally, you believed her.

And you never ran again.

---

The garden was overgrown in the best kind of way.

Flowers your son had planted with Rhea grew crooked and bright along the fence, tomatoes ripened on a vine she’d tied with care, and his toys lay scattered in the grass like the aftermath of a joyful storm.

You watched them from the kitchen window, heart full to the brim.

She had him on her shoulders, laughing as he held a paper plane above his head. He launched it, and it nosedived directly into the vegetable patch.

“That was brilliant!” she called, spinning in circles with him, his giggles echoing through the summer air.

You had no idea a life could feel like this. So full.

That evening, after bath time and three full rounds of “The Gruffalo,” you stood in the doorway of your son’s bedroom while Rhea curled up beside him on the bed.

She’d started reading to him the week after she fixed your garden gate. Now it was a ritual — one you couldn’t break even if you tried.

“Did you like the story?” she whispered, brushing his damp hair from his forehead.

He nodded sleepily. “Yeah.”

“You sleepy now?”

He blinked slowly. “Mhm.”

She kissed his head.

“Rhea?” he mumbled.

“Yes, little man?”

His eyes fluttered open again — wide, soft, so much like yours. He reached for her hand and held it.

“I love you.”

Rhea froze.

Your breath caught.

She looked at him, then at you. Her lips parted, voice trembling.

“I love you too, mate,” she whispered, leaning in close. “So, so much.”

He nodded. “You’re my best.”

“I’ll always be your best.”

You turned away, tears slipping down your cheeks, not from sadness, but from a kind of peace you’d forgotten existed.

That night, Rhea found you on the sofa with a blanket and a mug of tea, staring out at the fairy lights twinkling over the patio.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Then, softly, “That meant the world to me.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

She sat down beside you, arm brushing yours.

You stared into your mug for a moment. Then, with trembling fingers, you reached into your jumper pocket.

A small, velvet ring box sat in your palm.

She stared at it. Her mouth dropped open slightly.

“Wait, are you-”

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes shining. “I am.”

Rhea blinked rapidly. “But I thought you’d never want to-”

“I didn’t think I could,” you said. “Not until tonight. Not until he said he loved you. Not until I realised that so do I. Enough to do this. To ask.”

You opened the box. A simple silver band lay inside. No diamonds, no flourish. Just a promise.

“You stayed. You loved us. I want you to stay forever.”

Rhea didn’t speak.

She just threw her arms around you, burying her face in your neck, breath shaking with emotion.

You felt the dampness of her tears against your skin.

“I was going to ask you,” she whispered. “I swear to God. I’ve had a ring hidden in my toolbox for weeks.”

You laughed, crying too now. “Of course you did.”

“I’ll still give it to you,” she said, pulling back with a grin, and wiping her eyes. “But this- this is all I ever wanted.”

You slipped the ring onto her finger.

Then she reached into her pocket, just like you had — and pulled out her ring for you.

It was a mess of laughter and tears and tangled arms as you tried to put each ring on with shaking hands.

Outside, a dog barked in the distance.

The fairy lights flickered. Your world, small and precious, held its breath.

Then Rhea kissed you like the answer to every question you’d ever been too afraid to ask.

Later, she curled up behind you in bed, hand resting gently on your stomach, her forehead tucked against your shoulder.

“Did you ever think,” she murmured, “we’d end up here?”

You turned, and kissed the crown of her head.

“Not once,” you said. “And I’ve never been happier to be wrong.”

Masterlist

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[zomquette]

Dunno ‘er - (part 2)

Daryl Dixon x Wife!reader

Summary:  You didn’t sign up for a brainwashed death cult. But here you are—collared, bruised, and pretending not to know your own husband.

The escape plan? Still cooking.

But life has other ideas.  Like watching everything you love go up in smoke. And then, when all hope’s gone, a miracle with a familiar face walks into your gun sight.

Problem is… you’re both one second from falling apart. Oh and you have a daughter waiting for you back home.

Genre: Post-apocalyptic angst, emotional/eventual smut, established relationship, captivity survival, hurt/comfort, reunion.

⚠️ Content Warnings: Graphic violence and murder / Captivity and psychological torture / Dissociation, trauma responses, emotional numbness / False death / burned body imagery / Religious cult themes / Grief, survivor’s guilt, PTSD themes / Explicit sexual content (PIV, double creampie, desperate/reunion sex/ Dacryphilia? Praise kink?) / Sexual content while grieving / Strong language / profanity.

Author's note: Seriously, if you can't handle angst, don't read this — it's pretty intense. I'm still a bit unsure about fitting so much into one part. I fear that that may have stripped it of all the tension, cliffhangers, and blah blah, but let me know what you all think. This is roughly 10% fluff, 50% angst, and 40% smut. And honestly, I'm quite proud of the smut I wrote, hehehe. I promised smut in the last part, and I am a woman of my word (I'm ovulating, so that's why it's filthy). BUT THIS IS SO LONG, WTF — every post I make gets longer than the last. Also, the rage I’m harbouring right now is unhealthy. I stayed up all night writing this, and it didn't save, so I had to use an old draft. Real ones would have seen the og post being posted at an unduly hour and deleted right after cause it was the wrong version. Anyway, this will never be as good as the original one I had, but whatever. I think I’ve just been trying to perfect this so much that I’ve grown tired of the story. I tried my best to make itly thorough, but I cba doing 5 or 6 part series, so deal with it. Anyway, erm, enjoy. 🔫 Good luck reading this, honestly, but if you do manage to get through it, please let me know what you think! If you want a part 3 or maybe I should just stick to one-shots, lol. rushed, be real

The sky was beginning to soften at the edges, that pale pink glow creeping over the tops of the houses like an afterthought. Alexandria was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like peace. It felt like absence.

Carol had barely slept. She’d tried—curled up on the couch with a half-read book in one hand and Dani’s head pressed against her chest—but every creak in the house made her sit upright. Every gust of wind that whispered against the windows made her turn her head. They were supposed to be back by nightfall.

They weren’t.

She told herself a hundred reasons why. A blocked path. A long shot. An overnight holdout. Nothing she hadn’t done herself. But as the night stretched longer, those excuses stopped fitting right.

The sun was just beginning to rise when the barking started.

Frantic, erratic barking. 

Carol was already on her feet by the time she registered the sound. She crossed to the front window first, peeking through the curtains, her hand resting instinctively near the blade at her hip. Behind her, Dani still slept on the couch, curled on her side with one arm flung over her stuffed giraffe.

Carol hesitated, casting a glance back at the girl. Quietly, she moved to her side, brushing a few strands of hair from Dani’s face. The child didn’t stir.

Then the barking came again—sharper now, urgent.

Carol straightened, her pulse catching. She moved to the door.

Then she saw him—Dog—barreling through the gate, his paws kicking up dust, his fur slick with sweat and burrs. He didn’t stop for anything. Not the gate, not the guard. He bee-lined for the house like he had something to say and no way to say it.

Carol’s blood went cold.

“Shit.”

The door creaked open behind her.

“Is it them?” Dani’s voice, soft and raspy, still half-asleep. She stood in the hallway, holding her little giraffe toy by the neck, her hair mussed and face creased from the pillow.

Carol turned, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s Dog, sweetheart. He came home.”

Dani blinked up at her, confusion flickering in her features.

“But—where’s Mama?”

Dog let out a sharp bark then, circling back toward the gate as if expecting someone else to follow. When no one did, he whined—just once—and laid down at Dani’s feet, panting hard.

The moment stretched too long.

Dani’s little voice cracked.

“Where’s Daddy?”

Carol crouched slowly, gathering the girl into her arms. Dani didn’t cry. Not yet. But her lip wobbled, and her little fists clenched in Carol’s shirt like she already knew. Carol closed her eyes against the rising sun and whispered into Dani’s hair.

“We’re gonna find them, sweetie. I promise.”

------

The clang of the iron doors echoed louder than it should have. Morning haze burned off above, revealing a sunken courtyard lined in metal and concrete—an arena. It was crude but intentional, like a forgotten parking lot retrofitted into a coliseum. Creed soldiers stood posted on ledges above, rifles in hand, their blank stares as chilling as the frost in the air.

You and Daryl were led in side by side, wrists still raw from rope burns, flanked by two guards whose silence felt more threatening than any shout. Marshal waited at the far end, leaning against a pillar like he owned the damn sky. “Welcome to the next phase of your integration,” he said with a smirk. “Time to see what you’re really made of.”

Daryl’s eyes scanned over the crpowd and landed back on Marshal; “the hell does that mean?”

Marshal didn’t flinch. He only smiled—a small, patient expression that suggested he’d been waiting for Daryl to ask.

“What it means,” he said, tone steady and deliberate as his eyes flicked from Daryl to you, “is that we’re gonna see whether the two of you are built for survival, or just lucked your way this far.”

Daryl’s posture shifted—shoulders drawn tight, chin lifted ever so slightly. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

“You both say you’re not part of any community,” Marshal continued, stepping in closer, voice still calm but now laced with something colder, meaner. “You say you’ve got no ties, no attachments, no liabilities. Well, we’re about to test that. See how deep that independence really goes.”

He made a vague gesture to the empty space in the center of the pit, and only then did you notice the chalk ring, faint but deliberate, drawn onto the dusty floor. A makeshift arena.

“Rules are simple,” Marshal said, glancing back at the onlookers gathering behind the barricades. “You step into the ring. You fight. No weapons. No kills. Just enough to show us you can survive without sentiment.”

His eyes landed squarely on you. “Win, and you prove you’re valuable to The Creed.”

Then to Daryl, his smirk returning. “Lose… and you prove you’re not.”

Daryl took a step forward, his voice dropping low with that same dry, dangerous rasp that never needed to be raised to hit like a bullet. “You want us to fight each other?”

Marshal didn’t answer at first. He let the silence stretch, enjoying the crackling tension like a man toasting marshmallows over an open fire. Then, with an infuriating shrug: “You said you’re strangers. Shouldn’t matter.”

You exhaled slowly, eyes sweeping the chalk ring, then up to Daryl.

He looked like he was staring down a bull, not his goddamn wife.

Daryl’s boots scraped against the dirt as he stepped into the ring with the stiffness of a man preparing for an execution—his own, not yours. His body moved like it didn’t want to, like every muscle was strung tight and on the verge of snapping. You tilted your head, watching him with a slow grin, even as your stomach coiled into knots.

You lowered your voice to a whisper only he could hear. “C’mon, Dixon. You’ve been waitin’ to knock me on my ass for years. Now, sack up and hit your wife already!”

His glare cut sideways. “Ain’t funny woman.”

“No,” you muttered back, cracking your knuckles, “but if you don’t swing at me in the next thirty seconds, this whole charade is gonna fall through.”

Around you, the crowd pressed in like vultures, a mess of hushed chants and boots grinding on dirt. Marshal stood still at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, unimpressed. His eyes were sharp, hungry for weakness, waiting for blood.

“Hit me,” you hissed. “Make it look good.”

Daryl looked like he wanted to argue—of course, he did—but then his jaw twitched and his shoulders rolled back, and suddenly he was moving. You ducked the first lunge, then let him catch you on the second, his grip firm but careful as he shoved you backward just hard enough to send you sprawling with a theatrical grunt.

You landed on your back, winded only by the sheer performance of it, then popped up fast and grinned like the world’s cockiest fox. “That’s the spirit, baby.”

He shook his head once, biting back a smirk.

You circled him again, letting your feet slide through the dust as you closed the distance. Then—without warning—you leapt forward and tackled him.

The crowd gasped. So did Daryl.

He landed hard, and you were on top before he could blink, straddling him with your knees locked against his sides. One hand went for his throat—not to crush, just enough to push his head back into the dirt, your body draped low enough that your lips brushed his ear as you murmured, hot and slow, “Ooh, gettin’ déjà vu, baby.”

His breath hitched. You felt it more than you heard it.

You leaned in closer, still whispering, still completely out of pocket. “Y’know, if this is what it takes to spice things up, we should fight in front of a cult more often.”

All joking aside, the last thing you two needed was for things to ‘spice up’ in the bedroom. Daryl’s eyes flashed, and in one fluid motion, he flipped the two of you over. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even dominant. It was like his body did it on instinct, like the muscle memory of being with you overrode every ounce of caution.

He straddled you now, both of you panting, faces close, his giant hand going to your throat to give the illusion he was choking you now. Now you were the one getting Deja vu - for one suspended second, the world dropped away.

His palm hovered at your throat, barely brushing it, thumb ghosting the pulse there—not enough to leave a mark, not even close, but enough to look convincing to the frothing crowd around you.

Then he murmured low, voice rough and electric: “Keep talkin’, woman, and we’re gonna give the whole Creed a show.”

You snorted under your breath, “thought that was the plan.” You reached up and grabbed his wrist, eyes wild with mock fury, and hissed, “Well, this is familiar.”

His whole body tensed.

“You tryna get me killed?” he rasped low through clenched teeth, voice almost drowned out by the chant rising from the circle around you—“Fight, fight, fight!”—as boots stomped rhythmically against the dirt.

You batted your lashes, whispered, “You love it.”

Then you kneed him in the side—not hard, not enough to do damage, just enough to get him to roll. You broke apart in a scramble of limbs, dirt smearing across your cheek as you rolled to your feet, breathing hard, brushing your hair from your face in a single, showy sweep.

Daryl was up just as fast, crouched low, boots spread, that predator stance of his back in full force. His eyes flicked to you, then around the ring, then back again. 

He wasn’t enjoying this. But to his credit, he was playing along.

You gave him a cocky wink and charged again, this time twisting mid-run so he couldn’t catch you outright. You ducked beneath his arms, spun behind him, and hoisted yourself up using his shoulders. Your legs swung around to lock around his neck. The momentum of your movements and your added weight brought him crumbling down to the ground, your iron grip not faltering. 

The crowd hollered like it was a strip show. Your thighs were still locked around his neck, not crushing at all. Daryl would happily fall asleep like this if it weren’t for the angry mob surrounding the two of you. You grinned down at him, all sugar and sin. “That reminds me, actually,” you purred, angling your hips for dramatic flair. “—you still owe me for that bet yesterday, Dixon. And I’m thinkin’ this counts as double interest. I’m thinking maybe me on top and then-”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Daryl’s hands shot up and dug mercilessly into your ribs—that precise spot he knew that gets you every time..

“Daryl!” you screeched, your legs faltering as your grip broke under the betrayal. That asshole was tickling you. You twisted, half laughing, half furious, trying to wriggle free, but he rolled with you, fluid as a predator, and the next thing you knew, Daryl was straddling you again, his face flushed, his breath warm and smug on your cheek.

“You fight dirty,” you gasped, still squirming.

He leaned down, pinning your wrists to the earth. “Learned from the best.”

The crowd roared its approval behind him—none the wiser to the fact that your brutal, breathless brawl had just taken a sharp detour into foreplay.

You were still breathless beneath him when his eyes flicked toward the growing crowd—some of them cheering, some confused, and one or two looking suspiciously too entertained. Marshal’s expression was unreadable, but his arms were crossed, and that never meant anything good.

Daryl must’ve felt the change in the air too, because the next thing you knew, he was gripping your waist and lifting you clean off the ground.

Your yelp turned into a squeal of half-genuine panic as he hauled you upright, holding you like a goddamn ragdoll in some bastardised wrestling move you were almost sure he learned from watching you and Judith play WWE.

Your legs kicked slightly in protest, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders, and your voice came out a little more shrill than intended;“Don’t drop me, Dixon. Not in front of my fans!”

Then you flipped backwards off him, hitting the ground in a clean roll that had half the crowd gasping and the other half cheering like they’d just watched a WWE pay-per-view. You let the momentum carry you into a crouch, then sprang up with a fake jab that Daryl dodged with practised ease, his eyes tracking you the way a storm watches a matchstick flame.

“Sell it,” you hissed when your face passed his. “Hit me like you mean it, or I will break your nose. For real.”

He growled low. “Ain’t hittin’ you.”

“Then throw me again, you stubborn bastard.”

He did. He swooped you up and dropped you dramatically—but with enough control that you hit the ground in a well-rehearsed tumble, landing on your side with a grunt that made it look real. He crouched beside you instantly, all faux menace and steady hands.

You stayed down for a beat—long enough to convince the watchers you were down for good—then moved.

Not fast. Explosive.

Your legs hooked behind his knees, yanked hard, and Daryl hit the dirt with a grunt of surprise, his fall cushioned only slightly by instinct.

The crowd reacted immediately—cheers, hollers, a few startled laughs—and you were already scrambling over him, straddling his chest before he could fully register what just happened. You raised your elbow in the air, giving Daryl the signal—a silent cue only the two of you would catch—and started ‘punching’ him with exaggerated flair. He played along, grunting like you were knocking the sense out of him, head snapping to the side each time your fist made theatrical contact.

Each blow was sold like a soap opera brawl, complete with breathy snarls and eye rolls, until the crowd started eating it up. Somewhere near the front, someone shouted, “Finish him!” and you gave a little wink like you might.

“C’mon, baby,” you muttered under your breath between ‘hits,’ keeping your expression fierce for the audience but your voice low just for him. “Gimme some sound effects or they're gonna think you're a bottom.”

He groaned dramatically in reply—part pain, part exasperation. “Remind me never to piss you off for real.”

You raised a brow. “You say that every time.”

Then you threw another punch, complete with an over-the-top snarl, and this time he flopped sideways, one arm sprawled out like you’d just KO’d him in a Vegas ring.

You leaned back, arms raised in mock victory like a bloodthirsty crowd champion. The Creed audience roared.

Then, just to seal the deal, you grabbed his shirt, hauled him up halfway—then headbutted him.

Not hard. Just enough to send him reeling backward in shock, the motion letting you roll smoothly off him like you’d planned it all along.

The Creed crowd loved it. They erupted, hooting and clapping, some banging fists against whatever passed for a makeshift wall. A few even started chanting something unintelligible, just thrilled by the show of violence.

Marshal didn’t look thrilled.

You circled Daryl as he sat up slowly, rubbing his temple and blinking like someone had just unplugged him from a simulation.

“That one was for the hickey you gave me right before council meeting last week, asshole.” you said sweetly, brushing fake dust off your pants.

“Cmon Dixon get up,” you barked, pacing like a feral thing now. “I swear to God, if I have to carry this whole scene myself, I want a cut of the ticket sales.”

He struck first—predictable. A sharp, looping jab aimed to rattle, not bruise. You ducked with a twist of your neck, caught his wrist mid-swing, and used his own weight to spin him in place, your boot skidding in the dust as you leveraged his momentum and shoved him shoulder-first into the ground.

But he rolled with it, literally, came up on one knee already moving, and this time it was you dodging a backhand that would’ve blacked your eye. He didn’t hesitate—not because he meant it, but because the crowd didn’t know he didn’t.

You kicked high. He caught it mid-air. Smirked. What an asshole.

You bent with the held leg and launched your other foot at his chest. He stumbled—more from surprise than force—and you dropped into a crouch, one hand finding the dirt. He didn't waste any time and lunged again.

You met him halfway—no wasted motion, no theatrics. Just two bodies colliding with the precision of old instincts. You traded blows: elbow to ribs, forearm to throat, the twist of his fingers catching your braid before you slammed your palm into his stomach and flipped him clean over your shoulder.

He hit the ground hard. You followed, straddling him yet again, making sure to keep him pinned to the ground.

And then—your faces aligned. Close. Breath mingling. His mouth twitched.

“Think Marshal’s buyin’ it?”

“Think I’m gonna lose my damn mind,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as his hands gripped your thighs too tight to be innocent.

You sat up on him, pinning his shoulders with your knees, then pretended to throw a punch—only to pause mid-air and flash a sickly sweet smile down at him.

“Smile for the crowd, baby.”

The crowd was howling now. Half of them were ready to crown you queen of this dirt-pit, the other half probably needed a cold shower. It didn’t matter. You were selling it.

And then came the whisper: “Ready to end it?”

Daryl gave you the faintest nod.

You feinted a punch to his side—he read it, blocked—and that’s exactly what you wanted. You twisted your arm in his grip, used the torque to propel your body up, and flipped yourself over his shoulder in a tight, ruthless arc. His grip slipped. His balance shattered. He staggered back, just for a breath—and that’s all you needed.

You ran straight for him.

A short sprint. Three steps. You jumped.

Your boot planted on his thigh, then his shoulder, and in a blur of motion you vaulted off him—body spinning in the air, twisting behind him like a goddamn storm—and brought him down with a brutal scissor-kick to the back of the neck.

He hit the ground hard. Wind knocked out. Face-down in the dust.

And before the crowd could blink, you were on him—foot planted between his shoulder blades, hand gripping his wrist, pulling his arm behind his back in a vicious, joint-lock hold. You leaned low, whispering just for him.

"You good? Ready for the big finale yet?" 

His breathe studdered from beneath you; "thought that was the finale-"                                                           

The crowd was eating it up now, hollering, whooping, even laughing in scattered bursts. But Marshal didn’t look amused. His jaw was tight, his arms still folded.

That moment of connection flickered between you and Daryl—something hot and dangerous beneath the surface—and just as quickly, you broke it. You rolled, forcing him off, staggering to your feet with a limp you barely sold.

“Round two?” you rasped, catching your breath.

Daryl grunted, getting to his feet with a glare that was more fond than furious. “You’re an asshole.”

“You married me,” you said sweetly. “Suck it up.”

From the edge of the crowd, Marshal’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

“Enough.”

Marshal’s voice split the air like a bullet, slicing clean through the chaos with the kind of finality that didn’t invite argument. The shift was instant. The onlookers, once rowdy and riled with bloodlust, fell into a jarring silence—uneasy, expectant. Like they’d just sensed a storm rolling in.

You froze mid-step, chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths, hands still half-raised in your theatrical stance. Across from you, Daryl was already watching Marshal like a hound scenting something foul, his posture rigid, fists clenched tight at his sides.

Marshal stepped into the ring slowly, arms folded, his boots dragging dust over the edge of the chalk line like he was crossing into holy ground. He didn’t look amused. Didn’t look impressed. He looked tired of the performance.

“That was cute,” he said, his voice low and stripped of inflection. “Entertaining, even. But this ain’t a circus.”

He nodded toward the edge of the crowd, toward one of the waiting soldiers.

“We need soldiers.”

Then, eyes fixed on Daryl, he added: “You’ve been benched.”

Daryl blinked once, slow. “The fuck does that mean?”

Marshal’s mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite.  “Means you're out. She needs a real fight - with someone who can actually keep up.”

You didn’t see the snap. You felt it.

Daryl stepped forward fast, body tight as wire, his voice a rasp of fury that cut clean through the space between you. “Fuck that.”

The crowd shifted like a tide turning—weapons twitched, fingers hovered near triggers, boots repositioned subtly for tension.

Marshal didn’t even blink. “Stand down,” he said, calm as poison. “Unless you wanna be executed for insubordination.”

Daryl didn’t move at first. His shoulders rose and fell with shallow, furious breath. His eyes never left Marshal’s.

That’s when you stepped in—just your eyes, one sharp look. Enough.

It didn’t say please. It said: Don’t you fucking dare. You’ll get us both killed.

His jaw clenched. You could practically hear the bones grind. But he stepped back—barely. One foot, then the other, like he had to pry himself away from the fight inch by inch.

You didn’t thank him. There wasn’t time.

You turned back toward the center as the new opponent stepped into the ring. One of Marshal’s men—a tall, wiry bastard with a sunken mouth and cracked knuckles. No theatrics. No grin. Just the cold, blank expression of someone who liked to hurt and had been given permission to do so.

He circled you like a vulture, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly, studying the angle of your stance the way a butcher sizes up a carcass before the cut. You didn’t smile. You didn’t wink. No playful mask this time. You just rolled your neck until it cracked like splitting wood, dropped your weight low into your hips, and squared your shoulders as if made of stone.

Marshal gave the nod.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t feint. He lunged like he meant to kill.

His fist tore through the air with the speed of a blade. You dodged—barely—the wind of it rushing past your temple, but the elbow followed fast, and that one landed with surgical precision, driving up beneath your ribs so hard your vision flashed white at the edges. You didn’t fall. You couldn’t. You swallowed the pain like gravel in your throat, gritted your teeth, and met him halfway with a sweep of your leg that caught his ankle and knocked him off-balance. But he was fast—too fast—and his recovery was brutal. A sharp kick drove into your thigh, the kind that bypassed muscle and hit deep in the bone.

Daryl flinched on the sidelines, his fists clenched so tightly the veins bulged white along his arms. You didn’t dare look at him. Couldn’t afford to. One glance would undo the dam inside you, and right now, rage was the only thing keeping you standing.

You drove your fist into the man’s side, followed with a right hook. He stumbled but didn’t drop. He came at you again, heavier this time, his full weight behind each strike. You blocked with your forearms, tried to deflect what you couldn’t match, but the next hit came low and fast—his shoulder ramming into your chest like a battering ram—and it sent you sprawling.

You hit the dirt hard—hard enough that the breath tore out of you and something inside your shoulder screamed. His full weight had slammed you down, and your left arm was twisted awkwardly beneath your body, caught between bone and earth.

The pain hit instantly, flooding your entire side like molten lava.

A sharp, wet pop echoed beneath your skin—ugly, unnatural. Your shoulder socket tore free on impact, the joint wrenching loose with the kind of blinding agony that didn’t wait for movement. It was dislocated - there was no doubt about it. You felt it. You heard it. 

Your scream didn’t make it past your teeth. You bit down so hard you felt the skin split in your mouth, tasted copper, refused to let anything escape.

Across the pit, Daryl moved—just half a step, just a flicker—but it was a full-body jolt, like watching a dam crack under pressure. His mouth opened, words shoved through clenched teeth. “Call it,” he barked. “That’s enough.”

Marshal didn’t even glance at him. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes on you like he was watching a fire that hadn’t quite burned out yet.

You forced yourself to your feet with one arm, the other limp and heavy at your side, and you saw it—Daryl saw it—the shift in your body, the unnatural sag of your shoulder, the way your dominant side refused to lift. His lips parted again like he was about to shout something worse, something final, but your eyes caught his.

Don’t.

Your opponent didn’t wait for the pain to settle. He grabbed your wrist—your good one thank god—and yanked. You pivoted with the force, used his own momentum to slam your foot into his stomach, hard enough to make him buckle. Then you spun low, your good elbow jamming into his back with a crunch that reverberated through your bones. He snarled, twisted—grabbed a handful of your hair and yanked your head back with a vicious jerk.

That was his mistake.

You drove your skull backward, slammed it into his face, and the sound it made—the crunch of cartilage, the sudden rush of wet breath—wasn’t just satisfying, it was necessary. His nose exploded under the impact, blood streaking down over his lip.

You didn’t pause. Couldn’t. You dropped into a half-crouch and launched yourself up off your planted hand, flipped mid-air like muscle memory had kicked in before your brain could stop it, ankles locking around his neck in a move stolen straight from a dirtier, hungrier kind. He had no time to react. Your weight pulled him off his feet, and both of you hit the ground hard, limbs tangled, his body slamming into the dirt beneath yours.

But this time you didn’t straddle him for show.

This was for survival.

Your knees pinned his shoulders. You reared back, drove your foot into his outer thigh once, twice—three times. You felt the tissue twitch under the impact, felt his leg jerk in response. He twisted, tried to buck you off, but you rode it out, kept your weight low, your good hand curled into a fist ready to drive into his temple if you were given the chance.

You couldn’t kill him.

But God, you wanted to.

You rocked your weight forward and pivoted, stepping back just long enough to wind up and bring your heel down hard on his knee with a crack that sounded like dry wood snapping in a bonfire. The scream that followed wasn’t human. He writhed beneath you, hand clawing at the dirt, but it was too late. That leg was gone.  Karma's a bitch I guess.

The crowd recoiled. Gasps. Silence. One or two even clapped.

You stood tall, chest heaving, blood pounding in your ears, your arm hanging limp and useless at your side while your good hand curled into a trembling fist. You stared down at the man—sobbing, wheezing, gripping what used to be his knee—and felt no pity. No triumph. Only the endless, gnawing ache of restraint.

Because you could have ended him. Easily. You’d wanted to. But you didn't - that was your mercy.

Silence. No cheers. No chants. No roaring applause. Just stillness—unnatural and smothering, like the crowd itself had inhaled and forgotten how to let go. Dust settled in the space between heartbeats. Your chest heaved, your arm hung dead at your side, and across the pit, Daryl stood frozen, shoulders coiled tight as wire, one hand half-lifted like he might’ve moved to catch you if he could.

Marshal didn’t speak right away. He let the silence ferment, let it sting. His boots crunched slowly across the chalk ring, measured, unhurried, each step deliberate enough to curdle the air. Then, with a faint, deliberate click of tongue against teeth, he offered a slow round of applause. Not dramatic. Not mocking. Just three sharp, echoing claps, spaced apart like rifle shots.

“Well,” he said at last, voice easy and quiet, like he was remarking on the weather. “Wasn’t how I saw that going.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The fire in your shoulder had gone from burning to throbbing, every thud in your chest sending a pulse of white-hot pain down your side. You felt like you were going to pass out if you moved wrong. If you breathed wrong.

Daryl’s hand clenched into a fist, then relaxed again—barely. His stance had shifted. He wasn’t just watching you now; he was watching Marshal, watching every soldier on the ledge, watching the curve of a rifle barrel as though one might twitch the wrong way at any moment.

Marshal tilted his head, just slightly, toward the man groaning in the dirt behind you. “Shame about the leg,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Then he drew his pistol.

The gunshot cracked through the air so suddenly, so violently close, that you didn’t hear it as much as feel it—like the sound tore through your ribs and rattled loose something in your spine. For a half-second, you were certain it was meant for you. Or maybe Daryl. Maybe both of you. Your breath caught somewhere high in your throat, chest seizing as every nerve braced for impact.

You flinched hard, your body twisting on instinct, and your left arm—the one already half-dead from the dislocation—jerked with the motion. Agony exploded through your side like shrapnel, so sharp and bright it turned your vision white. You bit back a scream, but Daryl’s sharp inhale carried across the ring like a warning bell, ragged and raw enough to cut glass.

Your knees buckled slightly, though you caught yourself before you hit the ground. For a moment, everything was too still. Too quiet. Your ears rang. Your heart thundered. And then your gaze fell to the dirt just feet in front of you—where the man you’d just fought now lay sprawled, motionless, a dark hole torn clean through the side of his head. Blood spread fast beneath him, seeping into the dry dust in rivulets that caught the firelight and made them shine like rubies.

Marshal holstered the pistol without fanfare. “Wounded is weakness,” he said simply. “Weakness corrupts.”

Your legs nearly buckled again, not from the throb in your shoulder or the lingering ache in your spine, but from something colder—something that wrapped around your ribs like a vice and refused to let go, because the truth of what had just happened was settling in, and it wasn’t shock or horror that filled your chest, but something far more damning.

You had killed him.

Inadvertently so, but it didn't change the brutal fact that it had been him or you, and you weren’t ready to be the one left bleeding in the dirt.

He was a Creed loyalist. You were a mother. A wife.

And in that split-second where the gun cracked through the air like thunder, your mind hadn’t registered fear for him, or sorrow for what you’d done—it had simply braced itself for the recoil that never came, for the pain that never followed, for the death that had passed you by.

You stared at the body crumpled in the sand, at the unnatural stillness of it, the blood that painted the earth like it had always belonged there, and what haunted you most wasn’t the sound of the shot or the look in his eyes—it was the sick, echoing awareness that you didn’t feel hollow.

You didn’t feel anything—no horror, no relief—just the slow, creeping realization that if it came down to it again, if it wer him or you, you wouldn’t hesitate. You wouldn’t flinch. You’d let it happen. Maybe even make it happen. ; because you had a daughter who still needed her mother alive, and a husband who fought tooth and nail for his wife. And that truth settled over your skin like ash—quiet, heavy, and irreversible. 

The pit was still silent. You weren’t sure if anyone dared breathe.

Marshal's gaze returned to you.

It wasn’t a leer. Wasn’t kind. Just slow. Calculating. His eyes swept your frame like he was scanning for rot—one shoulder slumped too low, one hand curled and unmoving, blood at the corner of your mouth from where you’d bitten it to keep from screaming.

“Any injuries?” he asked, tone casual.

Your heart seized. The pain made it hard to think, hard to breathe, but you knew the answer had to be immediate.

“No,” you said too fast, eyes dropping to the ground, shame and fear twisting your voice into something thinner than it should’ve been. “No. I’m fine.”

Marshal watched you too long. Not suspicious—just curious. Like he was cataloguing you. Taking stock of what you’d held back. Then his head tipped slightly, just enough to signal his next move.

“You two. Report to the Commander,” he said, his voice slicing clean across the pit, cold and administrative now. “He’ll want to see you.”

Daryl’s body tensed beside you, still wired like a sprung trap, but he nodded once. Sharp. Controlled. You could feel the fire building in his bones. Not because of the command, but because of the fact that your arm was hanging loose at your side and your poker face was uncanny.

As the guards stepped forward to begin herding the crowd back, you let your eyes drift toward the smoke trail of Marshal’s pistol and then to the far end of the ring—where a group of lower-ranked soldiers stood clustered in loose formation, eyes flicking between the corpse, Marshal, and the two of you. One of them looked away when your eyes met. Another stepped aside, just slightly, like making room for you to pass. No one was watching too closely anymore.

You sipped to the edge of the gathering just as Daryl turned to follow one of the guards up toward the next gate, never once glancing your way, even though you knew—you knew—his eyes were screaming beneath the stillness.

You ducked around the side of a crumbling support wall, slipping through a narrow break in the concrete where the scaffolding hadn’t been finished. Your boots skidded briefly on loose gravel. You bit your lip hard, tears stabbing behind your eyes as the motion jarred your shoulder, but you didn’t stop.

No one called after you. No one shouted. If someone noticed, they said nothing.

You had 5 minutes, maybe less.

Enough time to get somewhere dark, somewhere hidden, somewhere you could scream into your arm without bringing the whole goddamn Creed down on your head.

You moved deeper into the scaffolding, away from the noise, slipping between beams and bent steel until the arena sounds faded into something thinner—just the wind brushing through the open concrete and your own shaky breaths trailing behind.

It wasn’t far, but it felt like another planet. Quiet. Empty. A half-built service hall, roofless, shadows crawling long across the dust. You found a corner where the walls curved in on themselves, and you sank there, back pressed against the cold steel, boots scuffing the dirt as you slid down to the floor.

You hadn’t realized how hard you were shaking until you stopped moving.

Your arm was screaming now, not just pain but heat—throbbing, swollen, wrong. You could feel the joint hanging half-loose, the weight of your own arm pulling against the socket like a torture device. The adrenaline had worn off, and now your body was just a cage of nerves and fire.

You took a deep breath. Braced your heel. Gripped your wrist with your good hand.

And pulled.

The scream punched out of you before you could swallow it down. Short. Raw. Half-choked. It echoed against the hollow scaffolding like a flare, and your vision went white for a second, head spinning with nausea and heat.

Panic bloomed sharp in your chest.

You’d just made a sound. Too loud. Too much. Too exposed.

You scrambled back, heartbeat pounding, breath caught in your throat as footsteps crunched fast across gravel. Heavy boots. No time to hide. No time to fake it.

You pressed yourself tighter to the wall, back teeth clenched, heart climbing higher up your throat—until the figure rounded the bend.

And it was Daryl.

You sagged.

Just a little. Just enough for the fear to break and relief to roll in like a tide. Your whole body slumped toward him, breath catching on something ragged.

“Shh. Just me,” he said finally, voice low and soft, rough with unshed fury and held-back comfort. 

You gave a small, broken laugh that tasted like tears.

He reached for you—so gently, like his hands didn’t quite believe they were allowed to touch you. When you didn’t flinch, he pressed his fingers to the edge of your shoulder, light as a feather. His jaw clenched.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured. 

You nodded, swallowing hard.

“Were you tryin' ta fix' that on your own?” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges as his eyes swept over your face, then your posture, taking in the tension, the sweat, the way your lip was nearly bitten through. “Jesus, you coulda made it worse—why the hell didn’t you wait for me?”

You couldn’t look at him. Not right away. Not when your body was still fighting not to scream.

“I didn’t want them to see,” you managed, the words small, ragged, sharp-edged with pain and something like shame. “You saw what happened to that guy back there. All cause of his leg-" The pain was so overbearing it was heard to get out a full sentence, not without pausing to take a shallow breath. "Fuck, I definitely made it worse."

Daryl let out a slow, quiet exhale, and then his eyes met yours again—steady, grounding, blue like dusk. His hand brushed against your waist, tentative.

“Gotta take a closer look, alright?” he motioned at your shirt, silently asking if he could take the thing off of you.

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded.

You trusted him more than you trusted the ground under your feet.- why he still was nervous about asing to take your shirt off was beyond you.

He moved closer, his hands going to the flannel shirt they’d thrown at you that morning. It was two sizes too big, probably belonged to someone long dead, and stiff with dirt and dried sweat. He undid the buttons with slow, careful fingers, peeling it away from your skin to get a better look at the damage beneath.

His breath hitched. The joint was swollen to hell. The skin already bruised, tinged ugly with purple and red.

“Fucker got ya good, baby,” he whispered, so low you barely caught it.

You just leaned your forehead against his chest, letting the smell of him wrap around you—blood, dirt, smoke, and Daryl.

His arms were already enveloping your frame in preperation. One hand braced against your ribs, the other settling over your bruised skin..

“Alright,” he muttered, voice like gravel but softer than you’d ever heard it. “I need ya relaxed, okay? Just breathe. Ain’t gonna lie, this’s gonna suck. But after, it’ll be a lot better.”

"That's what she said," You chuckled. 

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then his brow ticked, his jaw twitched, and he gave you a look so flat, so utterly unimpressed, it might’ve knocked the pain right out of your body if looks could cauterize.

“Really?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every life decision that led him to this moment. “You got one shoulder hangin’ by a thread, and that’s what you open your damn mouth for?”

But there was a flicker behind the irritation, something small and warm. The barest quirk at the edge of his mouth that betrayed him completely.

He shook his head, more fond than annoyed now, and positioned himself at your side again.

“Fine. You wanna joke through this, go on. Whatever floats yur boat.”

Your smirk faltered just a little.

He leaned closer.

“Deep breath, baby.”

You nodded again, squeezing your eyes shut, trusting him in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the way his hands held you like you were breakable, even when you’d just broken someone else’s leg.

“Alright, on three. One. Two—”

A white-hot bolt of pain tore through your shoulder before he could even say three. You cried out, breath caught halfway between a scream and a sob, but the pain stopped almost as soon as it came, replaced by a deep, nauseating throb—and a sudden, shocking relief.

It was back in.

You collapsed against him, arm limp but whole again, sweat beading on your brow. Daryl pulled you into his lap like it was second nature, one arm wrapping around your back, the other cradling your head like he needed the contact just as much as you did. He didn’t say much, just cooed you, small mumbles like ‘you’re alright,’ repeating it over and over until it would hopefully become true. He held you. Rocked you. Pressed his face into your hair and let the silence stretch between you like a blanket.

His fingers moved in slow, steady circles across your spine. He didn’t pull away, didn’t break character, didn’t speak any of the thousand things you could feel hammering behind his ribs.

He just stayed. Because sometimes that was the only thing left to give.

And you took it, without question, curling into him like a heartbeat—quiet, wrecked, and tethered to the only safe thing you had left in this godforsaken place.

You just let him hold you, your body curled into his like muscle memory, every tremor in your limbs answered by the steady rock of his hand over your thigh, his thumb brushing soft patterns through the dirt-smudged fabric. His other hand moved in slow circles through your hair, catching every knot and strand with the same reverence he might give a prayer.

But eventually, you felt your voice claw its way up.

It came out broken. Nasal. Thick with exhaustion. Your face was buried in his chest, cheek sticky with sweat and tears, and still you said it, soft and raw like confession.

“…It’s gonna get a whole lot worse than this, isn’t it?”

Daryl didn’t answer at first.

He just kept stroking your thigh, hand tightening slightly like he could hold the pain in place, contain it in the spaces between your skin and his palm. His fingers threaded through your hair again, a little slower now, dragging the weight of the moment down with them.

Then, voice low, gravelled at the edges, more breath than sound: “Yep.”

Your hand drifted, almost without thought, to your ring finger—a reflex you’d picked up when things got dark, when you needed the comfort of copper pressed against your skin like a vow you could still touch. But your fingers met only bare flesh, and the absence struck with the sharp, sick shock of dislocation—like your shoulder popping loose all over again, but this time deeper. 

Daryl noticed it too.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching your hand in his calloused grip. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and steady. “It’s just a ring, alright? Don’t matter.”

You looked up at him, your throat tight, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes. “No, it’s not,” you said, your voice raw and a little cracked. “It wasn't just a ring and you know it.”

He took your hand gently, rough fingers curling around yours like a promise he didn’t know how else to keep. Then, without a word, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the place where your ring used to be.

“No, it don’t matter,” he murmured, voice thick, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m yours. Always been. Always will. Don’t need no jewellery tellin’ ya that.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, lashes trembling with the weight of everything you couldn’t say. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him—you did. You just missed the ring. Missed what it stood for. The copper band he’d forged by hand. The night he gave it to you, asking you to be his even when the world had gone to hell. And now… it was like it never happened.

“Fine. I’ll getcha another one. I'll make ya... a hundred more rings,” he said quietly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Each one better than the last.”

That managed to crack a smile—small, but real. The kind that pulls from someplace deeper than your pain.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words barely more than breath.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, like he was memorizing the shape of your face, the curve of your lips, the sound of your voice when it said those words and meant them.

Then he leaned in, slow and steady, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that was less about passion and more about grounding—about staying human.

“Love ya too,” he whispered against your lips. 

And even as the ache in your shoulder pulsed like a living thing, even as dread curled low in your stomach for whatever came next, you knew it was true. Maybe you didn't need your ring after all.

_____________

They led you through the winding gut of the compound in silence—stone and metal corridors that stank of wet iron and dust, like a slaughterhouse that’d been hosed down too many times and never properly dried. The guards flanking you didn’t say a word. 

Daryl kept close. You could feel him even when you couldn’t look at him—every footstep in rhythm, every muscle in him strung like wire, ready to snap. His hands were balled into fists, jaw twitching, eyes everywhere. Watching every shadow like he expected it to reach out and swallow you whole.

You didn’t speak either. You didn’t need to. The ring finger of your left hand brushed his once, just briefly, the faintest nudge between curled knuckles. He didn’t look at you, but you saw his thumb twitch.

Ahead, a pair of steel doors groaned open. Marshal stood by the threshold, that cracked smirk stitched into his face like bad taxidermy. “Commander’s waiting,” he said. “Let’s not keep him.”

That didn’t sit right. Nothing here ever did, but this felt off. There was no reason for the Commander in all his infinite glory to see you. Not unless you’d either proven yourself… or failed.

You stepped through together.

The room beyond was a brutalist chapel—high ceilings, exposed steel beams, one stained-glass window that’d clearly been stolen from a church long collapsed. Makeshift pews lined the walls, but no one sat. No one spoke.

The Commander stood at the far end, hands clasped behind his back like a preacher. His hair was white—not grey, white—and buzzed down to the skin. His face looked carved from stone, weathered and scarred, but his posture was graceful. Eerily so. Marshal took his place beside him, his mouth bent in the kind of sneer usually reserved for livestock that refused to die quickly.

The Commander smiled. “Welcome.”

Daryl shifted forward a fraction, his body angling just enough to place himself slightly in front of you, protective instinct flaring sharp and silent beneath the surface.

You let your eyes sweep the space again before flicking your gaze back to the Commander, your expression unreadable.

“What is this?” you asked, voice light but laced with bite. “We here for Sunday school or something?”

The Commander’s laugh came easy—too easy. Warm, affable, almost disarming in its sincerity. But it died before it reached his eyes, the sound fading fast into something hollow. Something practiced.

The Commander’s smile barely moved his mouth, a thin line carved with deliberate intent as his gaze swept the room, pausing on each of you with the unnerving stillness of a man who already knew how the next chapter would end.

“This is where the cleansing begins,” he said, the words soft enough to mimic welcome but spoken with the precision of a knife unsheathing. “Don’t worry—we won’t make you sing.”

The quiet that followed was absolute, the kind that coated the inside of your ears like wax, the kind that arrived before pain.

And then it began.

You didn’t see them coming—not at first, not fully—just a flicker in your peripheral vision, the suggestion of motion too fast, too fluid. Two guards emerged from the shadows like teeth from a closed jaw, hands already reaching, already locking in. You barely had time to turn before they were on you, palms pressing hard to the pressure points beneath your arms, nerves struck with deliberate accuracy. Your body spasmed with instinct, not decision, your breath caught mid-inhale as you opened your mouth to shout—

—but another hand was already there, clamping tight over your face, muffling the cry into a useless vibration against their palm.

Daryl’s reaction was immediate.

You felt it before you saw it—the air change, shift, twist. He was across the room in a blink, already moving with that lethal sort of purpose that made everyone else seem slow by comparison, his body weight tipping forward like he was ready to go through bone if that’s what it took.

Your name left his throat like it was being torn out.

He reached for you at the same moment Marshal stepped in.

The club caught Daryl mid-lunge, smashing across his ribs with a thud that sucked the sound out of the space, his body twisting under the impact but not falling. Not yet. He staggered, caught himself, went for them again.

You weren’t passive—not for a second. You twisted, thrashed, drove the back of your head into someone’s nose with a crunch that made your eyes water. One of them cursed, but the grip didn’t break. You tried to wrench free, tried to swing your boot, but they were ready—this wasn’t the first time they’d done this, and your resistance had already been factored in.

Your eyes locked with Daryl’s just as he flung one of the guards off him with a roar that was barely human.

You reached for each other.

Your fingertips brushed.

And then it happened.

A sound split the moment open—sharp, cracking, awful. Pain exploded through your skull, white and absolute.

Your legs went out beneath you.

The world spun. Your stomach flipped once, hard, as the floor rushed up with sickening speed, and for the briefest second, you couldn’t tell which way was up or whether you were even still breathing. The scent of blood and oil and scorched candle wax filled your nose, thick and iron-heavy, as your face hit the concrete.

Daryl saw it all.

And in that instant, something in him snapped.

No words now, only raw fury— Daryl charged forward again, not caring if he bled, not caring if he lived, just needing to reach you. Another blow came, this one to his thigh, staggering him, followed by another to his neck. He kept moving. They swarmed him—two, three, four bodies at once—and still he fought, clawing forward with the kind of desperation that made men legends or corpses.

Then came the strike to the head.

It landed with a sickening thud.

He collapsed without sound.

His last thought was your name, slurred and broken in his mouth.

The final thing either of you saw before the world fell away was the Commander—arms behind his back, posture serene, eyes locked on the two of you as though he’d just clipped the wings off a pair of butterflies and was waiting to see how long they twitched.

____

Pain came first.

It bloomed behind his eyes like a bruise turned inside out, then crawled down his spine, slow and electric, until every nerve felt like a wire left out in a storm.

His skull throbbed. His mouth tasted like rust.

And something heavy was pressing against his chest—like the air itself had thickened, curling around his ribs and refusing to let go.

When Daryl opened his eyes, the world tilted sideways.

The light was low, flickering. Torchlight, maybe. Shadows danced high on cement walls, smearing like oil against cracked plaster. He was on the floor, slumped on his side, hands bound behind him with something rough—coarse rope, already biting into his wrists.

He tried to move. The pain in his ribs answered first. Then his head.

He winced. Gritted his teeth. Memory staggered back into place like a drunk man through a broken door.

You. Your scream. The guards. The Commander. Your body crumpling.

He jerked upright—or tried to. The bindings held. His muscles screamed.

His gaze snapped up, darting around the dim chamber. There was movement ahead. Figures. An open space beyond the iron bars of the room he’d been dumped in—more like a cage, really, though it looked like a repurposed basement. Through the bars, he could see a crowd gathered in front of something… a pit?

No. A fire.

His gut twisted.

Then he saw you.

Time didn’t stop. That would’ve been a mercy.

Instead, it kept moving, slow and brutal, stretching seconds into something foreign as you were dragged forward, knees scraping the dirt, hair tangled around your face, lips parted but silent. You were barely recognisable, head hung low, your body completely limp. You didn’t cry out. Not once. And that should’ve comforted him—should’ve given him something to hold onto. But it didn’t.

Because your silence was the worst part.

Even now, at the end of the world, you were trying to stay strong for him.

He called your name. Didn’t realize he’d done it until someone elbowed him in the gut to shut him up. He tried to fight—jerked against the restraints digging into his wrists—but they kept him pinned like a dog at a slaughterhouse, forced to watch as the Commander stepped forward and spoke the sentence like it was routine.

“No,” he rasped.

No one heard him. He tried to stand again. The rope bit deeper. He staggered, fell hard on one knee, then pushed up anyway, shoulder against the bars, eyes wide and locked.

The Commander stood near the fire, calm and unmoved, hands folded behind his back. One of the figures spoke to him—too quiet to make out—but the reply was crystal clear.

“She was wounded. Weak. It would’ve spread.”

Then the Commander raised his knife.

You didn’t make a sound when they pulled your head back.

Didn’t flinch when the blade touched your throat.

Daryl’s blood ran cold.

“Don’t—” he growled, but his voice cracked, weak with panic and breathless fury. “NO—!”

But it was already done.

In one brutal motion, he sliced your throat, the life spilling from you instantly.

Your body spasmed once, a sharp, instinctive jolt like the soul trying to claw its way back in—but it was too late. Your eyes never left his. Not even as the blood poured from your throat in thick, wet streams, staining your chest, your collar, your life, until it was all he could see. Your knees gave beneath you, trembling, caving, but somehow you didn’t fall right away. You stood there swaying like something still trying to understand what had happened. And then your lips moved—barely—shaping a word without breath. His name. Just his name. The last thing left in you.

And then it was over.

They didn’t let you fall gently.

They seized your body like it was already trash, like it had never been anything sacred, and dragged it across the dirt with no reverence, no pause, no care. And when they cast you into the fire, it wasn’t a ceremony—it was disposal. Like you weren’t someone’s wife. Like you weren’t a mother with a child waiting for you. Like you hadn’t been the one to teach him what love meant.

Daryl didn’t scream.

He roared.

He slammed his shoulder against the bars, again and again, animal and feral, vision blurred from more than pain. It didn’t matter that they beat him again. Didn’t matter that they kicked him down, or that they laughed, or that someone muttered “shoulda killed ‘im too.”

He didn’t stop until he had nothing left.

The flames licked higher, and the stink of burning flesh filled the air.

He watched your body—the one he knew better than his own, the one he’d memorized in pieces: the freckle below your ribs, the old scar on your thigh from before the world ended, the stretch marks across your stomach from carrying the life you made together. The body that curled against him on cold nights and leaned into him when words failed, the body that had carried his daughter into this broken world, arms that held her, lips that kissed the top of her head with the kind of quiet reverence he’d only ever seen in prayer—that body. Yours.

He watched it burn.

The fire didn’t hesitate. It crawled across your clothes like hunger, devouring everything in its path—your legs, your stomach, your chest—until it reached your outstretched hand. The same hand that had stroked his hair. The hand that had wiped his blood from his brow. The hand that wore his ring like it was welded to your skin until it was ripped from you by them.

The pit. The fire. Your body.

The last time he’d seen you, you were reaching for him.

And now…

You were gone. 

It didn’t register at first.

His brain couldn’t catch up.

He didn’t feel the burn of the ropes. Didn’t hear the crackle of flames. Didn’t even realise he was screaming until his throat gave out and he collapsed, chest heaving, stomach twisting, retching dry onto the dirt because there was nothing left in him but the scream.

They killed you.

They fucking killed you.

And he wasn’t there to stop it.

He wasn’t holding you.

He wasn’t telling you it’d be okay.

He was just watching.

The world narrowed to smoke and ash, and the echo of your name carved out of him like bone. He felt like someone had plunged into his chest and ripped out his heart. And worst of all, they made sure he was still breathing to bear the pain of it.

You were everything. His anchor. His voice of reason. His reason, period. You were the only future he let himself want.

Now you were gone.

And the world had the audacity to keep turning.

They took your ring. Then your life. Then your body. All in one day. And he let it happen. Let them strip you of everything that made you his. And now there was nothing left. No trace. No proof except for that steady, monstrous ache behind his ribs from your death. The kind that didn’t explode. The kind that stayed. The kind that settled into his bones and promised to never let go.

It hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.

It was heartbreak. Pure and unrelenting. Not sharp, but total. Like the color had been stripped from the world, and all that was left was this—this awful, frozen moment where love died in front of him, and he just had to watch.

The only thing left of you now is Dani.

She still had your eyes.

She’d ask where you went. What happened.

And he’d have to look at her and lie.

And he couldn’t bear the thought—Dani looking at him with those wide, searching eyes, and realising he wasn’t the one she needed. Because he wasn’t you. There was no way for him to go on.

Unless he made them pay.

Unless he made every last one of them remember what they did when they dared to put a knife to your throat.

He would bide his time. Wear the mask. Keep his head down like they wanted. Pretend he was broken.

But he wasn’t.

Not really.

He’d just been reborn into something worse.

Because they killed the woman he loved right in front of him.

And now he had nothing left to lose.

“You are free,” the Commander said, like it meant something. The crowd cheered. Daryl barely heard it over the roaring in his ears. He could’ve thrown up. Could’ve killed them all. All he saw was red.

_______

You came to like something had been torn out of you in the dark. It wasn’t the pain that woke you, though there was no shortage of it—the sharp flare in your shoulder socket, the hot ache in your neck where your muscles had seized, the hammering pulse behind your eyes that throbbed in rhythm with the low, electric hum of artificial light. You were kneeling on something cold, unforgiving and slick, and the first thing you felt beyond pain was the way your knees had begun to go numb from pressure. Your wrists were tied behind your back, raw with dried blood, the bindings too tight to be anything but deliberate. So basically the norm for you.

But none of that mattered.

Not when you raised your head and saw him.

Daryl was in front of you—on his knees, hands bound, mouth bloodied, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of whatever hell had come before this. He looked broken in a way you’d never seen before, like his bones didn’t quite know how to hold him up anymore. He wasn’t looking at you. His chin hung low, and though his chest still rose with breath, you could see how shallow it was, like every inhale had to fight its way through something invisible.

And Marshal stood beside him.

The sight of that man lit a fire in your ribs so suddenly that you nearly vomited from the bile it brought with it. You lurched forward, or tried to, but your body wouldn’t move fast enough, wouldn’t obey the simple instruction to reach him, touch him, do something.

“Welcome back,” Marshal murmured without turning, his voice unhurried, like he’d been waiting for you. There was a smile on his face, but it wasn’t warm, wasn’t even smug—it was too calm for that, too pleased with himself, like he was watching a snake shed its skin. “Perfect timing.”

Your breath hitched hard in your chest, every draw of air too sharp, too fast, like it was cutting something on the way in. You tried to speak, to call his name, but your mouth was too dry, your tongue swollen with dread, and the only thing that came out was a rasp of sound that tasted like copper and dust and fear.

Then the Commander stepped forward, the rustle of his coat the only thing you heard over the ringing in your ears. His face bore that same expression he always wore—the one that made your stomach curdle—composed and measured, like a man about to deliver a eulogy for someone he never cared about. He didn’t look at Daryl. He looked at you.

“You told us you didn’t know him,” he said, his voice unshaken, smooth like worn marble. “But when we faked your death, he screamed for you. Weeped like a baby.”

The air left your lungs in a single cold rush, and the world stopped spinning for one breathless second. Your gaze snapped to Daryl. Really looked. And that’s when something inside you buckled. His lip was torn, his temple bruised, and his collar was wet with blood you weren’t sure was even his anymore. But his shoulders trembled. He hadn’t broken.

Not yet.

You shook your head. Not in denial—just to get words out, anything, anything at all. “Don’t—please—”

But it didn’t matter. Marshal crouched beside him, slow and steady, like it was routine, and grabbed a fistful of Daryl’s hair, forcing his head upright so you could see his swollen face. You saw his eyes. Glazed, but still there. Still fighting. Still breathing.

“He didn’t take the lesson,” Marshal said, as though you weren’t already collapsing beneath the weight of what you knew was coming, “so now you will.”

The Commander tilted his head slightly from where he was standing in the background, his expression unchanged, like he was waiting for a dog to finally heel. “That lie cost you,” he murmured. “But today… we’ll free you from it.”

The gun appeared like a magic trick—no grand reveal, no announcement. Just there in the Commander’s hand, passed from Marshal like a holy relic. There was no ceremony in the way he raised it. No speech. No cruelty, even. Only the quiet efficiency of a man carrying out a decision he considered final.

The barrel touched Daryl’s temple.

And the shot rang out.

You didn’t scream right away. The noise you made was trapped behind your ribs, crushed into your lungs by the weight of the moment. But when it came, it erupted from you like something ripped open from the inside—a cry so guttural, so raw, it felt like it might pull the last of your voice straight from your throat and leave you nothing but ash.

You threw yourself forward with everything you had, ignoring the pain that screamed through your shoulder, the pop of your joints, the stab of something tearing—but it was too late. Daryl’s body had already gone limp, folding sideways into the dirt with an awful, boneless grace. There was no twitch, no sound. Just silence.

You couldn’t stop the sob that broke next. It tore out of you like something dying. Your voice was raw now, splintered with panic and disbelief, the way it had sounded only once before—when you gave birth and thought you might not survive it.

“Please,” you sobbed, struggling like a wild thing. “Baby, look at me—you can’t leave me —”

You couldnt breathe. You kept telling yourself to wake the fuck up. Wake up from this nightmare, next to daryl in your bed. You'd curl tightly into him, take in his musk, he'd stroke your hair while you traced his imperfections on his skin like they were the very opposite of that.

Marshal had walked towards you and held your chin, tilting your head to look up at him through our red glassy eyes. But when he looked at you now, something had shifted. There was no amusement left. No satisfaction. Only a quiet, unsettling stillness.

“You’re free now,” he said with absolution. “That connection made you weak. It made you lie. But now there’s nothing left to tie you down.”

Tears blurred your vision, burned hot and blinding, streaking over your cheeks in stinging silence. You weren’t sobbing anymore. Your mouth was open, but no sound came out. It was as though your voice had died with him. Your body trembled, but you didn’t collapse. Not yet. Not until Marshal leaned forward and, with something close to care, cut the restraints at your wrists himself.

You didn’t catch yourself when you fell. Your arms flopped forward, numb and useless, your knees hitting the stone with a hollow sound that echoed off the walls. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at anything. Not even the fire, still burning just feet away, casting long orange light across the floor where Daryl had fallen.

You stared at the space he had left behind.

And whatever was left of you cracked.

Not with rage. Not with grief. Not even with despair.

With silence.

The silence that followed was worse. It wasn’t the calm kind. It was thick and suffocating, like someone had poured concrete over your chest and expected you to keep breathing through it. Your ears rang from the gunshot, your vision swam at the edges, but none of that mattered—not really. Nothing did, except the image burned into the backs of your eyes: Daryl collapsing in front of you, body limp, blood warm and spilling across the concrete, and then nothing. No movement. No sound. No breath.

You didn’t cry again, not after the first ragged sob slipped out of you and died somewhere between the ropes binding your wrists and the dirt floor beneath your knees. The sound had come unbidden, raw and strangled, but even as it broke free, it felt distant, like it didn’t belong to you anymore—like it belonged to someone else entirely, someone softer, someone who hadn’t just watched her entire world bleed out on the floor.

You breathed, but only because you had to. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Mechanical. The kind of breath that didn’t mean life so much as continuation. You weren’t a woman anymore, not exactly. You weren’t a widow, not yet. You weren’t even a soldier. You were just breath and bones and grit. Just the pieces that remained. 

It was disorienting in a way that felt almost obscene—how had you ever existed without him before? Whatever version of yourself had managed to live in a world where Daryl wasn’t within arm’s reach, breathing the same air, was a stranger now. A ghost. And the thought of finding your way back to that kind of existence, of surviving in that silence again, felt not only impossible but wrong.

The numbness was total. Not soft, not merciful—but loud. Deafening in its hollowness. It rang through your skull like a pressure wave, muffling every other sense beneath it. Pain should’ve been there, should’ve been screaming—your shoulder was still ruined, your knees pressed hard into unyielding concrete, your head throbbing from whatever blow had half-felled you—but none of it seemed to land. None of it registered.

There was only the absence. Only the jagged outline of where he used to be. And in that emptiness, something settled.

Not rage. Not grief. Not yet. Those things required more of you than you had left. What settled was purpose.

Because no matter what they thought they’d taken from you, no matter how certain they were that you’d break just like the others had, your daughter was still alive. You couldn't let her become an orphan. Dani was waiting for you, and she didn’t know her father was dead. She didn’t know that you were too.

And you were the only one left who could keep that from becoming permanent.

You didn’t notice Marshal until he crouched beside you again, his shadow crawling across the stone in tandem with your hollow stare. His voice was low, almost reverent, as though he feared disrupting the stillness that had wrapped itself around you.

“I knew it the second I saw you,” Marshal said, his voice low, almost reverent, as though addressing something sacred rather than broken. “Back in those woods. You had it—that thing most don’t. Pain doesn’t ruin you. It reshapes you.”

His words drifted through the silence like smoke, curling around the edges of your awareness, but you didn’t respond. You weren’t even sure you were still breathing. You were there, yes, in body—but your mind was standing at the edge of some quiet abyss, watching itself from far away.

“I told the Commander we needed someone like that,” he went on, unhurried, as though this was all unfolding according to some script only he had read. “A firestarter. Not just someone who survives the burn, but someone who walks through it and comes out clean on the other side.”

Slowly, you raised your gaze, just enough to meet his. The movement wasn’t defiant. It wasn’t emotional. It was mechanical, like some buried instinct had twitched to life out of necessity. Whatever he saw in your expression—vacancy, obedience, surrender—was enough to satisfy him. 

Your silence sealed the illusion.

Marshal stood, brushing invisible dust from his knee as though this moment wasn’t stitched with the last of your humanity. He turned to someone just out of sight, his voice as steady as ever. “Clean her up. Feed her. She’s earned it.”

You didn’t watch him walk away.

When the hands came, you didn’t flinch. You barely noticed them. You didn’t speak. You didn’t even blink. You let them take your weight, lift you from the blood-slick floor, guide your body like it wasn’t your own. Whatever they’d done—whatever they’d taken—had hollowed you out so thoroughly, you barely noticed the warmth of their grip or the sound of the fire crackling behind you. It all felt far away, like a story you were being told about someone else.

But somewhere, buried deep beneath the numbness, something shifted. Not rage. Not revenge. That was all smoke now. What remained was quieter. Heavier. It settled into the space your grief had hollowed out and anchored itself like a root cracking through stone.

It wasn’t for them.

It wasn’t even for him.

It was for her.

For Dani.

Because she was all that was left of him. Because she didn’t know what had been taken from her yet. Because you had promised her you’d come back, and promises made to children had weight. Had teeth.

And if that meant tearing yourself in two—if it meant burying every scream and smile and soft thing inside you—then so be it.

Because one day, somehow, you’d find your way back to her.

And on that day, no one—not Marshal, not the Commander, not even the fire—would be able to stop you.

——

Turns out that taking your husband’s death in stride made for a hell of a promotion.

Grief would’ve gotten you kitchen duty, maybe a cot in the barracks if you’d played your cards right. Hysterics? A bullet. But silence? Composure? The ability to let a man bleed out at your feet and not flinch when the fire took him?

Apparently, that made you leadership material.

Marshal didn’t even wait a full day. You were summoned at dawn, the knock on your door light and precise, like someone trying not to wake what was already dead. The soldier who stood there said nothing. Just turned. Walked. And like a good little recruit, you followed.

They took you to the central chamber—the same one where you’d watched the Commander strip lives down to bone with a few carefully chosen words. Now you stood beneath the same skylight, washed in grey morning light, not entirely sure where your limbs ended and the concrete began.

Marshal entered first. He looked cleaner than usual. Face freshly shaven, black shirt tucked in, like this was something sacred.

The Commander didn’t bother with ceremony. He didn’t ask if you wanted the role. He didn’t explain what it meant. He just turned to face you, eyes sweeping over your stillness like it proved something.

“You’ve adapted well,” the Commander said at last. His voice wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It simply was. Final. “Marshal spoke highly of you. Your performance in the ring. Your composure since. Your clarity of purpose.”

“Others… fall apart. Wail. Break. You buried the weakness. And what remained—” he turned, finally, and looked you dead in the eye, “—was worth keeping.”

He crossed the floor, each step unhurried, until he stood before you. Taller. Older. But not frail. He looked at you the way a man might examine a blade he’d forged himself.

“I name you General.”

The words dropped like a blade against an altar. There was no ceremony. No oath. Just that sentence.

Marshal stepped forward, then, and placed something in your palm. A thin band of blackened metal with a single etched mark—a crescent, sharp as a scythe. The symbol of rank. Cold and heavy in your hand.

“Wear it on your hip,” Marshal said softly, voice close now, near your ear. “Let them know what you are.”

You didn’t flinch. You just nodded once and fastened it to your belt.

The Commander inclined his head—dismissal, not praise—and turned away again. The matter, it seemed, was closed.

Marshal lingered, though. He waited until the Commander had vanished into shadow, then walked with you out into the hall, slow and unhurried, like two old friends on a morning stroll.

“I told him,” Marshal drawled, voice echoing lazily off the corridor walls as the door closed behind you both, sealing the chamber like a tomb. “Told him you wouldn’t crack. The others thought you’d go down screaming—or not get back up at all.”

He walked beside you like nothing about this moment was strange. As if promotion through grief was the most natural thing in the world. As if the silence trailing behind your footsteps wasn’t made of bone and ash and something close to mourning.

“But not me,” he went on, with that infuriating little shrug in his voice, like everything had already been proven. “I figured you had the spine. Something in the way you moved, y’know? Like someone who’s already had the worst day of their life and just kept walking.”

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Every ounce of your energy was spent on forward motion, on placing one foot in front of the other with a precision that felt practiced and numb.

“Still not talking?” he asked, almost amused. “Yeah, I get it. Takes a minute. First time I lost someone close, I didn’t talk for three days." Just sat on a roof staring at the rain, prayin' I'd get the balls to jump."

Damn. If only he had some balls.

He tilted his head toward you, as if waiting for you to react. You didn’t.

Marshal sighed through his nose and kept pace. “So…  he was your husband right?  babydaddy? Both?”

The question hit harder than it had any right to. Not for the words themselves, but for how casually he said them—like he was asking what brand of boots you wore.

“Well,” he continued, unfazed, “you’re better off. That kind of thing—attachment, whatever—it just slows you down. I mean, shit, I used to have a wife. Think I even loved her once. But when she got bit, you know what I did?”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled anyway. “Sat with her ‘til it got dark, then I put a knife through her temple. Buried her in the garden, poured some moonshine, and went to sleep like I hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. Woke up clean.”

Marshal gave a light laugh, like he’d just told a half-decent bar story. “Point is, we’re not made for soft shit. You cut it off before it festers. And you—” he looked at you now, a little more directly, a little more keenly “—you’ve already done the hard part. You let go. Now you get to be something better.”

He stopped walking. You stopped, too, more out of rhythm than obedience.

“I’ve got plans, General,” he said, tone dropping low, like he was inviting you into some secret. “Big ones. Creed’s gonna outgrow this place. We’ve got outposts forming, whispers from the coast. The kind of movement people write about. But movements need faces. Voices. People who don’t flinch when things get messy.”

You turned to him, at last, your expression unreadable. A mask so perfect it didn’t even feel like skin anymore.

“Just tell me where to start,” you said, your voice coarse, a faint echo of your one from before.

He grinned, like that was all he’d wanted to hear.

“Right answer.”

Marshal reached out—not possessively, not forcefully, but like someone testing the edge of a blade—and tapped your shoulder once. The bad one. You felt nothing. His smile deepened when you didn’t so much as blink.

Then he stepped back and nodded toward the corridor ahead. “C’mon. Let’s make the rest of ‘em jealous.”

____

The days blurred like smoke on water—not fast, not slow, just distorted. You hadn’t even noticed the sun rising anymore, only the weight of your boots and the sound of doors opening ahead of you before you stepped through. General. That was your name now. Not your real one. Not your given name, the one you've gone by your entire life. Not the one Daryl whispered into your shoulder in the middle of the night... Just General. A title that hung on your spine like a weapon, heavy and sharp.

In the two days since your so-called liberation, you hadn’t stopped moving. Marshal kept you close, walking the perimeter of the inner compound, inspecting patrols and supply lines, overseeing training sessions where recruits sparred with dull blades and sharp eyes. He showed you off. Paraded you like some living emblem of what it meant to survive Creed fire and come out whole.

“Eyes front,” he’d murmur as you passed the bowing acolytes. “They need to see strength, not softness.”

So you gave them strength. Barked orders. Held your chin high. Smiled only when it served you. You ate beside Marshal at every meal, and when he leaned in too close or spoke too casually—jokes about husbands, about daughters, about how pain was just love shedding its skin—you laughed like it didn’t slice straight through your gut. He didn’t mean to mock you, you didn’t think. But his words still clanged, loud and graceless.

“You never said - was he the dad? That Dixon guy?” Marshal had asked once, as you walked the south corridor. He didn’t look at you when he said it. 

You had nodded. Just once. A sharp little thing, like a salute. The kind of response that meant everything and nothing.

You kept your hands steady. Your back straight. You thought of Dani... Daryl.

The same cell. Same stone. Same metal bars.

Only now, the cell across from him was empty.

It had been two nights, and Daryl still stared at that space, haunting him. The cold where you used to sit, curled and whispering hopes through the bars. The dried blood smudge near the drain. The memory of your scream.

He couldn’t sleep.

He hadn’t spoken in days.

Not because he couldn’t, but because there was no point. Most of his words had burned up in that fire anyway. What was left were grunts. Breaths. Muscle. The feel of rope biting into his palms as he dragged beams across gravel yards, sweating through his shirt until the sun dipped, and they locked him back in the cell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

At the guards. At the keys. At the gaps in their routines. At the flicker in their torchlight. At the way one of them always dropped his rifle to piss behind the south gate after final lockdown.

They thought he was broken. Good.

He was going to make them bleed for it.

____

The sun was too bright. Not warm, not kind. Just bright—the kind of blinding that turned sweat to sting and dirt to paste. Daryl’s hands, torn raw at the knuckles, worked the shovel with dull rhythm, carving through the gravel as if by compulsion. They’d set him to trenching along the perimeter fence, claiming it was for drainage, but it was busywork. Pointless. Just a leash long enough to keep him moving.

He had kept his mouth shut. There was nothing to say, to ask for. No one to answer.

The guards posted near him were two of the worst kind—bored, bitter, cruel in the casual way men were when they thought no one could touch them. They weren’t just watching him. They were waiting. It was obvious in the way they leaned against the posts, spitting seeds and elbowing each other, like the job was just a break between drinks.

“You hear what Marshal did during her intake?” one of them said, loud enough to carry, not bothering to keep the grin from his voice. “Ripped that shirt right open. Said he wanted to see if the scar was real. Said it looked like it was straight outta a horror movie.”

The other laughed—a wet, hacking thing that sounded like it came from the belly. “Man, the way she flinched? Shit, I would’ve kept goin’. Coulda had a whole show if Marshal wasn’t so damn stingy.”

Daryl didn’t move. His fingers curled tighter around the shovel handle, knuckles going bone-white under the grime.

“Real tragic, ain’t it?” the first continued. “ Mama had so much feist. Waste of a good piece of ass, if you ask me.”

The second guard whistled low. “Think she begged first? Screamed? I’d put money on it. Looked like a screamer.”

The shovel slipped from Daryl’s hands and hit the dirt with a dull thud, a quiet sound that somehow felt louder than it should have. He didn’t move at first. Just stood there—spine straight, chest rising slow and deep like something trying not to snap in half. His fingers curled once at his sides, twitching like the tension needed somewhere to go.

The two guards were still laughing. Still running their mouths.

Daryl turned.

No words. No sound. No warning.

He moved fast—faster than either of them had time to register. The first guard barely blinked before the edge of the shovel split across his jaw, the impact cracking like a gunshot. Bone shattered. Teeth flew. He dropped to one knee with a garbled scream before Daryl wrenched the shovel back and swung again—this time blunt-end first—right into his temple.

The second guard stumbled backward, drawing his weapon with a curse, but Daryl was already on him, driving forward with the force of a battering ram. He tackled him to the ground, knees slamming hard into the man’s ribs, one hand wrenching the gun from his grip while the other grabbed a fistful of his collar and slammed the back of his skull against the gravel once, twice—three times—until the resistance gave way and blood began pooling fast.

The first guard tried to crawl, face a ruined mess of pulp and bone, but Daryl turned on him with nothing left to hold back. He grabbed him by the belt and yanked him back like he weighed nothing.

He brought the shovel down like it was an axe—once to the spine, then again. And again. There was no grace in it. No clean kill. Just a raw, animal kind of violence—ugly and necessary.

His breath tore ragged through his chest as he stood over the wreckage. Both bodies stilled. One gurgled once and went quiet. The other twitched, then didn’t.

The other workers had gone silent. For a moment, the whole yard held its breath, as if the world itself recognised that something old and sacred had been unleashed.

Daryl stood over the bodies, panting, fists dripping, chest heaving with something that had no name.

And then he ran.

Through the gate. Into the trees.

No hesitation. No plan. Only instinct.

He didn’t know where he was going. But he knew he'd be back. 

To make them all pay.

____

You were tightening the strap across your thigh when Marshal barged in without ceremony, his breath fogging in the colder air of the chamber. His eyes were alight with adrenaline, that twisted edge of anticipation he wore whenever something went wrong in just the right way.

“Two of ours are down,” he said, voice clipped but eager. “One’s missing. Blood on the gravel, bodies were found at the north wall. Tracks heading into the trees.”

You didn’t freeze. You didn’t blink. You simply straightened, fastened the last strap, and reached for the sheath at your hip.

“How long?” you asked.

“Not long. Less than an hour. It was fast. Efficient. Looked more like an animal than a man, but—” he tilted his head, eyes dragging down your arm like he expected praise, “—I know work when I see it. This was deliberate.”

You nodded once and stepped past him, boots already moving toward the outer corridor before he finished speaking. He kept pace beside you, hands folded behind his back like the whole thing was an experiment you were walking into. A test. A stage.

“You want to lead the hunt?” he asked, casual. Almost amused.

“I’m already doing it.”

You crossed into the yard where the air smelled like blood and burnt oil, your eyes sweeping over the cluster of armed men standing in loose formation near the gate. They were waiting. Watching. Some with curiosity, some with tension.

All of them obeyed when you raised your voice—low, calm, authoritative.

“North perimeter’s compromised. We have two confirmed dead, one unaccounted for, and tracks headed into the pines. I want six units. Three per group. Sector assignments will be rotated every hour. You see something, you don’t shout—you signal. You don’t engage unless I say. You follow orders. Or you join the ones who bled out.”

No one questioned you. Not even Marshal. He smiled slightly as you issued your orders like you’d been doing it your whole life, as if command had grown from your skin like armour. There was no tremor in your voice. No crack in your tone.

There was a slight hum in your skull. The one that came when the world tilted a little too sharply, like it always did when someone said the word escape. There was even a tinge of jealousy in your chest. Then it was replaced by pity. Because you knew they would be dragged back.

You didn’t let yourself wonder who it had been. Didn’t dwell on the bloody bodies or the missing name. Workers tried and failed all the time. You’d seen it before. You’d clean it up again. Still, something about Marshal’s expression gave you pause.

“What?” you asked, glancing at him.

He shrugged, but it was a smug gesture. Light. Easy. “Nothing. You wear the title well, General.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked back to the gate.

The hunt was already underway.

-----

The forest felt endless.

He didn’t know how long he’d been running. The canopy above him blurred into streaks of dark green and dying light, the air thick with humidity and his own ragged breath. His legs burned. His ribs ached. His boots pounded the earth like a drumbeat begging to slow, but he wouldn’t let them. He couldn’t.

Branches scraped his arms, thorns dragged like claws against his jeans, but none of it registered. Not compared to what he’d left behind. He didn’t know if he was more ashamed of the rage or the fact it had taken him that long to let it boil over. He was finally out - but it was without you.

Two of them hadn’t walked away from it. That was all he knew.

The forest began to thin. He slowed just enough to keep his breathing even. He hadn’t run this far to collapse. He swiped at his face and didn’t stop moving.

It was the shape of something manmade that pulled him forward—a faint glint of rust through the trees, the broken silhouette of a long-abandoned gas station nestled in overgrowth. Half-collapsed, half-swallowed by ivy, the old building slumped against the edge of the road like a dying animal. Its sign had long since shattered. Only rusted poles remained where the name might have been. Weeds grew through the cracks in the concrete, and a single pump leaned at an angle like it had been punched sideways and never stood again. But it was something. Shelter. Cover. Supplies.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, one hand pressed against a tree, catching his breath, eyes scanning for movement. Nothing. Only the soft rustle of branches and the occasional distant groan of the dead.

That's when he saw two walkers lurching near the back of the station, slow and disoriented. He crouched, crept forward, and took them out quick. Clean. Blade to the base of the skull. He dragged their corpses into the woods, leaving them in a way that looked like a scuffle had happened. A trail. One they’d follow. Let them run in the wrong direction.

Then he doubled back and slipped through the busted rear entrance, heart thudding hard beneath the damp fabric of his shirt.

Inside, it was still.

Dust hung thick in the shafts of light breaking through broken panes. Shelves had long since collapsed, candy wrappers and rat nests littering the floor. The air stank of mildew and old oil, but it was empty as far as people and walkers went.. He moved slow, clearing corners one at a time, bootfalls nearly silent on the stained linoleum.

He didn’t breathe easy, not really. Not until the last corner was clear. Then he sagged against the side of an empty cooler, pressing a hand to his ribs, sweat trickling down his spine. He counted each breath like it might be his last. That's when he heard something from outside.

_______

The trail didn’t fool you.

It was good—subtle in ways the average Creed lackey would never catch—but not good enough to hide what it really was. They were covering their tracks. Every broken branch had purpose. Every overturned rock, every blood-speckled leaf followed a pattern too clean, too deliberately staggered, too familiar.

Because it was yours.

A move you’d crafted seasons ago, back when survival meant something more than symbolism and pageantry. You’d taught it once—to people who mattered. People who didn’t wear uniforms or follow slogans or look at you like you were anything but someone trying to stay alive. And now it stared back at you from the earth like a signature carved into soil.

Marshal was barking orders ahead of you, his voice crisp with expectation, but not urgency. Two men down was an inconvenience, not a threat. He stood near the treeline, gesturing with one hand for his squad to follow the trail of walker corpses heading eastward, already convinced the work was nearly done.

You didn’t speak right away. Didn’t move either.

Just stood near the edge of the brush, eyes tracking the drag marks and the half-shuffled footprints, letting the recognition sink deep into your ribs like a bruise you’d forgotten how to name.

When Marshal noticed your hesitation, he stepped closer. His tone was more relaxed now—comfortable, even—as if he’d grown used to speaking to you not as his subordinate, but as his closest confidant. Or maybe just his newest trophy.

“You see something I don’t, General?” he asked, voice low, laced with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve been staring at dirt for the last two minutes like it's talkin' to you.”

You didn’t answer at first. You kept your gaze fixed on the ground, the muscle in your jaw ticking once as you shifted your weight forward, crouching to trace the heel-drag pattern with your fingers.

“It’s not walker blood,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Too bright. Too spaced.”

Marshal tilted his head, humored but mildly intrigued. “That what’s got you squinting like an old crow? We’ve already got a lead. They’re following it now.”

You stood slowly, brushing your hands off on your thighs before glancing toward the direction the others had taken.

“It’s misdirection,” you said, flatly, without drama. “Manufactured.”

Marshal frowned, but it was faint, like a crease appearing in otherwise smooth stone. “And you know this because…?”

Your eyes slid to him. “Because it’s mine.”

That gave him pause. His smirk faltered, then rebuilt itself slowly, shaped now into something more curious than mocking.

“Well, shit,” he chuckled, hands sliding into his pockets. “Didn’t know you taught tricks. Looks like someone’s been studying the old playbook.”

He glanced down the trail again, then back at you. “You think our escapee doubled back?”

“I think he’s already gone,” you said, voice smooth. “And I think if you want a chance at catching him, you let me follow the real trail while your dogs chase ghosts.”

There was a moment of silence between you then—thin, but weighted. Marshal studied your face like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected, or maybe something he’d been hoping would surface all along.

He smiled again, more relaxed this time, and gestured half-heartedly to the forest. “Alright, General. If you think there’s a better trail, take it. Just don’t get yourself lost. Hate to have to replace you after all the effort I put in.”

You nodded once. Sharp. Precise. The way he liked it.

And then you turned and vanished into the woods, one boot after the other, eyes tracking the subtle path only you would’ve noticed. It wasn’t marked with panic or haste, but strategy. Intentional obfuscation. A diversion made to buy time—and that was what made your heart start to pound. 

People who used this move were dangerous. After all it was your move.

_______

The forest opened up without warning.

One second, you were tucked beneath the heavy arms of pines, the air thick with sap and old rain, and the next, the trees gave way to a patch of cleared ground—uneven, mottled with patches of gravel and moss, as if the world itself had tried to reclaim this place and only half-succeeded. In the centre stood a gas station. 

You stood still for a moment, just outside the reach of the clearing, listening.

Nothing.

No birds. No footsteps. Not even wind. Just the low, hot breath of the forest pressing against your back and the distant rot of something that had died weeks ago and hadn’t yet stopped stinking.

Your hand tightened around the hilt of your knife.

The trail led here. The subtle one—the real one. The one you’d followed from a snapped vine near the creek bed, the one someone had tried too hard to make look accidental. Every turn had confirmed it. This was no rogue worker. Whoever came here knew how to cover ground. How to double back. How to make blood smear like accident and not direction.

There was something about the air that changed before you even stepped inside—a stillness too deliberate, like a breath held too long, like the world itself was waiting for something to break. You crept along the outer edge of the station, careful to keep your footfalls light, your weapon drawn but low, ready but not aggressive. The siding flaked beneath your fingertips, warm and brittle, the building groaning faintly as the wind caught under the eaves. It should have felt abandoned. It didn’t.

Your gut twisted—not with fear exactly, but with a pressure you didn’t know how to name, like your body was trying to warn you before your mind could catch up. Something was here. Someone. It wasn’t a logical feeling. There were no clear signs. Nothing disturbed. Nothing broken. But still, the closer you got, the stronger the feeling became, like gravity itself was trying to pull you inward.

By the time you stepped through the rear entrance—door creaking on its hinges but offering no resistance—you already knew you weren’t alone.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t call out commands. You just stood there for a moment, breathing through your nose, trying to place the shape of the unease that had started to bloom beneath your ribs.

The air was soured by time—thick with rust and mildew and motor oil, sharp with the scent of old blood and dust, the kind that clung to your clothes and your tongue long after you’d left. Sunlight cut through cracks in the roof, casting long, ghostly columns across the wreckage of the station’s interior. Aisles leaned at odd angles. Packaging had melted into the shelves. The silence wasn’t clean. It was full of ghosts.

You stepped forward, slow and careful, scanning between the shelves. One aisle at a time.

“This isn’t gonna end well for you,” you said, your voice cutting the silence like a blade—not shouted, not loud, but firm and cold and clear. A statement, not a threat. Not a warning - just a fact.

There was no response. Not right away. Just the sound of breath caught mid-motion. Like someone had frozen behind one of the shelves.

“Come out where I can see you,” you said, stepping deeper into the rows. Your voice didn’t shake. But it wasn’t steady, either. There was something brittle at the edges now. A warning crack before the collapse.

The sound of your voice slammed into him like a hammer to the sternum—low, steady, not shouted, but heavy with something he couldn’t name, like truth dragged raw across gravel. It was unmistakable, even wrapped in grit, even worn at the edges by survival. It was you. It was your voice, but it wasn’t soft the way he remembered, wasn’t teasing or warm or sarcastic. It was clipped and direct, sharpened down to the bone like everything else in this world, and that was what undid him.

His back pressed harder to the metal shelf behind him, and his fingers tightened around the knife in his grip, not from intent to use it but because it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. His pulse was everywhere—in his throat, behind his eyes, pounding in the tips of his fingers—and the breath he tried to take caught halfway and dissolved into nothing. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure he remembered how.

Something inside him began to crack, slow and silent like ice shifting under weight.

He hadn’t imagined it.

It wasn’t one of the dreams that taunted him in the half-sleep of a cold floor and a concrete cell. It wasn’t the whisper that followed him through every labor shift, the one that sounded like her laugh, like her sigh, like the first time she said his name in the dark. This wasn’t the echo of memory warped by grief. This was now. This was real.

And yet, he didn’t answer. Not right away. Because something primal in him still feared the truth. Still believed that turning that corner would cost him everything if he was wrong.

But then he heard her boots crunch forward—one, then another. Steady. Careful. Getting closer. The sound of her moving cut through him sharper than any blade.

His eyes flicked toward the end of the aisle, just a sliver of light between broken shelves, and for a heartbeat, he caught it—just a glimpse.

A shoulder. A lock of hair. The edge of your jaw. The line of your arm steady on your weapon.

And it hit him all over again, harder this time, like the wind knocked out of his lungs and the floor pulled out from under him all at once. His knees went weak, his grip faltered, and the breath he finally took sounded more like a sob than a sigh, though he kept it behind his teeth.

You were standing. You were walking. You were alive.

Your were real.

But you didn’t look like the woman he used to fall asleep beside, or the one who used to hum under her breath while cleaning blood off her knife. You didn’t move like someone who’d ever been held gently. Your body was all tension, your eyes cold and alert, like softness had been trained out of you one wound at a time. The version of you standing there now looked like someone who’d been surviving instead of living—like the world had stripped you down to the parts that could fight and buried the rest somewhere too deep to reach.

And yet it was still you.

“I’m not in the mood to chase,” you said, each word carved from the grit of your throat. “And I’m sure as hell not in the mood to kill someone who’s just hiding. So don’t make me.”

He didn’t know how long he stood there, half-concealed by the shadows of the aisle end, barely breathing, barely thinking—just staring, heart thundering with the impossible weight of recognition because it was you. And yet not you. And that paradox alone left his mouth dry, his pulse skittering, and his knees dangerously untrustworthy beneath him.

There was something in the way you held yourself that made the air feel thinner. You didn’t look fragile. You didn’t even look afraid. You looked sharpened—reforged in fire—and he didn’t know whether to be proud or devastated that the world had made you into this. For one breathless moment, he let himself believe that he could keep watching you like this forever, that you wouldn’t vanish again if he blinked too long. That the grief choking him since the pit had been a lie.

But then the toe of his boot knocked against a broken glass bottle, and the sharp scrape of it skittered across the linoleum like a gunshot in the dark. You reacted before the sound even finished, instincts firing faster than thought, and before he could lift a hand or even fully turn, your weapon had snapped to attention, pointed straight at him from across the aisle with lethal, unflinching precision.

He lifted both hands immediately. His knife dropped to the floor with a dull thud, his fingers opening like surrender was the only language he had left, and still, he didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. The only thing that moved was his chest, rising and falling in jagged rhythm as his eyes stayed fixed on yours, drinking you in like a man starved.

And you… you couldn’t move either.

The moment your eyes landed on him—on his face, his shoulders, the familiar set of his mouth—you stopped breathing entirely. You didn’t lower the weapon, not at first, not even when the shape of him settled into clarity. Your body held position like a dam holding back floodwater, and for a single, suspended second, all you could do was stare, too stunned to speak, too stunned to blink, too stunned to accept the thing your heart already knew.

It was him.

Alive.

Real.

And standing at the opposite end of the aisle like a ghost resurrected just for you.

You weren’t sure if the sound that came out of you was a gasp or a sob or some mangled hybrid of both, but it broke whatever spell had been holding you in place, because your fingers loosened ever so slightly on the grip, your arms trembling in their sockets, the gun still aimed but your certainty dissolving. His name rose in your chest, but it got caught behind your teeth, too thick with disbelief, too sacred to release without proof. Because if you said it, and it wasn’t really him, you wouldn’t survive it.

But he didn’t vanish.

He didn’t speak either.

He just stood there, hands still raised, eyes still locked on you like if he looked away you might disappear all over again. And that was when you finally let the weapon drop—not all the way, not at first, but just enough to acknowledge what your heart was already screaming.

You didn’t know whether to run to him or collapse where you stood.

But you knew one thing, deep and feral in your gut—this wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

Your lips parted before the sound came, breath catching halfway up your throat as if your body had to fight to let the name escape. You hadn’t said it in days. Or maybe weeks. You’d whispered it to yourself in the dark, in the cold, in the quiet between orders and silence, just to remember the shape of it—but this time, it felt like a prayer you weren’t ready to finish.

“Daryl?”

It came out cracked. A question. A confession. A hope.

And then he exhaled.

That’s all he did—just let out a breath so full of disbelief and wonder it shook loose the silence between you like the final piece of a collapsing dam. His hands, still raised in surrender, trembled once as a smile twitched—small and ruined—at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His body said everything. The slack in his shoulders, the sting in his eyes, the way his lips moved around the unspoken words like he wasn’t sure his voice would hold.

“Yeah. It’s me.” 

Not empty—but full in a way that felt overwhelming. A silence packed with heat and scent and movement and memory, like the whole room had bowed to make space for the impossible thing happening between you.

Your gun hit the floor with a thud that didn’t echo.

Your feet moved before your brain did.

One second you were standing there, arms trembling, heart breaking open like a wound that had never truly closed. The next, you were running—sprinting across the ruined tile, your boots slipping slightly on the broken glass and torn paper, not caring if you fell, not caring if you bled, just needing to reach him, to feel him, to prove he wasn’t made of smoke and memory.

Daryl closed the space between you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it, his steps heavy and uneven, like his knees couldn’t decide if they should give out or carry him faster. His eyes never left yours, not even when you collided—so hard and fast that it knocked the breath from both of you, your chests crashing together with the force of everything you hadn’t dared feel until now.

You sobbed into his shoulder the second his arms locked around you.

There was no delay. No awkward pause. No question of whether he would catch you. Daryl wrapped you up like he’d been born to do it, his hands clawing at your back, his head burying into the curve of your neck, his arms caging you in like the world might try and steal you from him again and he wasn’t about to let that happen. You could feel the noise that came out of him, low and ragged, less a sound than a breath that caught in his throat and turned to something half-feral, half-frightened, all love.

You didn’t hold back.

Your body shook so hard you nearly dropped to your knees. Your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The sobs came fast, ugly, unrelenting, like everything you’d buried just to keep breathing had finally broken the surface and refused to stop. You could smell him—blood, sweat, dirt, smoke—and it hit you like a memory so strong it felt like drowning. You pressed your face into his collarbone, breathing in deep, desperate gasps, like scent alone could prove it was him.

He lifted his head to look at you—really look at you—and the moment your eyes met, the air between you seemed to collapse. His gaze was glassy, flickering with a hundred emotions all fighting for room, the disbelief carved so deep into his expression it was as if he were afraid to blink in case you vanished. He needed to be sure, to confirm with his own eyes that this wasn’t a trick of the light or some final mercy dream sent to soften the blow of grief.

And when the truth settled—when his mind caught up with what his heart already knew—his head dropped against your shoulder, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of feeling that overtook him.

You welcomed him without hesitation, your arms wrapping around him like they’d been searching for his shape this whole time. Your fingers clawed at the back of his shirt, trying to ground yourself, to remind your body that he was real, that this wasn’t a hallucination born from fatigue or hope or desperation. You sobbed, sharp and sudden, your face tilted toward him as the dam inside you finally burst.

You hadn’t let yourself feel it—not really—not until now. You’d kept the grief locked up tight, buried beneath obligation and instinct and survival, but now it was clawing its way out with a ferocity that terrified you. The pain of losing him surged through your chest like a second heartbeat, loud and uncontrollable, and now that it was out in the open, you had no idea what to do with it.

You collapsed into him, trembling, your hands fisting into the fabric at his back like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t hold on tight enough. Your breath hitched as you buried your face against his collar, the scent of him—earth and smoke and blood—ripping another cry from your chest. He was here. He was real. He was warm.

“I can’t believe it,” you choked out, your voice wet and raw. “You’re alive… you’re…”

His fingers curled tighter in the fabric of your jacket, knuckles white with the strain, like if he didn’t anchor himself to you, he might fall straight through the floor. His chest convulsed with a breath that never fully landed, just trembled apart in his throat, and then—like something cracked open deep inside him—he began to nod. Small at first, barely perceptible, then over and over again, his face buried in your neck, breath ragged, tears searing hot as they soaked into your skin. His whole body shook with it, not a sob exactly, but something quieter, more devastating—like surrender.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, again and again, each repetition softer than the last, unsure if you were trying to calm him or convince yourself. “You’re okay… I’m here… you’re here…”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But the way he gripped you—arms tightening like he could press you into his bones, hand cradling the back of your head with a desperation that bordered on reverence—told you everything you needed to know. He had thought he’d lost you. And now that you were back, he wasn’t going to let you slip away again. Not even for a second.

His voice cracked where it met your throat, low and hoarse like it had been dragged over gravel. “But I saw you,” he rasped, the words catching on a sob that hadn’t quite landed yet. “They—I saw you, they—”

“I know,” you breathed, the sound of it already fraying as it left your lips. “They pulled the same thing with me.”

And that was when it hit him—the sob he’d been holding back since the moment your voice first cut through the dark. It didn’t explode from him; it collapsed inward, a sharp, uneven inhale that never made it all the way out, like he was still trying to wrestle it into silence even now. But you felt it—the way it rippled through his body, not just in his shoulders but down to his bones, like something had broken open beneath the surface and he didn’t have the strength to stop it anymore. He sagged into you, not dramatically, just a fraction—but it was enough. Enough to know that whatever kept him upright until now had finally given out.

You cupped his face before he could retreat again—both hands, firm and unshaking, holding him there like you could keep him from splintering. The scratch of his stubble burned against your palms, and still, you didn’t let go. His eyes met yours—those pale, wolf-bright eyes—and they were barely holding together. No trace of the man who had walked beside you days ago. These eyes were starved. Hollowed. Torn raw at the edges from seeing too much, from believing too little. They didn’t look like eyes meant to hold joy anymore. They looked like they were built for grief.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, and his voice cracked on the word thought, like even saying it might kill him. “I saw it. I saw them—”

“I know,” you said again, but this time the words collapsed in your throat, your voice blown wide open with feeling. “I know, baby. I know.”

And something inside you broke, right then—something you didn’t have a name for. It cracked down your spine and shattered in your chest, left you trembling with a grief that didn’t have a place to go. There were no good words left. No logic. No plans. No promises.

So you did the only thing your body knew how to do.

You kissed him.

It didn’t feel like a kiss—it felt like impact. Like gravity reversed and slammed the two of you together with such force it shattered every lie you’d told yourselves just to stay alive. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was breathless and clumsy and soaked in panic, the kind of kiss that felt like drowning with your mouths wide open, like maybe if you didn’t inhale the other person fast enough, they might disappear again. His teeth knocked against yours in the chaos of it, his lips trembling with the sobs he couldn’t release, and your tears spilled freely, tracking down into the corners of your mouth, warm and salt-stung and unrelenting.

You felt the sound before you heard it—the low, helpless noise that scraped out of him from somewhere deep in his chest, something that sat halfway between a groan and a wounded animal’s cry. His hands were in your hair before you could register the movement, dragging you closer like proximity alone might make up for lost time, like if he could just fuse his skin to yours, nothing would ever tear you apart again. One hand fisted in the back of your jacket, the other trembling against the curve of your spine, sliding lower, frantic and reverent all at once, as if he didn’t know where to touch you first because he couldn’t stand the thought of not touching you at all.

He moved without thinking—pure instinct, pure need. Your body was suddenly pressed back against a rusted metal shelf, the cold biting through your jacket even as his mouth devoured yours, even as his breath poured into you like something sacred. His hands skimmed down your sides with a fever that felt more like prayer than lust, like he was checking to make sure you were really there, all of you, unburned and breathing. And then they found your hips, strong and decisive, and he lifted you—just like that. No hesitation, no warning, just that same animal desperation in the way his arms wrapped under your thighs and the way your legs clung to his waist like muscle memory.

You never stopped kissing. Not even for air. Not even when your back hit the floor and the stench of the gas station rushed into your lungs. You could’ve been lying in dirt or on broken glass or in the middle of a damn inferno and it still wouldn’t have mattered. The only thing that mattered was this—this unbearable closeness, this impossible proof that he was here and you were here and somehow, impossibly, you’d found each other again.

Every point of contact felt vital. His chest crushed against yours, his heartbeat thundering like a war drum under your palms. His thigh slotted between yours, grinding hard enough to draw a whimper from your lips, and still, it wasn’t close enough. Your hands roamed like you were blind, like your fingers were trying to memorize what your eyes still couldn’t believe—his shoulders, the scar at his collarbone, the line of his jaw and the curve of his skull beneath your palms.

Daryl didn’t talk, not really. Not when it counted. But right now, he was saying everything you needed to hear. Not with words—but with the way his tongue tangled with yours, the way his breath hitched when you rocked your hips up against his, the way he buried his face against your throat like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. You didn’t say anything either—not because you didn’t have words, but because language would’ve ruined it. Nothing could hold this. Not grief. Not rage. Not love. Only movement. Only heat. Only the frantic, aching choreography of two people who had forgotten how to survive without each other.

And that—that was your fluency.

This was how you spoke.

Your legs were locked around his waist like a vise, trembling with strain but refusing to let go, and your hands couldn’t stop pulling him closer, dragging at his back, his shoulders, clawing like you could anchor yourself in the curve of his spine and stay there forever. There was no space between your bodies, nothing but heat and panic and the sick, beautiful ache of reunion as he held you upright, one arm clamped tight around your lower back, the other braced against the broken floor to keep you both steady in a world that no longer was.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Every nerve in your body was alive with it—this collision, this reunion, this need that felt bigger than you, bigger than both of you, like grief made manifest in the shape of desire.

And he was unraveling right there with you.

Daryl wasn’t thinking in words anymore. He was running on instinct, acting on a hunger so deep it didn’t feel like lust—it felt like survival. His hands found your shirt and tore it open in one violent jerk, the sound of fabric splitting loud enough to make your breath stutter, and the second your skin was exposed, he was on you. Mouth hot, insistent, desperate as he kissed a line down your chest like it was a map he thought he’d never see again. His lips landed over your heart, over your ribs, over the spots he always touched, and now pressed into like they were proof that you were real, that he hadn’t imagined you back into existence.

You arched into him, hips tilting up, breath ragged as his mouth found your sternum, then lower. Of course—of course—he didn’t pass your breasts without worship, not even now, not even in the middle of a damn apocalypse resurrection. His hand palmed you roughly through your bra while his mouth trailed lower, fast and hungry and nothing like the teasing he used to do, because this wasn’t about foreplay or build-up. It was about claim. About remembering. About burying himself in you so deep he’d never have to crawl out again.

He was afraid.

You could feel it. In the way his breath hitched every time your fingers moved through his hair. In the way he touched you like you were on borrowed time. In the way his eyes flashed upward every few seconds, glassy and wide and unbelieving. He was terrified this was a hallucination. That if he didn’t fuck you hard enough, if he didn’t make you scream and cry and come undone in his arms, then you might vanish again.

But you couldn’t hold back the cry that tore out of your chest, your voice cracked and pleading as the emptiness clawed at your insides. “Daryl—”

His head snapped up, eyes locking on yours, face flushed and tearstreaked and so goddamn soft you thought you might break open from the sight of it. And when he looked at you, he didn’t see uncertainty or hesitation or fear—he saw you shaking beneath him, desperate and wrecked and alive, and it lit something inside him that had nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with belonging.

You were already lifting your torso, fumbling for his belt with clumsy, shaking fingers. It took too long. It always took too long. And when your hands slipped, when a frustrated whimper escaped your lips, he didn’t mock you like he usually would. He didn’t smirk or tease or make some offhand comment about how you couldn’t wait two fucking seconds.

He knelt there in front of you like something half-feral, trembling and breathless, and moved with that same single-minded urgency, his fingers flying to your jeans, dragging the zipper down like the delay itself was killing him.

You didn’t take your pants off. You shoved them down just far enough. You didn’t want preparation or patience. You wanted him. Now. You wanted him inside you so deep the ache wouldn’t go away for days. You wanted to feel sore. You wanted to feel branded.

His voice was hoarse and warm against your lips as you writhed beneath him, just a breath of comfort threaded through the chaos. “It’s alright, baby. I gotcha. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

It didn’t match what he was doing. His tone was tender, low, steady—but his hands were shaking as he hooked your underwear with your jeans and shoved them down in one rough motion. There was nothing slow about it. There was no grace in the way his fingers curled into your hips as he slid between your thighs, no hesitation in the way he groaned when your legs tightened again around his waist and pulled him flush against your body.

You shifted beneath him, the cracked linoleum biting into your spine, the brittle sting of broken glass tangled in your hair like a crown of thorns you didn’t dare acknowledge. Above you, a ragged hole in the station’s collapsed ceiling cast a shaft of silver light through the dust-choked air, illuminating your body like something divine—skin glowing pale beneath the grime, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm, eyes wild and wet and locked onto his like he was the last living thing on earth. And to Daryl, you were.

His breath caught in his throat. It was almost too much—seeing you like this, raw and spread out under him, haloed in dust and blood and light. You were wrecked. And holy. And his. Every part of him screamed to reach you, bury himself inside you so completely that nothing—not time, not fire, not the Creed—could ever sever what bound you together.

You tugged him closer, hips shifting, knees rising to cradle his body with your own like instinct had overridden every fear, every question, every word. The press of him against you sent a tremor through your spine, your muscles clenching in desperate anticipation, not just for pleasure but for proof. Proof that this wasn’t a hallucination. That he was here, real and solid and warm, the weight of him anchoring you back into your body after days spent floating on agony and denial.

“I need you,” you whispered, barely louder than the whisper of dust falling around you. “I need to feel you. I need to know you’re real.”

And he gave you that—without a word, without hesitation. Just a groan, low and guttural, as his hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched it high over his hip, aligning himself. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath scalding against your skin, the tremble in his arms betraying the fact that he was just as wrecked as you were—torn open by grief and stunned by hope.

And then, he pushed inside.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t fast. It was unbearable in its slowness, every inch a reclamation, every second a sacrament. Your body welcomed him like it had been waiting, like it had been hollowed out and shaped only to fit him. The stretch was divine, brutal in its pleasure, a burn that made your back arch and your breath catch and your fingers rake down the length of his spine because you couldn’t hold this, couldn’t stand it, couldn’t survive it unless he gave you all of it—his weight, his heat, his voice gasping brokenly against your throat.

He bottomed out with a low, breathless groan, and the moment he did, something in you shattered. You felt the tears break loose again—this time not from fear or grief or even relief, but from sheer overwhelming joy. From the way your body clenched around him in welcome. From the dizzying rush of feeling everything at once.

The sound that left your throat barely resembled anything human—it was a gasp, yes, but not one you recognised as your own. It scraped from your chest like something long buried, like a sob half-remembered from another lifetime, one where he hadn’t been ripped from your arms. You hadn’t known how hollow you’d become until the moment he filled you again, until the weight and warmth of him settled into the ache that had lived inside you since the day he was ‘shot’. Each slow roll of his hips sent another wave crashing through you—deep, thorough, grounding—and it was more than just sensation. It was reclamation. It was breath after drowning. It was colour bleeding back into a world that had long since faded grey. His mouth found yours again, and this time it wasn’t a kiss so much as a seal—a dam against the sound of your cries, which trembled high and frantic in your throat, cries not of pain or desperation but of raw, unfiltered relief. You were finally whole again, and that truth settled into your bones with every movement. After days of unbearable numbness, of walking through the world like a ghost in your own body, every nerve had been sharpened to a blade’s edge. You felt everything now—his hands, his breath, the press of his chest against yours—and It hit you all at once—a rush so heady it was almost narcotic, like pleasure waking every nerve at once after days of silence, flooding your system with heat, hunger, and the dizzying high of finally being alive in his hands again.

There was no rhythm. No restraint. Just the frenzied collision of flesh and feeling—each thrust growing rough with purpose, deep with urgency, like he was trying to brand himself inside you, like every stroke was a prayer and a promise and a plea. The heat of him filled you again and again, thick and relentless, until it felt like your body couldn’t possibly hold anything more—but you begged for it anyway, legs wrapped tight around his waist, hips lifting to meet every punishing drive of his. He didn’t ease up, didn’t slow, not when every sharp drag of his cock left you gasping like the air itself couldn’t reach your lungs unless he gave it to you.

It wasn’t about chasing pleasure. It was about surviving the ache. About staying here, in this body, in this moment, where you could still feel him—hot and hard and alive, grinding into you like he could carve your name into his bones. His breath came harsh against your mouth, mingling with yours, teeth grazing lips like he wanted to consume every sound you made. Every moan. Every desperate sob.

Your hands were everywhere—threaded in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, raking down the slope of his back, the curve of his spine, clawing at him like you could tear your way into his chest and never leave. You grabbed at his ass, urging him deeper, harder, faster, trying to keep him pressed so far inside there’d never be a world where he wasn’t. Your name broke on his tongue in pieces, ragged and reverent, lost between the kisses he planted against your throat, your jaw, your open, gasping mouth.

You didn’t just want him close. You wanted him fused to you. Imprinted. Etched into the wet heat of you forever.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you gasped into his ear, the words high and ragged, cracking under the weight of everything pouring out of you at once. Your voice didn’t even sound like your own anymore—too breathless, too raw, too consumed by the white-hot bliss unraveling you from the inside out.

That did something to him.

His pace shifted, stuttered, then surged—all control lost. His hips slammed into yours with reckless abandon, faster, harder, as if the sound of your voice had lit a fuse in him he couldn’t extinguish. His whole body was shaking with the force of it, sweat slicking his skin as your bodies collided over and over in a rhythm that felt more like a goddamn resurrection than anything else.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he choked out, the words torn straight from his chest, cracked and desperate. His forehead pressed hard against yours, breath fanning hot over your face, his eyes clenched shut like the intensity of it all was just too much to bear. He drove deep, hitting that spot that made your whole body jolt and seize, again and again, until the pressure inside you coiled so tightly you thought you might break apart from the sheer pleasure of it.

Your back arched with every thrust, your body dragged upward by the force of his hips before slamming back down into the ruined floor beneath you. You didn’t care. You didn’t feel anything but him—thick, hot, buried to the hilt inside you, like he was trying to fuck you into memory, into reality, into existence.

He was gasping against your skin now, his breath pouring out in short, ragged bursts that seared across your collarbone like open flame, each one edged with something rawer than pain and more desperate than pleasure. His jaw was clenched so tightly it trembled against the curve of your throat, the sinew in his neck taut like a man trying to hold back a scream, like the sheer force of what he felt was something he had to trap behind his teeth just to keep from breaking apart entirely. His grip on your hips had turned punishing, almost brutal, his fingers digging so deep into your flesh it felt like he was trying to leave something permanent behind—not just a bruise, but a mark that said mine, still mine, always. He didn’t mean to hurt you. But he couldn’t stop. Not when the way you moved beneath him was undoing every stitch of restraint he’d tried so fucking hard to hold onto.

He looked down for just a second—just long enough to watch the place where your bodies met, slick and desperate and shuddering with every movement—and the sight alone nearly ruined him. That was you. That was him, buried inside you so deep he swore he could see himself poking from inside you and forming a bulf in your lower abdomen. Your legs locked tight around his waist, your body rising to meet his like you couldn’t bear even a moment of distance, and it shattered something in him, something hollow and hungry and feral. You looked unreal like that—eyes wet and wide, lips parted, the flush of you spreading down your chest as your back arched again beneath him. The shaft of light spilling through the hole in the ceiling cast a pale, holy glow across your skin, catching in the strands of glass tangled in your hair and turning your entire body into something celestial, like you were a vision brought back from the dead just for him to worship.

Then his hands slid up, one latching tight into yours, pinning it down hard beside your head. The other followed, his fingers threading between yours like a lifeline, like if he didn’t hold on he might float away completely. And all the while he kept fucking into you—harder, deeper—his eyes locked to your face with a terrifying sort of focus, like he was watching for signs of life, of love, of you, and couldn’t afford to miss a second of it.

You could feel him everywhere—stretching you open, filling you to the point of madness, the weight of him driving every inch of his cock so deep inside you it felt like he might split you in two. You swore you could feel it in your chest, in your spine, curling in your throat like a scream that couldn’t find a way out. Every thrust hit like a vow, like a promise sealed with skin and sweat and everything he couldn’t say out loud. Like he was stitching you back together with every goddamn movement.

And you let him. You wanted him to. Because every bruising, fevered stroke didn’t just remind you that you were alive—it reminded you that you were his.

He reached a hand down and lightly pressed on the small bulge that was forming every time he pushed in. “You feel that? Right there?” he rasped, barely above a whisper. “Still got ya, baby. Still here.” 

The added pressure of his palm had your whole body trembling, not just from the pressure building at your core, but from the sheer impossibility of it all—him, here, real, alive, buried so deep inside you that your bones ached with the weight of it. Every thrust pulled a new sound from your throat, not just of pleasure, but of disbelief, of shattered grief curling into relief. The rhythm of his hips drove you toward the edge, but it wasn’t just ecstasy pooling hot and full in your belly—it was everything you’d buried to survive. Every scream you’d swallowed, every night you’d imagined him dead, every second you’d rehearsed how to live without him—it all surged forward at once, crashing up through your chest like a tidal wave.

He groaned into your skin, voice cracked open with the same unbearable ache you carried, every breath he took like he was drowning in you, like he couldn’t get close enough even now, couldn’t accept there was still space between your bodies no matter how deep he pushed.

And then something inside you snapped—not pain, not even climax, but a rupture of emotion that split you down the center. The first sob hit so softly it barely registered, just a breath stuttering against his neck, but the second followed quick and sharp, your face twisting into his shoulder as the flood broke loose. You were shaking beneath him, wracked with the force of it, tears sliding hot between your temples and his skin, gasping for air like you couldn’t tell where the sorrow ended and the joy began.

Daryl didn’t notice at first that you were crying. How could he, when every inch of his body was pressed against yours like a seal, like something sacred, like if he just kept moving—kept breathing you in and pushing himself deeper into your body—the nightmare might stay buried where it belonged. His face was buried in your neck, the heat of his breath scalding your throat in short, ragged bursts as his mouth moved blindly across your skin, dropping kisses that were more devotion than desire, lips parted in a prayer he didn’t know how to speak. His hips moved with a kind of desperation that had nothing to do with rhythm, nothing to do with pleasure, and everything to do with proof—the need to feel you around him, to fill the hollowed-out part of himself that had started dying the second he thought you were gone.

His hands were everywhere, cradling your head, skimming your ribs, dragging down your back with shaking fingers that gripped like he was afraid you’d dissolve if he didn’t hold you right. You felt like a lifeline beneath him, warm and alive and wrapped so tightly around his senses that the rest of the world ceased to exist. It wasn’t until your body began to tremble in a way that didn’t match the cadence of his thrusts—not pleasure, not urgency, but something softer and more broken—that he finally felt it. 

Not the tight grip of your thighs or the drag of your nails down his back—no, it was the break in your moan, the way the sound caught mid-breath like a sob in disguise. It was the way your whole body trembled, not from the pleasure winding tighter inside you, but from something else—something more profound, lonelier.

He pulled back just enough to see you, to really see you, and what he found nearly gutted him. Tears streaking your cheeks. Not loud. Not wild. Just steady, silent drops that shimmered in the weak shaft of light cutting through the ceiling, turning your face into something ethereal and wrecked and so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache. There was glass in your hair—tiny glints of it catching the light like stars—and he couldn’t tell if the shimmer on your lips was sweat or salt or both, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were crying, and he hadn’t even noticed. His heart punched against his ribs, and his body stilled completely, the rhythm faltering to nothing as his hands gentled in an instant, afraid he’d gone too far, afraid he’d gone too far and hurt you.

“Hey,” he rasped, the word cracked and broken at the edges, like it had clawed its way up from a place too deep to name. “Baby—”

His voice landed against your skin like an apology he hadn’t had time to shape, but already meant with everything he had. And the moment he stopped moving—just the second his hips stilled, just the breath between one heartbeat and the next—something in you snapped. The emptiness, that terrible hollowness where his rhythm had been, flooded your chest like a tidal wave, choking off your breath, making your arms seize tighter around him like maybe if you held on hard enough the cold couldn’t reach you.

Daryl didn’t need to see the tears to know. He felt it in your body—the sudden change in tension, the way your grip shifted from want to need, the tremble that started somewhere low in your spine and worked its way up into your chest, into the way your breath caught like it had hit barbed wire on the way out. He didn’t need to look at your face. He just knew. Because this was you. His wife. The only thing in this world he could read without a single word.

Still, he lifted his head, not out of confusion but out of guilt, because he should’ve felt it sooner. He should’ve known. And the second he saw you—hair splayed out beneath you in tangled strands, cheeks streaked with silent tears that neither of you had registered until just now, your mouth parted like you were trying to breathe through the weight of a hundred lifetimes—his chest fractured wide open. Not because he didn’t understand, but because he did. Because he knew this wasn’t fear. This was grief. This was the part of you that had stayed quiet all this time, the part you hadn’t let yourself feel, not until he was finally here, not until you could fall apart safely in the arms that were supposed to have held you through all of it.

He reached for you like he couldn’t do anything else—fingers threading through your hair, brushing it gently back from your damp cheeks, his touch reverent, delicate in the way only a man who’s loved you for years can manage. His eyes scanned your face, drinking you in, not searching for an answer but for reassurance—for some way to convince himself that he hadn’t failed you entirely, that you were still letting him in. And what he saw gutted him. Not because you were hurting, but because you hadn’t told him. Because you’d carried it alone, thinking he couldn’t bear it, when all he ever wanted was to be the one who did.

“Didn’t mean to—” he started, voice wrecked and hushed against your mouth, but you cut him off with a desperate, aching noise that said don’t you dare.

You pulled him tighter before he could say anything more, your arms locking around his shoulders like a tether that would snap if you didn’t keep it taut. “Don’t stop,” you breathed, the words fragile but clear. “Please, Daryl. I need this. I need you-” you were still crying, not hysterically so but crying nonetheless. And he knew exactly why. Of course he did.  You didn’t have to ask him not to leave you. He knew you would’ve stopped him if it had been too much, and you knew without question he would’ve stopped himself if he’d thought it really hurt you. 

The weight of what it meant to lose him. The cold, gnawing stretch of time you’d spent pretending that hollow space inside you was survivable. The unbearable relief of having him here again, real and solid and buried so deep inside you that the line between grief and grace blurred entirely. You weren’t crying because it hurt. You were crying because it mattered—because every part of you had cracked open under the pressure of loving someone so completely that living without them had nearly killed you, and this… this was how you came back to life.

He leaned in closer instead, forehead resting against yours, hand gently brushing the hair from your face as his thumb followed the path of a tear like it was holy.

His eyes were soft and wild all at once—wide and glistening, like he was looking at the most precious thing he’d ever nearly lost. And his voice, when it came, was low and rough and reverent, shaking with awe, not pity.

“Shhh,” he cooed, barely more than a breath. “I know, baby. I know.”

And maybe you didn’t say anything back. Maybe you couldn’t. But you didn’t need to. Because the sob that ripped through you as you dragged him impossibly closer—the way you held him, gasping and trembling and utterly unguarded—was the loudest kind of yes. And that was it.

That was the moment the last piece of him shattered. The sob cracked you open, but what followed wasn’t collapse—it was hunger. Not just for his body, but for the life threaded through it. For the rhythm of his pulse beneath your palm, for the ragged breath he exhaled against your mouth, for the sweat slicking your skin where it met his, sealing you together like glue and desperation.

The tenderness in his eyes cracked into something else—something darker, deeper. His jaw clenched not with restraint now, but with the effort of not fucking you through the floor. And when you lifted your hips, grinding into him with all the need that had been choking you silent for days, he finally gave in.

He kissed you so hard it hurt, mouth crashing into yours with a force that spoke louder than any words ever could, like he thought if he kissed you hard enough, it might stitch the splinters back together, might fuse soul to soul and silence the ache. One hand cupped your face, thumb brushing away a tear he couldn’t stop, while another fell right behind your thigh, gripping hard, dragging you up and into him again, no hesitation, no pause, just the fierce, undeniable need to be inside you, to move in time with your heartbeat, to bury himself in every place you ached.

And when he thrust again—harder this time, rough and deep and aching—it wasn’t just sex. It was obliteration. It was grief and rage and love and resurrection, all tangled into the rhythm of two people who’d already lost each other once and would rather burn than let it happen again. Every thrust was a scream. Every kiss a promise. And everything else—the fire, the cult, the pain, the memory of your bodies being dragged away—burned away into nothing. Just heat. Just skin. Just the two of you, wrecking each other back to life.

He growled against your skin—not a sound of anger, but of helpless, full-bodied surrender—and pushed deeper, harder, rougher, until your body bowed beneath him and your cry echoed around the barren gas station. His hands weren’t gentle now. They were frantic, anchoring your thighs apart like he couldn’t bear the idea of you ever slipping from him again. His palms slid beneath your ass, lifting you to meet him thrust for thrust, pace turning punishing, almost cruel—but never careless. Never thoughtless.

The pace grew sharper. Harsher. Like the tenderness had done its job and now there was only need, coursing through both of you like blood that had been frozen too long and finally remembered how to burn. His hands slid beneath your thighs, dragging them higher, pressing you open until your hips tilted just right, until every thrust hit the place that made your breath catch and your hands claw at his back without mercy.

You could feel it in your chest—the thunder of your heart matching the rhythm of his body driving into yours, so hard now it bordered on brutal, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t violence. It was release. It was the kind of desperation that lived in marrow, the kind that only surfaced when someone had thought they’d lost you forever and just got you back in the flesh, panting and crying beneath them like salvation.

The cracked ceiling above bled silver light onto your bodies, cutting through the dust in shafts that caught in your hair, tangled in sweat-slick strands. It painted your skin in molten highlights and shadows, turning you into something unholy, something divine. Daryl looked down and stopped breathing for a second. Your hair was spread like wildfire against the broken linoleum, glass glinting in the strands like stars scattered across the wreckage, and your eyes—glassy and wide, brimming with tears and heat and disbelief—fixed on him like he was the only thing that still made sense.

His gaze dropped to where your bodies met, where you took all of him again and again, where slick and need coated his length and your thighs and the floor beneath. He watched himself disappear into you, over and over, and something in his throat cracked open around a sound that wasn’t quite a groan, wasn’t quite a whimper, but something ruinous in between. His jaw clenched, but not to restrain himself—no, this time it was to hold back the tears that stung the corners of his eyes, the way his lip quivered when he looked at your face and saw nothing but home.

You tightened around him, a gasp catching in your throat, and your back arched again, like your whole body was trying to drag him deeper. He followed instinct, chest pressed flush to yours, forearms braced on either side of your head as he rolled his hips deeper, rougher, unforgiving now. He was panting into your mouth, groaning softly every time you clenched around him like your body was trying to keep him, claim him, never let him go again.

“Jesus,” he breathed, but it wasn’t a curse. It was reverence. It was awe. It was the sound of a man who had already died once and was being brought back to life by the way your hands gripped his shoulders and your heels dug into the small of his back and your cries sounded like they’d been buried for days and had finally clawed their way out.

It was obliteration in the truest sense—the complete undoing of everything that had come before. The silence. The fire. The nights spent thinking he was gone. The image of your own blood on concrete. The image of his body, still and crumpled, playing behind your eyelids like a curse.

Gone.

All of it burned away under the weight of him inside you—under the pressure of his breath ghosting over your mouth, of his fingers tangled in your hair, of his body colliding with yours in the kind of rhythm that came not from want but need. His hips snapped with purpose, not just to make you feel but to remind you that you were alive, that you had made it, that this was real and you were still here, and so was he, and you weren’t going to lose each other again. Not like that. Not ever.

You clung to him like he was gravity, like he was the only thing anchoring you to this plane of existence. And maybe he was. Maybe this wasn’t the world anymore—maybe it was something else, something made entirely of heat and skin and breath and sweat, something holy in its destruction.

Every thrust carved his name into your bones.

Every kiss spilled another vow you didn’t have the words to speak.

And everything else—the Creed, the fire, the bruises on your wrists, the ashes you’d swallowed trying to survive a world that wanted you gone—all of it melted into the background until there was only this. Only now. Only him, burying himself so deep inside you it felt like resurrection, like the act of being loved by him in this body, in this ruined, wounded flesh, was the only miracle you had ever believed in.

He wasn’t fucking you.

He was wrecking you back to life.

It didn’t take long—how could it, when every thrust, every breath, every word from his lips had been cracking open the shell you’d built around yourself like a second skin. The pleasure wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even welcome at first. It surged through you with such sharp contrast to the numbness you’d carried for days that your whole body rejected it on instinct, muscles locking, shoulders bunching, jaw clenched in defiance against something that felt far too good to be real.

You grunted, half in warning, half in protest, the sound raw and confused as if your body didn’t quite know whether it was trying to escape or surrender. You squirmed beneath him, hips shifting as if to pull away, a hand pressing against his shoulder in panic, not because you didn’t want him, but because it was too much—too fast, too bright, too alive. The heat building in your belly was unbearable, a wildfire on nerves that hadn’t felt anything in too long, and the thought of letting it take you terrified you more than the emptiness ever had.

But Daryl didn’t flinch. He didn’t still or jolt or scramble to change what he was doing, didn’t retreat like he thought he’d broken you. He just stayed with you—deep and steady, deliberate and devastatingly tender, each thrust measured not for his own release but for yours, for your healing, for your ability to breathe through it without shattering into dust. His hips rocked into you like clockwork, the same rhythm he’d set from the beginning, grounded and sure, like his body already knew exactly what yours needed before your mind could even catch up.

Your hand fisted in his shoulder, your mouth fell open against his cheek, and when the pressure inside you tipped too far—when it swelled too fast to contain—you broke. Not into bliss. Not into pleasure. Into panic.

“I can’t,” you sobbed, voice so high and wrecked it barely resembled yours, your legs trembling around his waist, your spine arching clean off the ground as your hands scrambled over his back like you didn’t know whether to cling to him or push him away. “I c-can’t, I can’t—Daryl, I—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. It cracked and burned in your throat, dissolved into another wave of sobbing so deep it shook your whole frame.

But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t stop.

His arm slid beneath your lower back, cradling you close, and his other hand came to your belly, wide and calloused and warm as it pressed gently down—right where the swell of him was buried inside you, right where your body clenched around him like it couldn’t bear to lose the fullness, the heat, the truth of him.

“Right here,” he whispered, not with urgency, not with lust, but with the kind of reverent softness that made your eyes squeeze shut. “You feel that, baby? That’s me. I’m right here.”

The pressure of his palm, the heat of him, the sound of his voice—it grounded you more than anything else possibly could. You whimpered, breath catching as your muscles locked again, your body trying to brace against the tidal wave building too fast to hold back.

“I don’t know how—” you choked, the words jagged, trembling. “I don’t know if I can—”

“Yes, you do, you can,” he breathed, and his lips found your cheek, your jaw, your temple, moving in time with the careful snap of his hips, deep and unrelenting, never breaking rhythm. “Let me help you, baby. Don’t fight it. Just stay with me.”

You could feel how close he was. Every muscle in his body was trembling with restraint. His jaw was clenched so tight it ticked beneath your fingertips, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts against your skin. But still, he didn’t rush. He didn’t give in. He held you steady while you unraveled.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and his voice cracked right down the middle, wrecked and reverent. He brushed the sweaty hair from your face with a hand that trembled more than he wanted it to. “Just let me do all the work, alright? Doin’ so good for me, all ya gotta do is let go for me baby, I’m right here.”

Your eyes fluttered open, blurred and wet and shining like glass, and the moment they locked with his, it happened.

The sob that broke out of you was pure surrender—an unfiltered, primal sound that ripped from your throat like it had been caged for days, maybe weeks. And when it finally came—when your body gave in and your climax hit—it was seismic, a rupture that began low in your gut and tore its way through every nerve ending you’d spent too long numbing. It bent you back like a bow, spine arching clean off the filthy gas station floor, mouth falling open around a cry so guttural it didn’t sound human, didn’t sound like you at all, except for the way Daryl’s name punched through it like an invocation.

Your legs locked tight around his waist, shaking uncontrollably, the tension in your thighs quivering against his ribs as if your body couldn’t tell whether it was coming apart or trying to hold onto him for dear life. Your nails dragged across his shoulders in frantic, clawing lines, your fingers curling into the ridges of muscle like you were anchoring yourself to the only solid thing left in the world. And he took it—every tremor, every sob, every ragged cry—with a steadiness that bordered on sacred. Not passive. Not detached. He was there. With you. For you. Every inch of him moving with the singular purpose of carrying you through the storm you’d been bracing against for far too long.

His hips rolled with quiet force, deep and slow and relentless, each thrust dragging a fresh cry from your throat, timed perfectly with the way his hands tightened on your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into the curve of your pelvis as if marking the moment into your flesh. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts against your jaw, heat and want tangled with the desperate restraint in his chest, but his voice—God, his voice stayed low, rough, reverent.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple, his nose pressed to your hairline, inhaling you like a man who had been starving. “You’re alright, baby. Just let it happen. There you go.”

 One hand slid up your back to cradle your spine, the other dropping low to splay across your abdomen, grounding you where your body was threatening to levitate, thumb dragging slow, soothing circles just above where he was buried inside you. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, measured out like he knew exactly how much you could take, like he could feel every shockwave crashing through your body and was trying to absorb some of the impact himself.

He watched you like he always did in these moments—not just looking, but drinking you in, memorising the way your head tipped back, the way your mouth opened on a cry that broke halfway through, the way your eyes fluttered and flooded like something holy had split you wide open. It wasn’t just the way your body gripped his or the flush that lit up your chest and throat—it was everything. The rawness. The surrender. The way your soul seemed to burn through your skin when you fell apart for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, breathless now, like the sight of you had knocked it from his lungs. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this. Always are.”

And still he didn’t let go, just pressed kisses to your jaw, your neck. Still, he didn’t chase his own pleasure, as much as he was dying to do so, didn’t speed up, didn’t falter. He held you steady through it, hips dragging the last waves of it from your body as your limbs trembled and your breath hitched, as if he was the only tether you had to the world and he’d sooner break than let you float away.

Your body writhed, overstimulated and undone, tears mixing with sweat as you whimpered into his neck, barely able to hold your own weight. But he held it for you—held all of it. One hand slid between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest to his like he was shielding you from gravity itself, while the other pressed low against your belly, grounding you, pinning you in place with a gentle pressure right above where he filled you with his dick.

He whispered through it, lips brushing your jaw, your ear, the hinge of your throat. His hands stayed on you—one grounding your hip, the other still gently pressing into your abdomen like an anchor.

“‘That's it,” he whispered, lips against your ear, breath warm and wrecked and trembling. “Just feel it, baby. You’re doin’ so good. I got you.”

Even as his own body trembled, even as his jaw clenched and his back arched and his breath hitched in his chest like a man barely holding back, he stayed with you. For you. Because he knew what this was. Knew this wasn’t just about getting off—it was about being held. Being found. Being alive.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but feel—every inch of your body lit up and trembling, a live wire sparking beneath his hands, his hips, his mouth. It was too much. Too much sensation, too much emotion, too much of him after so long without. You were raw from it, undone, and still he moved with that same aching reverence, each thrust anchoring you deeper into the moment like he knew you were slipping from the edges of it. You were tragically oblivious to another orgasm approaching like you like a semi.

The orgasm that hit you didn’t just unravel you—it erased you. Your vision flared white, then dimmed, sounds muffled and distant, as if someone had dunked your head beneath warm water and held you there. The gas station vanished. The cold tile floor. The sting of your fingernails clawing down his back. All of it blurred into light and heat and the pounding of your own pulse as your body arched violently, legs locking around his waist before falling slack beneath you.

You didn’t faint, not exactly. But you went somewhere—somewhere too bright and too quiet to be real. Your arms dropped from around his neck. Your head lolled back. Your body sagged like every nerve had been cut loose at once.

And Daryl felt it instantly.

His movements faltered, breath catching in his throat as he blinked down at you, eyes wide with sudden, gut-punching concern.  “Hey,” he gasped, rough and shaking as his hand cupped your cheek, thumb sweeping across your clammy skin. “Hey, baby—hey, c’mon, stay with me, just look at me. What's goin' on?”

His voice cracked around the edges like a fault line splitting wide, that old rasp wrecked with worry. He shifted instinctively, one strong arm sliding beneath your back to cradle you close, supporting your weight like your bones had melted clean away—and they had. You were limp, pliant in his hands, your chest fluttering beneath his like a bird caught in the palm of a trembling hand.

Your lips parted on a soft, breathless sigh, lashes fluttering like you were trying to open your eyes, to come back to him.

His hand didn’t stop moving. Fingers threaded through your damp hair, brushing it back from your forehead with almost reverent care. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and raw with emotion. “You with me? Yeah? You’re alright, baby, I gotcha. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

His voice was wrecked. Wrecked and full of awe. Because even with his heart hammering in panic, even with his arms trembling around your body, he still couldn’t stop staring—couldn’t stop drinking you in, the way your skin glowed in the fractured light pouring through the broken ceiling above. Glass glittered in your hair like stars scattered in ink, your lashes damp with tears, mouth slack and lips swollen from his.

But he still hadn’t stopped. His hips still moved, slow and deep, instinct overriding thought. Relief washed over him; You were here. With him. You’d let go. And you were beautiful in it.

Your mouth moved—soft, slack, whispering nonsense or maybe his name—and your eyes finally opened, still dazed, still lost in the haze of aftershock. He watched the awareness bloom slowly across your face like sunlight creeping over the edge of a cliff. You were breathless. Glowing. Tears streaked your cheeks, but they didn’t come from pain.

He kissed your forehead, lips warm and firm against your skin, grounding you to him. “There she is,” he whispered. “Told ya I’d get you back.”

And you didn’t say anything—not at first. You just smiled, dazed and tearstained and impossibly soft, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your face into the crook of his shoulder like you were trying to fuse your bodies together completely.

And all he could do was hold you, breathe you in, and keep moving—slow and steady and full of everything he hadn’t been able to say.

You barely got the words out—breathy and slurred, more sensation than speech—but they shattered something inside him all the same. “Inside,” you gasped, voice catching in your throat, your eyes locking with his like you were offering him salvation. “Please, Daryl—inside, I want it, I need—”

And that was it. That was it.

His body jerked like you’d pulled a trigger, the last thread of restraint snapping clean in two. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask if you were sure, didn’t second-guess—because he knew. Knew you, knew this, knew how long it had been building, how right it felt. His hips snapped forward hard, burying himself to the hilt as a guttural sound tore out of him—half-growl, half-moan, all surrender.

His brain short-circuited around the edges, every nerve ending hijacked by the heat of your body around him, the way you clung, trembling and gasping, like you needed this just as much. He chased that feeling down with everything he had, like coming inside you wasn’t just release—it was proof. It was ownership. It was home.

His body seized like something sacred had split open inside him, every muscle going taut beneath your hands, his breath catching hard in his chest as he drove himself as deep as he could go and stayed there. One last thrust, a stuttering grind of his hips that pressed you flush together, and then he was spilling into you—hot, thick, and endless—like his body had been holding back too much for too long and now it was all pouring out, every drop proof he was still here, still yours. His mouth dropped to your shoulder as a guttural moan ripped free from his throat, wrecked and helpless, the kind of sound that only came from a man giving everything. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist, where they held you still, where they cradled the place your bodies met like he could feel the way he was filling you, the way you clenched and fluttered around him like you were trying to pull him in deeper, keep him there forever.

The room was spinning gently, like the world had tipped sideways and finally decided to stay that way. You weren’t sure if it was the high or the way your body felt so thoroughly used, so utterly wrecked in the best way imaginable—but something in your chest cracked open, and all that came out was laughter.

It started quiet—just a shaky exhale and a grin pulling at your cheeks, still flushed and wet with tears—but it grew fast, breathless and bright and disbelieving. You curled your hand over your face as the sound bubbled out of you, unstoppable, giddy, the kind of laugh that only ever comes after near-death and resurrection.

“Shit,” you wheezed, blinking through the haze, your chest rising and falling like you’d run a marathon. “I blacked out. I actually blacked out—what the hell—”

Daryl was still buried inside you, breathing just as hard, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead. But when he looked down and saw you—your eyes all crinkled, your mouth open in that ridiculous, beautiful laugh—something in his face softened so completely it almost broke you again.

He let out a low, breathless huff that was halfway to a chuckle. “Jesus,” he muttered, brushing your hair off your face with the back of his hand, eyes wide with mock offense and real relief. “You really had me goin’ there, woman. One second you’re clawin’ me to death, next second you go limp like a damn ragdoll. Thought I broke you.”

You snorted, still grinning like a lunatic. “You did. In the best way, though. Next time maybe ease up on the death-by-dicking. I saw heaven, hell and my Grandma.”

He let out a quiet huff, low and breathless, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and dragged a hand across his face like he still couldn’t believe you were real—alive, warm, mouthy as ever. His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking a damp strand behind your ear with more care than you’d seen in days. “She say hi for me?” he muttered, voice rough with something too raw to name, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, betraying the grin he was trying not to let slip.

You grinned, already stretching like a cat beneath him, arms sliding up to loop around his neck with the kind of lazy confidence that only came from being thoroughly worshipped. “She did, actually,” you hummed, brushing your lips against his jaw as your fingers tangled in the ends of his hair. “Said if you keep that up, she might just pull some strings to keep you around a little longer.” You felt him laugh against your throat, low and rough, and the way his body relaxed into yours made your stomach flip all over again. Then his mouth found yours, soft at first—just a kiss, just the promise of one—but it deepened quick, and suddenly you weren’t so sure this was over.

The kiss hadn’t really ended. It had just slowed, softened, thinned into something weightless—like the last glow of a fire smoldering low. His hands roamed lazily beneath your shirt, his hips shifting in the smallest, slowest rhythm, like the world outside of you didn’t exist. But your mouth kept going, even as your body melted into his, nerves still buzzing with leftover aftershock.

“I should probably be panicking,” you mumbled against his jaw, your lips brushing the stubble as you spoke. “Marshal’s gonna notice I’m gone. Someone’s bound to start asking questions. If they find my boot prints outside—”

He made a quiet sound in his throat, a distracted exhale that ghosted across your collarbone as his fingers finally found the clasp of your bra. You felt him working it one-handed, slow and clumsy in that way he always was when he was too preoccupied to focus. But you just kept spiraling

“Marshal’s probably noticed by now,” you murmured, voice half-slurred with exhaustion and overstimulation, one hand absently trailing over Daryl’s shoulder. “Bet he’s halfway to setting the damn woods on fire lookin’ for me. Gonna be a whole thing when I show up without an escort and smelling like—”

You paused, blinking hard as Daryl’s mouth closed around your nipple.

“—like redneck,” you finished on a gasp, brows furrowing, breath catching sharply in your throat.

Daryl didn’t say anything at your jab, not with his tongue circling lazy and warm, not with the way his hands were working behind your back, clumsy in that single-minded way that meant all his brain cells had migrated south. The clasp of your bra finally gave, and you felt him exhale against your chest, low and almost reverent, like unwrapping the last damn Christmas present in the world.

“Anyway,” you managed, though your voice wobbled. “We’ll probably need to slip back before sunrise, or else he’s gonna send a whole—oh, fuck, Daryl—send a whole damn—”

He sucked harder, just enough to make your spine twitch and your train of thought derail entirely. A soft whimper slipped out before you could catch it, and he pulled back just far enough to catch your expression with a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You finished?” he asked, voice gravel and amusement as one hand slid down to your hip, fingers splayed.

“Almost,” you muttered, chest heaving, eyes hazy but determined. “I was just sayin’ if he finds out I’m gone, he’ll—”

He dipped again without warning, tongue dragging slow over your other nipple, and your words crumbled with a breathy choke. His hands were everywhere—palming, teasing, pressing you down like he could memorize you by touch alone. Because he had.

You sucked in a shaky breath, fingers tangling in his hair. “Okay. Alright. Maybe that can wait a minute—”

“Damn right it can,” he murmured against your chest. And then, because you were still making tiny half-attempts to talk, even now, even with his mouth full of you, he pulled back just enough to give you that look—that exasperated, fond, completely ruined expression—and muttered, “Shut up, woman.”

You were still wrapped around him, your legs draped loose over his hips, your skin sticky and warm against the floor, and the air between you almost too full to breathe in. His mouth hovered at your chest, his breath hot where it fanned across damp skin, but it was the weight of him inside you that still anchored everything—that made your pulse slow down, your mind quiet, your soul crawl back into your body like it finally had a reason to stay.

Just the smallest shift of his hips, subtle and deep and slow enough to make your spine curve like a bowstring, your whole body sighing around the feeling. It wasn’t urgent this time. There was no clawing, no chaos, just the rhythm of trust, of comfort, of him easing the two of you back into motion like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet each shallow thrust, the slick, slow drag of him filling you again and again like the echo of something sacred. His hands cradled your waist like you were something breakable, like he was terrified of pushing too far too fast, but he still kept going, steady and sure, his forehead dropping to your collarbone, his lips dragging blindly across your skin as he whispered something soft you couldn’t quite hear.

Your body responded before your mind did—back arching, thighs tightening around him, the stretch and pull of every movement settling low and molten in your belly. You pressed your cheek to his hair, your fingers carding gently through the strands at his nape, and for a moment, you just existed there—entwined, slow-moving, breathing each other in like the rest of the world had burned away.

He exhaled against your neck, rough and trembling. “Still with me?” he mumbled, voice hoarse, hands curling under your back as he rocked into you again, a fraction deeper this time.

You smiled, hazy and dazed and unbothered by anything but him. “Barely. But I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And neither was he.

Not when the way you moved beneath him made his breath catch, not when your warmth pulled at him like gravity, not when the sound of your voice—wrecked and playful and still full of life—was enough to make his knees weak. His hips rolled again, just a little faster, his eyes finally lifting to catch yours.

And God, that look—you felt it more than saw it. Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Neither of you had moved far—not really. Your legs were still loosely draped over his hips, heels resting against the backs of his thighs, your arms wrapped around him like you were trying to memorize the shape of him all over again. Daryl’s hands were splayed wide against your ribs, fingertips tracing absent circles just beneath your breasts, but the real connection—the one that neither of you dared speak for fear of breaking it—was deeper than that. He was still inside you, buried to the hilt, the fullness of him grounding you more completely than anything else in the world could.

And then, slowly—so slowly you almost didn’t register it at first—he started to move back and forth.

Not thrusting. Not fucking. Just a slow, rhythmic grind of his hips against yours, a smooth roll that had you sliding together like waves on a tide, every movement unhurried and devastating in its simplicity. The friction was low and steady, a deep ache blooming between your hips as your slick bodies rocked together, the drag of him thick and warm and maddening in the most patient, reverent way. It was less about building toward anything and more about staying here—right here—suspended in the aftermath, wrapped around each other like nothing else could touch you.

You mirrored him instinctively, your hips tilting up into every careful grind, your arms tightening around his back, mouth brushing along the curve of his shoulder. Your skin clung to his, sweat-slicked and flushed, every nerve ending burning in the low light. And God, it was slow—almost torturous in its tenderness, like your bodies had decided they weren’t ready to let go yet, not even an inch, not even now.

Daryl’s breath stuttered against your throat, warm and shaky and uneven. His forehead rested against yours, and he was watching you, eyes flickering from your parted lips to the way your brow pinched and then eased with every roll of his hips. You felt like a live wire beneath him, pulled so tight you might snap, but you didn’t want to stop—not when every slow grind of his body against yours felt like a prayer being answered.

He cupped the back of your neck with one calloused hand, his thumb stroking behind your ear as his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around your thigh to coax it higher, opening you up further, pressing you closer. He wasn’t chasing anything. He was holding you in it—this sacred, suspended moment where you didn’t need to speak to understand, didn’t need to move fast to feel everything all at once.

And still, he moved—steady, slow, unwavering—his hips grinding into yours with a reverence that bordered on worship. Your foreheads touched, your breath tangled, your bodies rocked in that quiet, unbreakable rhythm, and you both knew without needing to say it: even after everything, even after the blood and fire and silence, this—this right here—was still yours.

Your hands rose to his face, fingers skimming over the bruises that marred his cheekbones, tracing the cut below his eye with a featherlight stroke. His jaw twitched under your touch, a sharp breath caught in his throat—but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, like he needed to feel your fingers more than he needed to breathe.

You kissed him then—not frantic, but deep and shaking, your lips dragging over his as your body rocked beneath him. He was still hard inside you, filling every inch, the stretch still sweet and hot. Every thrust sent a slow ripple through your belly, your walls clenching weakly, tender and swollen from everything you’d just given.

When your hips shifted, chasing him, your breath hitched. You weren’t done. You didn’t want it to end. Not yet. Not when the ache between your legs felt like proof you were alive. Not when the slick sound of your bodies still meeting filled the space like a heartbeat.

His hand slid up your thigh, curling around the back of your knee as he adjusted the angle, driving just a little deeper, enough to make you whimper softly against his mouth.

And when you clenched around him, head tipped back with a broken noise caught in your throat, he kissed the salt from your cheeks and kept moving—slow and deep and endless, like the only thing holding him together anymore was the way your body still wanted his.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, the words shaped more by breath than voice. “I won’t.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came. You were too full of him. Too hollowed out by everything else.

His brow furrowed as his hand cupped your jaw, holding you still like he needed you to hear it right. “I kept thinkin’… if I had to go back to her without you—” His voice broke on the word her, just barely. “If I had to look Dani in the eye and tell her her mama was gone, that I couldn’t protect you…”

He trailed off, shaking his head like the thought itself was poison.

“I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t -'

You felt his words more than you heard them—each one a tremor against your skin, his chest tight beneath your palm, his voice cracked and breaking open in the dark. He wasn’t crying. Not exactly. But you could feel the weight of it, all the same. The terror he hadn’t voiced, the guilt he’d been choking on for days. It pressed into the curve of your spine like a second heartbeat, like if you didn’t speak now, he might drown in it.

So you found his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over the dirt and blood at his temples, his jaw, his stubble. You tilted his head until his eyes met yours, and even then, he tried to look away. But you wouldn’t let him.

“No,” you whispered, your voice thick but steady. “You won’t have to do that. You won’t have to say those words.”

He stared at you, jaw tight, breath uneven, like he was waiting to be told it was just a lie. Just another dream that would vanish in smoke.

But you didn’t flinch.

“Dani’s still gonna have her mama,” you said softly, but with more strength than you expected. “And her daddy. Both of us. She’s gonna see us walk through those gates, hand in hand, same as we left.”

Daryl closed his eyes. His throat worked around something unspoken, and when he opened them again, there was water gathered at the corners—blinking stubbornly against it, jaw clenched like it might hold the rest of him together.

You kissed him then. Not frantic, not hungry. Just the press of lips meant to anchor, to promise, to stay.

“And you’re not gonna lose me,” you said against his mouth. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, a silent, fractured motion, and wrapped himself around you like he didn’t quite trust the world not to take you again. And maybe you didn’t either. But that didn’t matter. Because in that moment, in the hush of the abandoned station with only the creak of the wind outside and the cooling sweat between your skin, the only thing either of you believed in was this.

You didn’t know if that was true—but it sounded like hope. And you needed something to believe in.

You moved together like nothing else existed. Not the wind battering the broken walls. Not the cult that tore you apart. Not the blood, not the smoke, not the wreckage that clung to your skin and memory like rot. Only this. Only the desperate push and pull of two bodies relearning each other by touch alone, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

The rhythm you found wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate like before—it was slow, reverent, a quiet conversation of hips and breath and the slick, aching slide of him still buried deep inside you. Each slow grind sent a ripple through your spine, a soft hum low in your belly, and you clung to him—not from fear this time, not from the ghost of grief clawing behind your ribs, but simply because you could. Because he was here and he was yours, and the weight of his body felt like home pressing into all the right places.

Your hands threaded through his hair, keeping his forehead pressed to yours, and for a long, swaying moment, it felt like the whole world was just skin and breath and the slow, coiling heat curling between your hips. He whispered something then—something low and hoarse and sweet against your mouth, something like “that’s it, baby,” and “feel so good round me,” and “mine, always,”—and it unravelled something in you that hadn’t dared come forward the first time. You felt it start in your chest, in the centre of your ribs, a warmth that spread like sunlight beneath your skin, melting every last bit of tension from your body.

You didn’t flinch from it. You didn’t fight it this time.

Instead, you let yourself fall into it—let your body arch to meet him, your breath break against his jaw, your thighs tighten around his waist as the pleasure rose steady and deep. Your orgasm bloomed slow, like a flower opening in time with his hips, and when it crested, it felt like the kind of surrender that didn’t tear, didn’t burn. Just opened. Welcomed. Wrapped around you like a blanket you’d been missing your whole life.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your voice broke, not loud or wild, just soft and reverent, a choked whisper of his name carried on a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. And Daryl held you through it—his hand pressed firm against your lower belly again, his other curled beneath your head, his body grinding into yours with a rhythm that said he never wanted to stop feeling you like this, never wanted to be anywhere else. He kissed you through it, mouth warm and open and grounding, whispering your name between every breathless praise.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, voice frayed and trembling, eyes locked on your face as you came undone beneath him. “Shit, baby, I’m-”

And then he stilled, breath catching sharp in his throat, hips jerking once—twice—and he buried himself as deep as he could go, letting out a sound like he’d been holding it in for years.You locked your legs around him, hips lifting instinctively to draw him as deep as he could go, needing to feel every throb, every shudder, every last drop of him fill you up. His forehead dropped to yours again, his whole body shaking against you as he spilled into you, breathless and broken and so profoundly there it made your chest ache with how much you loved him.

You both stayed like that, trembling and tangled and far too full of each other to move, the world outside forgotten. Your fingers threaded into his hair, your nails dragging down the damp line of his spine, holding him there, inside you, where he belonged. You could feel it all—his pulse through his cock, the tremor in his thighs, the helpless twitch of his muscles as he emptied himself into you again, slower this time, but no less complete.

Wel... things can nly get worse from here.

____________________________________________________________

Taglist:miss0giarra, jovialcatduck, brianna-merlim

[writeonwhiskey]

act like you love me: ch 10 (18+ MDNI)

a/n: sorry for hurting your hearts in advance. i wanted to rehash some of the scenes from chapter 9 so we can understand where hyunjin's head is at with this, so it may feel a bit jumpy as we go from scene to scene. word count: 4.9k tracklist: Escape [ fic master list ]

10 - How It Should Be (Hyunjin POV)

WEEK 9

Craft services has become an unofficial hangout spot while we break for lunch. This entire day has been a tease.

Being around you and not having a moment alone? Torture. We aren’t even filming anymore—just the photoshoot after this—so I can’t even pull you back to my trailer to “run lines”.

It sucks.

So, here I am, chopsticks hovering over a paper plate of cold japchae, and I haven’t taken a bite in ten minutes. Not because I’m not hungry—with this miserable diet for the upcoming shirtless scene, I’m fucking starving—but because you’re sitting across from me with your head tipped back, laughing at something Han just said.

And I can’t look away.

You glance at me briefly. You don’t even say anything. Just that soft look, the hint of a smile, and it’s enough to mess me up.

We’re seated next to each other, close, but not close enough. Knees touching occasionally beneath the table. That’s all we can risk. But I want to pull you on my lap, make you laugh at something I say, and kiss you right here.

In front of everyone.

This secret has become more precarious than I anticipated. More consuming. Two months ago, you wouldn’t even look at me unless you had to. Now we’re…whatever this is. Spending nearly every night together. You finally letting me take care of you. Letting yourself be vulnerable and soft.

I fucking love that version of you.

I’m starting to think I love all your versions.

I’m called away by Seungmin to go over the shoot schedule with J.Y. Park when we return to Seoul. And for the first time in years, I hate the idea of moving on to a new project. Normally I’m excited. I like the pace. The turnover. But this? This feels different. We feel like the beginning of something.

And yeah—you’ve asked me to end it.

More than once.

But I don’t think you mean it. Not really.

And I'm used to this cat and mouse game we've been playing since the camping trip.

I text the others I won’t be joining them for dinner and wait across the lot from your trailer. When I hear the door open, I don’t dare turn around. I don’t want her to see me here, waiting for you.

But once she’s gone, I go to you.

You jump when I open the door. “What are you doing?”

I step inside, shutting the door behind me. “What are you doing?” I repeat, lip quirking up as you dart to the window. “She’s gone. I watched her leave.”

“I thought you left…were you waiting outside my trailer?”

It certainly sounds creepy when you say it like that, y/n.

“It seemed like you were ready to blow a gasket after she showed up. Your agent, right?”

You nod, leaning back against the counter with a sigh. I know that sigh. I hate that sigh.

“Everything okay?”

“Hyunjin…”

No. Don’t say it.

“…I think we really need to end this.”

There it is.

Again.

“What? Why?” I ask, although I already know what’s coming next.

You give the same script. That we work now, in secret, in this strange little world we’ve built, but once it’s over, we’ll fall apart.

You say it like it’s inevitable. Like there’s no point even trying, but I disagree.

I step closer, sliding my hands to your waist as you mention your agency using me.

“You won’t let them.”

“Of course not. I don’t want to use you for anything.”

“You could use me for some stuff,” I murmur, lowering my head to kiss you. You stop me with a palm to my chest.

“That’s not what I meant.”

I smile anyway. “I know. But I don’t care what anyone says.”

“You do care. About your career.”

Of course I do. But that doesn’t mean you’re disposable.

You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about this lately. Wondering what the hell any of this means. Wondering what the future looks like if it’s just more lonely penthouse suites and new projects without you in them.

“So what—what do you want me to do? Pretend I don’t want you?”

“I don’t know…” you trail off. “Maybe stop looking at me like no other woman on this planet exists.”

I blink.

So you’ve noticed. And you’re still going on about ending this?

“They don’t.” You rest your head against my chest, and I hold you tighter. “You don’t have to be scared.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you, hopefully, let my words pour over you.

“You riding back with me?”

“I shouldn’t…”

“But you will?”

You sigh. “You’re making this really hard.”

“You thought breaking up with me would be easy?”

You let out a soft, sad laugh before replying, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s nothing to break up.”

Hm. You say that. But you’re still here. In my arms. Letting me hold you like this. You’re scared, sure…but you’re not done. Not yet.

I still have time to show you what this could be.

I kiss the top of your head and pull away just enough to catch your eyes.

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

Because as long as you keep coming back—I’m not letting you go.

You sit beside me in the back seat, your head resting on my shoulder. The streetlights roll across your face as we glide past storefronts. You’re quiet, in that peaceful way you get when you’re tired but content.

With me.

And I don’t want to hide that, anymore. I like you. I don’t even know when it happened exactly…when wanting you turned into wanting to be yours.

“You hungry?” I ask.

You nod, stifling a yawn. “We can order in,” you mumble. Then you glance up. “Changbin, did you eat?”

I smile at that. You’re always so thoughtful and courteous with him.

“Yes,” he replies. “But I can eat again—if the boss will allow it.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to your room as soon as you’re full.” I warn him.

“That’s my secret, Cap,” he glances at me through the rearview mirror. “I’m never full.”

You shake with laughter against my side, and I wrap an arm around you, pulling you closer.

We ride in silence until my phone lights up. And I make, quite possibly, the biggest mistake of my life by looking at it.

Alessia [7:35 PM]: Dinner still on? 👀 You better not flake, Romeo.

I feel you sit up before I can fix my expression.

“Shit. I forgot about this dinner thing. My agent set it up with the stylist for that concept shoot in a few weeks.”

You nod. “Yeah, no worries. Work’s work.”

You say it like it doesn’t bother you. Like it’s fine.

But your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

I want to tell you I don’t even want to go. That I’d rather be on your couch again, or mine, sitting way too close, pretending we’re still just co-stars even though my entire body feels like it knows yours now.

But instead, I say, “I’ll text you later?”

You don’t answer right away. Then finally, as you move to open the door, “Sure.”

I catch your arm and bring you back to me, hooking a finger under your chin. I gently turn your face and lean forward to kiss you, but there’s no reciprocation.

I stop and pull back to look at you.

Your eyes are dark and distant. Guarded.

“It’s just a work thing,” I offer softly.

“Even if it’s not,” you say, eyes on your hands, “it’s fine. We’re not dating, Hyunjin. We can’t.”

Before I can say anything, you open the door and step out.

“Have a good time,” you say.

And then you’re gone.

You don’t look back.

I stare at the closed door for a second too long.

Have a good time?

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you angry? Are you testing me? Do you really not care at all?

None of those possibilities make me feel better.

Changbin reroutes us to the restaurant and the silence in the car makes how I’m feeling even worse.

When we arrive, I don’t get out right away. I sit there, gripping my phone like it’s going to give me an answer to my troubles.

“Come in with me,” I say finally, not even looking at him.

He doesn’t ask why. Just shrugs and follows.

The restaurant is one of those upscale lounge-type places—dim lighting, curved velvet booths, candles flickering on each table.

Alessia waves us over from the corner, smiling wide. She’s already had a drink, maybe two. She’s glowing, radiant in a low-cut black dress, and stands to greet me like we’re old friends.

“You made it,” she beams in English, her Italian accent thick. “I ordered that citrus thing you like.”

I nod and sit across from her. She doesn’t acknowledge Changbin until he slides into the booth beside me.

“You brought Changbin?” she asks, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“He’s my shadow,” I reply. It’s a joke. Sort of.

She laughs too loud at it, brushing her hair over one shoulder.

I glance at my phone under the table.

Nothing from you.

We order. The drinks come fast. We talk work—photo concepts, branding, upcoming schedules. She’s smart. Talented. She’s good at her job.

She’s also not you.

But you’re not mine. You’ve made that clear.

Why do you insist on drilling that into my head?

“You’re working with Donatella, right?”

I nod.

“Do you think she’d provide clothing? I know she’d serve your looks justice,” she smiles too widely at me.

“I could reach out to her team.”

This is the version of me people expect—the public Hyunjin. Charming. Neutral. Professional.

I sip the drink. It tastes like citrus and regret.

Somewhere between the third glass and dessert, the conversation loosens. Alessia laughs more easily. Her voice gets softer, the edge in it smoothing out.

She’s pretty. I know that. I’m not blind. I just don’t care.

But…you want me to care? You want me to notice other women? You think this type of night should feel good and be fun, right? This is what you expect for me?

Beautiful girls. Fancy drinks. Easy conversation. No risk.

But it feels hollow.

Because the only place I want to be right now is wherever you are.

And the worst part?

You’re convincing yourself you don’t want me. And even though I don’t believe you, you’re stubborn enough to walk away from me.

The thought alone drives a stake through my heart.

My head is foggy when I wake up around 3:00pm. Bits of last night flicker in and out of focus: the drinks, the candlelight, Alessia laughing too loud at Changbin’s jokes. Her voice in my ear as we exit the restaurant.

“Let’s go out the side,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “Less crowded.”

Then, the flash of cameras. Her hand on my chest. Lips near my cheek, then my mouth.

A kiss I didn’t want. A photo I didn’t see coming.

I scrub a hand over my face, grab my phone, and check my messages.

None from you, still.

Just as I go to put my phone down, I notice the slew of messages from my agency. There are links to several articles, all with terribly misinformed headlines as usual.

“Hyunjin Spotted With Vogue Italia Stylist After Hours—New Romance?”

“Kiss Caught On Camera: Hyunjin’s Secret Night Out”

Fuck.

I vaguely remember Changbin having a heated exchange with the paparazzi after I got away from them and into the car, but clearly that didn’t stop them.

I sit up. My heart is thudding now. I scroll, jaw clenched. Comment sections are chaos. Some fans are screaming. Others are celebrating. Rumors are starting.

Is this why you haven’t text me back?

I can only imagine how this looks from your perspective. But maybe this is what you wanted, what you needed to give you that final push to stay away from me. Maybe this is a sign showing you how quickly things could spiral out of control.

I text you first, hoping you’re still within reason and haven’t shut me out completely. Then, I text my agency that Alessia is off the shoot and to find a new stylist. Something about how that all played out last night is a little too suspicious for my liking.

My thoughts are a mess as I get dressed and head out. But I need to see you. I need to explain.

In today’s scene Jae-hoon is supposed to be unraveling. Broken down from his father’s rejection, clinging to the one place—and person—that makes him feel safe.

It’s not hard to get there today.

I sit at the table, a bottle of soju in front of me, the fake condensation dripping onto my hand. Felix is still fixing my makeup right until the moment they call “places”. My eyes go straight to you.

You don’t look back.

You haven’t, not since I got here.

It hits me harder than I expected. I thought maybe the text would break the ice. Or at least earn a glance. But you’re focused. Cold, even.

I hate it.

The cameras roll.

“I’ve been looking for you,” you say.

“Well. Congratulations. You found me,” I reply, voice heavy. “Want a drink?”

You answer, soft but firm: “No. You left without saying anything. I wanted to know what’s going on.”

I look up at you and everything clenches—my chest, my throat, my goddamn soul. You’re in character, but you’re also you. And all I can think about is what I actually want to say to you.

“Cut!” Chan calls. “Do you need your line, Hyunjin?”

I shake my head. “Let’s go again.”

Every take, I get a little worse. Because every time I look at you, I feel farther away.

Finally, Chan calls for a break.

You disappear behind the set and I follow, because I have to.

But our conversation does no good.

“I trust you,” you say, and my heart stutters—until you finish. “To get this scene done in a timely manner. Let’s focus on that.”

And just like that, the door slams shut again.

Back on set, we go again.

This time, I get there. Maybe because I’ve lived it now. Maybe because the pain I’m playing is real.

“My father thinks I’m weak…” I start. And it pours out.

By the time I deliver the final line—“Tell me who I am, then. Because without you, I don’t fucking know anymore”—my voice cracks.

Your hand is in mine.

And even though we’re acting, I wish—just for a moment—it wasn’t a scene at all.

"Cut!" Chan calls out.

You squeeze my hand, gentle and brief, comforting me but I don’t know where the line is between us and our characters anymore. My chest rises and falls too fast. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and glance around at the crew, pretending like the emotion was part of the job.

Maybe some of it was.

But not all of it.

Because the way I looked at you? The way my voice cracked on that last line?

That wasn’t acting.

I meant every word.

“Tell me who I am, then. Because without you, I don’t fucking know anymore.”

It’s not just dialogue to me. It’s a truth I’ve been trying not to say out loud.

You’re already letting go of my hand. Already standing. Already leaving the moment behind like it didn’t mean anything.

But I’m still sitting here.

Still reeling.

And for the first time on this project, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to let go of this character—because I don’t know where he ends and I begin.

Not when it comes to you.

When you confirm that you’re in your apartment, I throw on a pair of shoes and dart to the elevator almost instantly.

I knock at your door and you answer. Barefoot, tired, and you don’t say anything. You just let me in.

Getting no emotion at all from you is somehow worse.

“It wasn’t what you thought,” I start quietly. “We had dinner and drinks and talked about the upcoming shoot—Changbin was there the whole time.”

You raise a brow. That last bit was meant to be comforting, but perhaps it’s not. Given that I informed you Changbin is sworn to secrecy when we kissed at the club.

“She was flirty. I won’t deny that. But that’s normal, to me. Not ego. Just a fact.”

You remain unmoved.

“She kept saying how cold she was in the restaurant, so I gave her my shirt. And when we said goodbye, I went to do the cheek-kiss thing. It’s customary with Europeans, but she went in for my lips. I didn’t kiss her back. I swear, y/n. Not like that.”

I pause, watching you.

Still nothing.

“You don’t have to worry, I’ve had her replaced for the shoot.”

The blank look on your face is eating me alive. I feel like I’m grasping at straws, like the moment I’ve been dreading is finally here. You don’t want me to fix this.

You let the silence stretch.

“Okay,” you finally say.

Just one word? But you believe me?

No…something is still wrong.

“It happens in this industry,” you continue, almost too calm. “Exploitation and shitty misunderstandings.”

I exhale. For a second, it feels like we might be okay. But when I take another step closer to you, you hold your hand up to stop me.

“But just because I understand it doesn’t mean it changes anything.”

My heart falters. “Why not?”

“We aren’t dating. We’re not a thing, Hyunjin. Whether what you just said was true or not, it changes nothing. We need to end this.”

“True or not?” I echo. “So you don’t believe me?”

“I do. But that’s not the point.”

I frown. “It should be. After everything, I feel like we owe it to ourselves to see if there’s more here. To make our choice based on what we want?”

“Hyunjin…no.”

“Why not?”

You gesture between us. “Because you’re…you. I’m barely starting out. You know how this goes—rumors, scrutiny. It’s not just unwise, it could be career suicide for me. So this is my choice. This is what I want.”

You’ve expressed the same concerns multiple times and I know, I get it. You’re new, you’re talented, and you’re already under a microscope. You’re afraid that being with me would have people accusing you of being the girl who slept her way to screen time.

But don’t you understand I’d do everything in my power to prevent that from happening?

“But…it felt real, right?”

You swallow hard. “It did…but that doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

You close your eyes and shake your head. “I appreciate you coming to tell me. But we can’t do this anymore.”

When you open your eyes again and look down at the ground, I can see it written all over your face. You’re trying so hard to be strong and it makes me second guess my actions. Would it be easier for you if I just let you go? But being this close to you, I can’t understand how that would make sense.

[ SONG: ESCAPE ]

I take a tentative step toward you, and you don’t move away.

We’re close, but not touching.

“We only have three weeks left on set,” you murmur, finally looking up at me. “We can’t do this again.”

Another step closer and you stay in place. I can feel the sparks radiating between us in this moment. Your resolve is slipping.

“But I don’t want to leave it like this.”

I search your face, and then I do the thing I shouldn’t do.

I kiss you.

Hard.

You kiss me back.

And that’s all it takes.

The second your mouth touches mine, I know I’m fucked.

Not just turned on. Not just desperate. Fully gone.

The kiss is chaotic. My hands dive into your hair. You clutch at my neck, my shoulders, pulling me closer like you want me under your skin. Like you need me there.

Trust me, I would live there if I could.

“We can’t,” you whisper against my lips—but your hand is already beneath my shirt.

“Then tell me to stop,” I taunt, kissing your jaw, your throat, that spot beneath your ear that always makes your breath hitch.

You don’t.

Instead, you peel my shirt off, your fingertips trailing heat down my sides. I help you out of your shirt, and when our skin collides, my entire body lights up. Then we’re stumbling—through the living room, down the hall, unable to keep off each other.

“I could take care of us,” I say, rough and reckless. I mean it. “You wouldn’t have to worry.”

You laugh bitterly, pushing me against the hallway wall. “I’m not a trophy wife, Hyunjin.”

You come back to me, kissing me as you push my sweatpants down. I step out of them before lifting you, and your legs wrap around my waist as I pin you against the opposite wall.

“That’s not what I meant,” I murmur, my lips brushing along your collarbone.

“I’m not something to keep hidden in a penthouse either.”

“I wouldn’t hide you.” I kiss you again, rougher this time, like I’m trying to burn the promise into your mouth. Like I can make you believe me.

You drop to your feet, slip out of your pajama bottoms and underwear. Then drop down to your knees.

Fuck.

One of your hands grips my thigh. The other wraps around the base of my cock, and I look down just as your lips part to take me in.

My head hits the wall, my hands find your hair, gripping tight, helpless to do anything but groan as you suck my cock with urgency. Your words aren’t matching up to your actions—all you’re doing is reminding me that you want and need me just as much.

“Fuck, y/n—your mouth…”

You moan around my cock and my knees nearly give out. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach, your tongue tracing the underside with precision.

Then your other hand disappears between your legs.

“You touching yourself?” I pant. You nod, eyes locked on mine as you suck even harder. “Mmm, yes. Play with yourself for me, jagi. Get that pussy nice and wet for me.”

You moan again, louder this time. I start thrusting slowly into your mouth, and when you don’t pull away, I push my hips forward, going deeper. And you take it all.

“That feels so fucking good,” I growl. “I don’t want this to be the last time. Don’t make me lose this.”

I pull out, wiping the spit from your chin with my thumb. I grip your jaw between my fingers and squat down so we’re eye-level. I need you to hear me, to see me when I say this.

“I’d burn everything I’ve built to the ground if it meant having you,” my tone is soft, but the words are a dangerous promise.

A flicker of something passes through your eyes—hope? Fear?

You don’t respond.

I pull you to your feet and kiss you, tasting myself on your tongue as we stumble toward the bedroom. We make it onto the bed and the moment your body is fully pressed against mine, something in me shatters.

I can’t lose you.

I line up at your entrance, dragging the head of my cock against your folds. You’re soaked—dripping, actually—and it drives me insane.

“You want me to stop?” I ask, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Just the tip, in and out. Just enough to make you squirm.

You gasp, clutching at my shoulders.

“Answer me.”

“Hyunjin,” you groan, hips chasing mine.

“This has to end, right?” I push a little deeper, then pull out again. “You can walk away from me without missing this?”

You’re panting now, writhing beneath me, your fingernails digging into my back.

“Just fuck me,” you beg. “Please.”

“Tell me you can do that,” I whisper, biting your bottom lip.

“Hyunjin, please,” you breathe.

I sink into you with one long, deep stroke, and we both moan—loud and broken. Your pussy wraps around me like it doesn’t want to let go, and I curse under my breath at how fucking tight you feel.

I kiss down your chest, teeth grazing your skin, and latch onto your nipple, sucking hard as I start to fuck into you. I grab your thighs and push them higher, opening you wider, going deeper.

“You feel unreal, y/n,” I groan, watching your eyes flutter shut.

Your pussy contracts around me and I can feel how close you already are. But I want more. I want to drag this out until you’re shaking.

“Tell me,” I murmur again, pulling almost all the way out. “Tell me you can just forget about this.”

“I—I can’t,” you cry out, head tilting back.

I pull out completely.

Your eyes shoot open in protest, but I kiss my way down your body before you can say anything. Down your chest, your stomach, until I’m nestled between your legs. I push your thighs apart and look up at you.

“You say we’re done…but your pussy says otherwise, jagi.”

Then I bury my tongue in you.

You gasp, hips jerking as I lick from your entrance to your clit, swirling my tongue slowly, teasing you.

“I should leave,” I mumble against you. “Let you go, right?”

You moan my name, fists tangled in the sheets, and I groan when your hips buck against my face.

“But I’m not that strong, y/n,” I say, licking circles around your clit now. “I want you too much.”

Your thighs shake. You’re close again. I slip two fingers inside you and curl them just right.

“Hyun—fuck—Hyunjin!”

“That’s it,” I taunt. “Come on my tongue. Let me have it.”

You break apart right in front of me, your thighs trembling around my head. I groan, licking you through it until you’re twitching and whining.

I sit up, my mouth wet with your cum, and crawl back over your body.

“Still want this to end?” I ask, licking the taste of you from my lips.

You yank me down into a kiss, to have a taste yourself, and then push me until I’m on my back. You straddle me without hesitation, reaching between us to line my cock up.

“I should say no,” you whisper, voice chock full of that same disdain from week one as you slowly lower yourself onto my cock.

“Then say it,” I grit, hands gripping your thighs as I thrust into you.

You start to move, slowly at first—hips rolling in lazy, torturous circles. I want to throw my head back onto the pillows, but I also don’t want to take my eyes off you. You look so fucking good on top of me.. Skin flushed. Breathless.

“You were made for this cock,” I say.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you hiss, riding me faster.

“Only when I’m inside you,” I growl, reaching up to cup your breasts. “Only when your pussy is squeezing my cock like this.”

You slam your hips down harder, again and again, until I sit up and wrap my arms around you, chest to chest. I kiss you, still thrusting into you, but the rhythm is messy and wild. But I don’t care, I need to be this close to you right now.

Fuck that. I need to be this close to you always.

But I’m terrified that even this reminder of what it’s like when we’re together won’t be enough this time.

“Turn around for me,” I say, voice hoarse.

You climb off and I guide you onto your stomach, yanking you up by the hips until you’re on your knees, ass in the air. I take a second to admire you again—back arched, pussy still dripping for me.

I grip your hips and slide back inside. It feels calming.

Like this is mine. Like you’re mine.

You drop your chest to the bed, arching your back further, your ass bouncing perfectly with every thrust.

“Gonna fuck you so good you forget why you want this to end,” I say, pounding into you raw and fast. “Gonna show you why you should be mine.”

You throw your ass back against me, crying out with every thrust. I slip a hand between your thighs and rub your clit again.

“I’m gonna come,” you moan. “Fuck—I’m so close.”

“Do it,” I pant. “Let me feel you come on my cock, jagi. I need it.”

You moan as your thighs shake. Your pussy clenches around me so tight I can barely breathe. I keep going, chasing my own release, hips snapping into yours.

“Shit—y/n—I’m—fuck—”

I come hard, groaning through my teeth as I collapse over your back, my whole body shuddering.

And even as I roll off you, chest heaving, heart racing…I already know what this was.

A crash, not a landing.

You roll over and pull the blanket to cover you as the silence consumes us.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you say softly.

I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, my back to you as my head drops. “I know.”

I don’t try to hold you.

You don’t ask me to stay.

But neither of us move for a long, long time.

a/n: i have nothing to say other than i'm sorry 🥹 but we'll get them on the right track by the end! pinky promise.

@hwangjoanna / @hanniesbubuwife / @straycat420 / @tsunderelino / @dessianna1 / @akindaflora / @tirena1 / @krayzieestay / @ehstay / @spookiesakura / @aria-again / @sakuraseyebrow / @brekkers-whore / @sailor--sun / @velvetmoonlght

[gotwcird]

will truly didn't think being called a good girl would ever affect her. always felt it was more condescending than anything else, but something in the way anton said it made her tremble, felt herself gush with need, squeezing around robin's length as she worked to get used to the size of him. had been practicing with dildos, but forgot how different a real cock was. how robin seemed to pulse inside her, could feel his body strain in control.

"my god she feels wonderful, baby." robin looked at his husband in awe, could feel every twitch and throb of will's pussy around him. reached into the sheets around him and tugged on them again to balance himself. "she's tight too. so fucking tight. i wish you could feel her," he laughed again, thrusting up into her experimentally, which elicited a whimpered gasp from her throat and encouraging him all the more. watched as anton guided her, encouraged her, pulled her up so she was sitting and he swore that fucked out look on her face made him go insane.

oh fuck. "oh my god!" will squealed the moment anton started to work her onto his husband's cock. felt the immediate, overwhelming pleasure from his helping hand, from being fucked onto robin like a toy. "anton, r—robin, oh my god oh my god!" she scrambled her hands around until she could find purchase, grasped behind her onto anton's nape, using it to try and stabilise herself as she was worked onto robin, making her mind go pleasantly blank.

robin was already quickly losing it. felt will's pussy grind and move up and down in shallow thrusts, her beautiful, hot walls cling onto him like a vice. couldn't help himself either as his own hips began to thrust, which only jostled anton's cock inside him. "motherfucking—!" he swore, already seeing stars in his vision from the double attack, his eyes ravaging over his husband and their baby, a visual delight that did everything to help him lose it. "fuck me, baby, please!" he groaned, hips beginning to create wet slaps that echoed through the room, not unlike when his husband fucked him the first time this night.

she felt entirely almost gone, not even cumming yet and her body was spasming from the stimulation, from the feeling of anton against her and robin inside her.

"touch her for me, please. pinch those pretty nipples—" robin's words came out a plea, needed to see her keen, to have her fall apart for them. knew he'd be pushing her, but he also had a good idea that she loved it.

"She can handle it. Right, Will? Because you're a good girl for us." This was fully testing Will's limits to see how much she could handle with the two of them. And she was proving to do very well. Perhaps could manage to be a little more coherent and build up that stamina a little, but how could Anton fault her for any of that when she sounded so lovely as she was unraveling for them. Could feel the way her body trembled between the two of them from the onslaught of sensations. She was perfect.

Anton was impressed that Robin demonstrated as much self-control as he did because he was sure that his husband would let his desires run rampant and take full control. Will could barely keep herself up and Robin was already so wound up. But whatever he wanted to do, set whichever pace he wanted, Anton would take his lead. Continued to hold onto Will by the waist until Robin decided otherwise."Bet she feels really good around your cock, my love. Stretching her out all around you." Offered a small token of reassurance in the form of a soft kiss between Will's shoulder blades.

"You can do it." His words accompanying Robin's. Could feel the weight of Will in his hold as she tried to hold on, tried not to let herself go slack against him. It wouldn't be entirely possible anyways as Anton held her up and carefully positioned her so that his chest was just inches against her back. "Come on, darling. Like this," Anton reassured as he began to lift her up and down on Robin's cock, helped her roll her hips against him.

[angelicsoulic]

— 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ run, baby run ⊹ huh yunjin

⊹ ࣪ ˖ synopsis lately, you feel like being watched everywhere you are. and one night, your suspicions are confirmed when you meet your stalker, huh yunjin, your seat mate and friend

⊹ ࣪ ˖ disclaimer huh yunjin x fem! reader , wlw (men dni!) , fluff, tension , mention of kim chaewon, kazuha nakamura and sakura miyawaki (from le sserafim)

⊹ ࣪ ˖ song playing runrunrun — dutch melrose

you’ve been feeling it for weeks now — the eyes

they’re never in the same place

sometimes it’s the shadowed corner of your apartment while you’re brushing your hair before bed. sometimes it’s the gap in the curtain when you're trying to study. other times, it’s not even at home — it’s when you're walking down the hall alone at school, when you feel a breath that doesn’t belong to the air

at night, it’s worse

you wake up often. no noise, no dreams. just this... pull. like someone is there. watching you sleep. watching you breathe

you told your friends

kazuha had chuckled and said you were being dramatic and sakura shrugged and said it’s probably stress. exams are around the corner, after all

you tried to believe them. you really did

but your instincts are screaming, and instincts don’t lie

at least school is normal. at least yunjin is

she’s been your friend for a while — tall, effortlessly confident, smart in that quietly dazzling way. you’ve always liked her

lately, it’s grown into something else. her little glances during english classes. the way her thigh brushes against yours when she leans close. you’ve caught yourself staring at her lips more than once

but you’re not ready to admit it yet. not even to yourself

and then chaewon arrives

she’s new, but not shy

she sits beside you on her first day, and her smile is like sunlit glass — sharp and warm. you talk easily, laugh, walk to lunch together. and just like that, things begin to shift

you don’t notice it at first. but every time you and yunjin are alone, chaewon suddenly appears

“hey, wanna grab coffee after class?”
“you free this weekend? let’s study together”
“i was just passing by and saw you, come with me?”

you like chaewon. you do. she’s easy to be around. but you don’t realize how every time she pulls you away, yunjin’s smile fades just a little more. her fingers twitch. her jaw tenses. you don’t see the way her eyes linger when you walk away, not until it’s too late

the feeling of being watched gets worse

your apartment feels smaller, more suffocating

doors creak even when they’re shut. sometimes you come home and swear your belongings are off — like someone touched them, just enough to unsettle you. you tell yourself it’s nothing

but your heart beats faster every night

one night, everything clicks

you’re sitting in the library, alone with yunjin for the first time in days. she’s quiet, staring too long at your hands, your lips, your eyes

then chaewon walks in

you don’t even speak yet, but yunjin’s whole body stiffens beside you. she doesn’t look at chaewon, she stares straight ahead, knuckles white

that look.
that cold, burning look

you feel something slide into place in your mind

if she can’t be with me… would she find another way to be close? the way you’ve felt watched. the off things in your apartment. the scent of jasmine in your room — yunjin’s perfume

your stomach sinks

that night, you wake up with a start

the air is heavy. too warm. your breath catches — something is wrong

and then you feel it : lips brushing your neck. soft, deliberate. a shiver shoots through your spine. your eyes fly open — and there she is

yunjin

sitting on your lap, straddling your hips as you lie in bed. her hair falls like a curtain around your face. her eyes are dark. wide, daring

“finally,” she whispers. her fingers stroke your jaw. “i couldn’t wait anymore”

your voice is gone. your heart pounds so loud you think she must hear it

“i hate the way she touches you,” she murmurs against your skin. “like you’re hers”

you shiver as her lips press just below your ear

“you’re not hers,” she says, voice trembling with something between rage and yearning. “you’re mine. you’ve always been mine”

your hands find her waist, not to push her off — but because you don’t know what else to hold onto. you’re terrified, and yet…

a part of you wanted this. feared it, fantasised it

“you watched me,” you whisper, barely audible

“i worshipped you,” she replies. her breath is hot, desperate. “i needed you. but you were slipping away”

her lips crash into yours

it’s messy, intense, possessive. and you return the kiss — because you're confused, because you're afraid, because something about being wanted this much sets your nerves on fire

you don’t know what this is

but as she holds your face like a prayer, whispers your name like a vow, you realize — 
no one’s ever looked at you like this before

and no one ever will…

[therogueflame]

Me Rehúso

hi lmfao,

here is my first ever joaquin torres x reader i have been wanting to write him for such a long time and lowkey knew i was never gonna get a request for him and like idk i just love him and i love danny ramirez like so much okay bye this is so long and i actually edited it before posting and me rehuso has been on repeat i dont speak a lick of spanish i did my best i love you all sm sm sm sm sm

📖 masterlist

🖊 ao3

🗒 wip list

🔥 discord server

WC: 8.0k

Summary: It was just a drink. Just catching up. Just a little too late to call it nothing.

Warnings: 18+, soft smut, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving, bc danny joaquin is a munch) hurt/comfort, angst, yearning, exes to something, unresolved tension, literally who can resist a man in uniform especially when he looks like THAT?

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

MDNI!!!

It’s been a while since you were back in D.C., long enough that the city feels both familiar and hollow. The air still clings the same way in summer, heavy and wet and full of car exhaust and carryout, and your body still remembers how to move through it without thinking. Your favorite coffee place is now a nail salon. Your old apartment has new curtains in the window. Everything’s a little different, just enough to remind you that you’re not supposed to be here.

You told yourself it was just a work trip. Nothing more. The kind of thing that comes with a company-paid hotel and a packed schedule and no time for nostalgia. In and out. A few handshakes, a few slide decks, then gone. That was the plan. But then Carla texted. Just a backyard thing, she said. Nothing fancy. Some old friends, some new ones, grill’s at six. You almost said no. You typed out the whole excuse before deleting it. Then you said sure. Maybe. Let me see how I feel.

You didn’t ask who’d be there. You didn’t have to.

Now the sun’s starting to dip and you’re still standing in front of the mirror in your hotel bathroom, brushing your fingers through your hair like it’ll make a difference. You’ve changed twice. You’re not dressed up, not really, but you still keep looking at yourself like you’re trying to find a version of you that won’t care if he shows up.

It ended quietly, the two of you. No real goodbye. Just a slow fade, a handful of unanswered texts, and too much space that neither of you tried hard enough to close. Maybe you were scared. Maybe he was. Maybe you thought you were doing him a favor. You told yourself if you let it go, he’d be free to move on. You told yourself it was kind.

But then the wrong song comes on in an Uber, or someone laughs like he used to, and the kindness feels like a lie. You still think about texting him sometimes. Just to see. Just to know.

You don’t know if he’ll be there tonight. You’re not sure what you’ll do if he is.

The Uber drops you two houses too early and you walk the rest of the way just to shake off the nerves. You tell yourself it’s because you need the steps, that you want to smell the jasmine creeping up the fences, not because your stomach’s doing that thing where it folds in on itself every time you think about seeing him again.

Carla’s backyard is already alive when you push open the side gate. Laughter spilling over the fence. A bluetooth speaker tucked into the windowsill playing something rhythmic and low. You step in and it’s like falling into an old dream—plastic cups, half-melted ice in coolers, the smoke of something charred and probably edible curling up into the trees. You recognize a few faces. You smile like it’s easy.

Carla pulls you into a hug almost immediately, smelling like sunscreen and perfume, a drink in one hand and her phone in the other. She says you look good. Says she missed you. Says she’s glad you came. She doesn’t mention Joaquin, which means she’s definitely thinking about it. You don’t ask. You just smile and say thanks and let yourself be folded into the scene.

Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks where you’ve been hiding. You give vague answers. Keep it light. You stay by the edge of things, near the folding table with the snacks and the half-full bottle of tequila. You sip slowly and pretend you’re not listening for his voice. You’re fine. You’re just here for a little while. You’re not hoping for anything.

It’s easy to pretend when he isn’t there.

For now, you settle into the kind of easy conversation that doesn’t ask too much. You laugh when someone tells a bad joke. You flip through the playlist on your phone when the music hiccups. You don’t check the gate. You don’t look toward the street. You’re not waiting.

Except you are. Obviously you are.

You hear him before you see him.

Just a burst of conversation over the music, his voice cutting through in that same warm, slightly-too-loud way. There’s a laugh, too, familiar and unfiltered, like nothing’s changed, like he’s still the kind of person who laughs with his whole chest and doesn’t care who hears it.

Your spine locks. You don’t even think—just set your cup down and slip through the sliding door into the house like you’re looking for something, like you had any reason to be inside at all.

You find the bathroom at the end of the hall and close the door behind you, pressing your palms to the sink. The light overhead hums a little. The faucet drips once. Twice. Your reflection doesn’t look panicked, but your chest feels tight in that old way it used to, back when things were still fragile and good and you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You don’t know what you thought would happen. That he wouldn’t come? That you could handle it if he did? You breathe in. Out. Again.

There’s a little window cracked above the mirror, and the sounds of the party filter in through the screen—muffled chatter, a cheer over something, the tail end of a beat you half-recognize. You think you hear his voice again, but it’s hard to tell. You don’t know what he looks like right now. You don’t know if he’s alone. You don’t know if he’s happy.

You press your fingertips to your lips. They’re dry. You should leave. You should walk out the front door and call another ride and go back to your hotel and tell Carla you weren’t feeling well. That it was nice to see everyone. That it had nothing to do with him. But you don’t.

Instead, you run cold water over your hands. You shake them off. You adjust yourself in the mirror, like that’s going to fix anything. You open the bathroom door and step back into the hallway, heartbeat loud in your ears. The house is empty, quiet in that way people’s homes get when everyone’s outside. You linger by the kitchen counter for a second, pretending to look for a napkin or something else stupid and delaying. Your hands feel weird. Too cold. Too warm. You’re not thinking, just moving.

The sliding door is half-open when you return to the backyard. You step through without looking, eyes on the ground, on the uneven concrete, on anything but what’s ahead of you. The sounds of the party rush back in all at once—music, laughter, someone yelling about overcooked burgers. You take one deep breath, steady and careful, and look up.

And he’s right there. Close. Too close. You barely register it before your shoulder brushes his chest and you jolt back a step, instinctively.

“Shit—sorry,” you say.

He blinks, startled. Then his eyes focus on you, and something flickers across his face. Recognition. Surprise. Something else behind it that you can’t name.

You haven’t seen him in six months but it still hits you like a punch how easy it is to remember everything about him in half a second. His curls are longer. He’s tanner. His shirt fits like it always did, too well. And his eyes—those eyes—are still just as warm and dangerous and annoyingly kind.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He beats you to it.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful.

There’s a plastic cup in his hand and a backwards snapback on his head and he looks so much like the last summer you spent together it makes your stomach twist.

You nod once, shallow. “Hey.”

A beat passes. Then another. He doesn’t smile like he used to.  You step aside to let him through. He steps in the same direction. You both pause.

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny.

“Sorry,” you say again, quieter.

He just shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.”

But you are. Not just for bumping into him. For all of it. 

You move to step around him again but he doesn’t quite move and you both end up doing that dumb side-to-side shuffle that makes you want to crawl into the grass and disappear. His hand brushes your arm and he pulls it back like it burned him.

“Wow,” he says. “We’re still great at this.”

You huff out something that might be a laugh. “Some things never change.”

He nods, a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Like my ability to embarrass myself instantly.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Pretty sure that was me.”

He makes a face like he’s weighing it out. “Okay, yeah, but I leaned into it with the whole—” He gestures vaguely, reenacting the world’s worst sidestep. “You know. That.”

You almost smile. He looks the same and not the same, older in a way you can’t quite define. Tired around the edges. But his voice is still warm and clumsy in the way you remember, like every word came out just a little faster than he meant it to.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say finally.

“Yeah, me neither. Carla sent me like three texts with a lot of emojis. Felt like a trap but I came anyway.” He takes a sip from his cup, then adds, “Did not realize I was walking into a... potential ex reunion arc.”

You glance down at your shoes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says too quickly. “It’s cool. I mean, I— I’m cool. Are you cool? You look... like you’re doing good.”

You look up. He’s watching you too closely, but when you meet his eyes, he glances away like he got caught.

“I’m fine,” you say. “You?”

He shrugs. “Still breathing. Still bad at parties. Still get sunburned even if I wear SPF 50, which feels like a personal attack from the sun. So. Yeah. Nothing new.”

You snort, and his eyes flick back to yours like he wants to hold onto the sound.

Another beat passes. He shifts his weight. You can tell he doesn’t know whether to keep talking or bail.

“So,” he says, tilting his cup a little. “You just visiting?”

You nod. “Work thing.”

“Ah.” He nods too, like that’s a safe word. “Short trip?”

“Four days.”

“That’s... not long.”

“Nope.”

Silence again. Not cold, just full.

He taps the side of his cup. “Cool. Well. I’ll, uh—” He gestures vaguely toward the grill. “Go stand somewhere else and say more dumb things over there now.”

You nod, but don’t move.

He takes a step back, then pauses. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already turning.

You stay where you are for a minute after he walks away, half-wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Your hand finds your drink again. The condensation soaks into your palm and gives you something to focus on. He’s good at that, still — coming in like a wave and leaving you standing in the shallows, blinking at the water in your lungs.

The party goes on. Carla brings out skewers and people cheer like she just cured a disease. The music skips to something poppy and too fast. You sink into a patch of lawn chair conversation about travel plans and bad dates, your laugh coming a beat late every time. It’s not that you’re not present. It’s just that you know exactly where he is.

You don’t look for him, not really. But your eyes still flick to the side yard when the wind shifts. You still notice when someone tosses a beer in his direction. You still feel it when he laughs again across the lawn — quieter this time, like he’s trying not to be obvious.

He doesn’t come back over, but he doesn’t stay far either. At one point, he ends up helping someone carry drinks from the kitchen and passes right behind you. You feel the shape of him before you see him, tall and warm and barely there. You don’t turn, but your skin lights up anyway.

A while later, Carla corners you with her signature third-drink grin and a plastic cup of mystery juice.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, and it sounds a little too loaded.

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s nice. Really.”

She hums, unconvinced. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She glances across the yard. You don’t follow her gaze.

“Right,” she says. “Well. If you’re not fine later, extra tequila’s under the table.”

Someone pulls her away before she can say anything else. You take a sip of your drink and immediately regret it. It tastes like melted candy and mistakes.

The sun sinks a little lower. The bugs start to swarm the citronella candles. There’s a soft hum of maybe-it’s-time-to-go from a few corners of the yard, but no one’s actually moving. You think about leaving. You also think about staying. You think about the way he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to smile or break. You think about that little pause before he walked away.

You don’t notice the memory at first. It just edges in under your skin, like heat from the sun you didn’t realize was still there. It’s the smell of the grill and citronella, the sound of someone laughing in a way that’s too full, too familiar, too much like then. You blink, and you’re not in Carla’s backyard anymore.

You’re back in his apartment. The lights are off except for the one over the stove, casting this soft yellow wash across the living room. It’s too warm, too quiet. The kind of quiet that’s only possible when you know someone down to their breathing.

He’s on the floor, leaning back against the couch with his legs stretched out and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn next to him. You’re stretched out behind him, sideways on the couch, one leg draped over his shoulder, the other tucked under you. He’s warm against your thigh and keeps muttering that your toes are freezing.

“You look cozy,” he said, with that dopey half-smile that made you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time.

“This is my tired hoodie.”

“You should be tired more often, then.”

He reached up and grabbed your ankle, pulling it into his lap like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You remember that something was playing on the tv, but not what it was. You remember his fingers absentmindedly tracing the bone of your shin while he half-watched it, more focused on whatever quiet thought was drifting through his head. You remember the shape of his knuckles, the scratch of his callus when he ran his hand along the top of your foot. You remember not needing to fill the silence.

He said, “Don’t go next weekend,” voice soft, a little joking, like it wasn’t a request.

You said, “I have to,” like it didn’t cost you anything.

He nodded. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to guilt you or convince you or say anything dramatic. Just tilted his head back against your leg, looking up at you upside down, hair flopped over his forehead, cheeks pink from whatever he was drinking.

You said, “It’s just a trip.”

He said, “Right.”

Then he pulled your foot into his chest, pressed a kiss to your ankle like it was a habit, like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. But he hadn’t. That was the first time.

You remember feeling it in your throat. That awful, beautiful ache. Like if you opened your mouth, something would spill out you couldn’t take back. But you didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Later, you’d press your face into his neck, and he’d whisper something that wasn’t quite Spanish, wasn’t quite words, and you’d fall asleep wondering if maybe it could be this easy forever. But it wasn’t.

The next weekend, you got on the plane. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But that was the last night that felt simple. That was the last time you let him hold you without guilt.

The memory lingers longer than it should. You feel it settle like heat behind your ribs. When you blink again, you’re back at the cookout, standing off to the side while someone fiddles with the speaker and two people argue about salsa. You’ve been staring at your drink for too long.

Across the yard, Joaquin’s still perched on the edge of the deck. He’s talking to someone but not really looking at them, like his brain’s somewhere else entirely. Like maybe it’s still in that apartment too.

He glances up. Your eyes meet.  Neither of you looks away this time.

It happens gradually. The party thins out—people trickle off in twos and threes, hugging Carla goodbye, grabbing last slices of watermelon or half-frozen drinks from the cooler. The sky fades into that soft blue-gray that means the streetlights will flicker on soon. Someone starts collecting trash bags, and someone else is curled up in a chair scrolling through their phone with the dazed expression of someone who’s emotionally tapped out.

You drift toward the steps of the deck at some point without thinking. The music’s low now, something mellow. Joaquin’s nearby again, close enough to feel, but he doesn’t say anything.. Just stands beside you in a kind of companionable silence, the two of you watching someone struggle to relight a citronella candle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Eventually, he speaks. Quietly. “I forgot how weird parties get when they start ending.”

You hum. “Everything smells like charcoal and sweat and regret.”

“That’s the real summer scent,” he says, grinning. “Should bottle it.”

You finally look at him. His hair’s a little messier now. There’s a smudge of something—maybe dirt, maybe barbecue sauce���near the collar of his shirt. His cup’s empty. He’s rolling it between his palms like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You tilt your head. “You always this awkward or is it just me?”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I’m always awkward. You’re just the one I can’t pretend around.”

You don’t answer right away. He shifts beside you, then gestures vaguely toward the house.

“You heading out soon?” he asks. “Or...?”

You shrug. “Hotel’s not far. I’ll probably order bad room service and pass out.”

“Solid plan.”

You glance at him. “You?”

He shrugs too. “Thought about going home. Then I remembered I live alone and my fridge is sad.”

You smile, tired but real. “So what’re you gonna do instead?”

He hesitates, just a second too long. Then—

“I mean... if you wanted...” He clears his throat. Starts again. “We could grab a drink or something. Like... like old friends catching up. No pressure.”

You raise an eyebrow. “At ten thirty at night?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “The best friend catch-up hour. You know. When the truth comes out and everything tastes like cheap whiskey.”

You study him, and he looks nervous in that familiar way he used to get right before saying something too honest. You can tell he’s trying to play it off like nothing. You can also tell it isn’t nothing. You take a breath.

“I’m at the Selwyn,” you say.

He perks up, like he didn’t expect that to work. “Oh, they have a bar, right?”

You nod. “Until midnight.”

He smiles, bright and crooked. “Plenty of time for bad decisions.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re just catching up.”

“Right,” he says, bumping your shoulder gently as you both turn toward the gate. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

“I’ll drive you,” he says before you can even open the app. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t used to sit in his passenger seat with your bare feet on the dash, arguing over playlists and sharing fries out of a greasy paper bag. His keys are already in his hand.

You hesitate, just a second too long. “Sure,” you say.

He grins, trying to play it cool. “Besides, I cleaned my car recently. Well. I threw out the empty protein bar wrappers. Same difference.”

You follow him down the driveway. His car is exactly the same—black Honda, scuffed on the side, faintly dented from something he once swore wasn’t his fault. You slide into the passenger seat and feel your body instinctively relax into old muscle memory. The door shuts. The quiet settles in.

Then he starts the engine. And the universe laughs in your face.

The first few notes hit—clean, unmistakable, loud enough to be cruel.

Me Rehúso.

Your heart jumps into your throat. His hand freezes halfway to the volume knob. His thumb hovers like he’s going to skip it. He doesn’t. You stare out the window.

“I swear I wasn’t trying to be dramatic,” he mumbles.

You keep your voice even. “Didn’t say you were.”

The song keeps playing. You don’t speak. Neither of you move to turn it off.

That chorus hits like a sucker punch. ”Me rehúso a darte un último beso,” I refuse to give you one last kiss... The kind of lyric that would’ve made you both laugh six months ago. Now it just sits there in the air, crackling. He drums his fingers against the wheel, trying to be casual. You sit stiff in your seat and wonder if he feels it too—that pull in your chest like something snapping back into place and tearing a little as it does. You wonder if he skipped this song on purpose for weeks after you left.

By the time it fades, neither of you has said a word. But it’s louder than anything either of you could’ve said out loud. Joaquin clears his throat, glancing sideways like he wants to break the silence.

“Well,” he says, aiming for levity. “That wasn’t emotionally catastrophic or anything.”

You breathe out a quiet laugh. “Your playlist’s still ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but it slaps, unfortunately.”

You fall into silence again. This one is easier. Not light, but... familiar. Like slipping back into clothes you’d left behind, still warm from the last time you wore them. The drive isn’t long, but it feels like a hundred miles and no time at all. When he pulls into the parking lot of your hotel, he parks without asking. Turns the key. Lets the quiet settle again.

“You sure you’re up for this?” you ask, your hand on the door handle.

He shrugs. “Only panicking a little.”

You look at him. He looks at you. That same crooked grin.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He nods. “Catching up. Strictly platonic.”

“Totally.”

The Selwyn’s lobby is quiet, sleek in that generic boutique hotel way. Modern art you don’t understand on the walls. A bowl of apples no one’s touched. The bar’s tucked just off to the right, low-lit and mostly empty, a few couples nursing nightcaps and a lone businessman half-asleep over a bourbon. You lead the way without speaking.

He follows, hands shoved in his pockets, doing that nervous scan of the room like he’s checking for exits but not planning to use them. You pick a booth near the back. Leather seat, warm lamp overhead. It’s too intimate to be neutral. Neither of you moves to sit across from the other. You both slide into the same side, a little too close. Neither of you comments on it.

The bartender comes over, eyes flicking between you both like he’s trying to figure out what kind of night this is.

“Two whiskeys,” Joaquin says, before you can answer. Then he glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod. “Perfect.”

The moment he walks away, Joaquin exhales like he’s been holding it in since the car. “Well. Here we are.”

You smile. “Just two old friends. At a hotel. At eleven o’clock at night.”

He grins. “Nothing suspicious about that.”

You both look straight ahead for a second, not speaking. The tension has shifted—it’s quieter now. Less sharp. More like gravity.

“I missed this,” he says eventually.

You turn to him. “What part?”

He shrugs. “All of it. You. Talking. Sitting next to you and saying dumb shit until you laugh.”

You look down at your hands. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me again.”

“I didn’t either.”

You glance up.

“I was pissed,” he says, not hiding it. “You just disappeared. No warning. Just—gone. I didn’t know if I did something or if it was just easier that way for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” you say. “I just didn’t know how to say goodbye.”

He nods. “Yeah. Well. Guess we’re both great at that.”

The drinks arrive. You each take one, clink glasses without ceremony.

“To bad decisions,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows. “This is a bad decision?”

He smirks. “I think it might be.”

You both drink.

The whiskey burns a little. Just enough.

You settle into the silence again, but this one’s warmer. You can feel the heat of his thigh pressed against yours. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you.

“I thought about texting you,” he says, voice lower now.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to be a maybe.”

That lands. It sinks in and sits heavy in your stomach. You set your glass down. Turn toward him fully.

“We were never a maybe.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and something shifts in his expression. Like he’s trying not to hope and failing miserably at it. “Okay,” he says softly. “So what are we now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your knee bumps his, and you leave it there.

He glances at your mouth, just for a second. It’s quick, but you both notice.

The second drink comes faster than the first. Neither of you says anything, but the meaning is clear. Just one more. Just an excuse to keep sitting here a little longer.

The bar’s quiet around you, some indie playlist humming overhead, glasses clinking behind the counter, but none of it really registers. It’s just the booth, the shared warmth between you, and the way the whiskey makes your skin feel too soft for your bones.

You’re both leaned in now, legs angled toward each other. His arm is stretched behind you across the booth, not quite touching you but close enough to feel. His knee keeps bumping yours. It’s not accidental anymore.

He’s talking with his hands. Always has. One of them knocks his glass a little too hard and he mutters a low “shit” before catching it. You laugh and he grins, sheepish.

“Okay, so maybe I’m a little drunk,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Little?”

“Tipsy,” he corrects, lifting his hand in mock defense. “Buzzed. Whiskey-charmed. Still within the range of plausible deniability.”

You tip your glass toward him. “Sure.”

“You?”

You sip. “Comfortably reckless.”

He laughs, and it’s that real laugh, the one that fills his chest. The one you haven’t heard in too long. He tips his head back, curls falling over his forehead, and for a second you forget how to breathe.

“You always did drink whiskey too fast,” you say.

“You always stole mine when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. He goes quiet, eyes settling on you with a different kind of focus now. He’s still smiling, but it’s softer, smaller.

“I remember that,” he says. “All of it.”

You don’t move. The air between you is tight.

“You used to do this thing,” he continues, “where you’d swirl the ice in my glass with your finger and act like it wasn’t the most distracting thing in the world.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“You definitely did. And it worked. Every time.”

You lean in a little, just enough to make him feel it. “You’re easy to distract.”

“I was in love with you,” he says, too fast, too loose.

It lands between you like a dropped glass.

He blinks. “Shit. That sounded cooler in my head.”

You swallow. “Was?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Looks down at the table. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You didn’t give me a lot of space to keep saying it.”

You look at him, really look. He’s flushed from the whiskey, eyes a little glassy, but his expression is wide open. Honest in the way only tipsy people get when they’ve been waiting too long to say something. You don’t reach for your glass this time. You reach for his hand. You brush your fingers over the back of it, slow. Gentle. He doesn’t pull away.

“You know,” you say, “I still think about that night. The one before I left.”

His eyes flick to yours. “The peanut butter dinner?”

“The one where you kissed my ankle like it meant something.”

“It did.”

“I know.”

The silence now is thick. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full. He turns his hand over beneath yours, lets your fingers slide together. His palm is warm and steady.

“So,” he says, barely above a whisper. “What are we doing right now?”

You shake your head, half-laughing, half-something else. “Catching up, remember?”

He leans in, slow and careful. His shoulder brushes yours. His voice is right at your ear now.

“This doesn’t feel like catching up.”

You don’t pull away. You press your leg against his under the table. You feel his breath stutter.

“It’s not,” you say.

He shifts toward you, hand tightening in yours. There’s a question in his eyes. You could stop this. You could pull back.

You’re so close you can feel the moment tipping forward. One more second and his mouth will be on yours. You know exactly how it’ll feel — warm and familiar, a little clumsy, a little desperate. You want it. God, you want it. But it’s too much, too fast, too easy to fall back into something that once shattered you so quietly it didn’t even make a sound.

You pull your hand away. Slow. Gentle.

He freezes. You don’t look at him right away. You take a breath instead. Your voice is soft when it comes.

“I can’t.”

It’s not sharp. It’s not final. It’s just honest.

His face shifts — not hurt, exactly. Just something quieter. A flicker of understanding. Maybe disappointment. Maybe relief. Maybe both.

He nods, slowly. “Okay.”

You glance around the bar like you’ve just remembered where you are. The lights feel too low. The space too small.

“I should go up,” you say.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You stand, and he follows without question. Neither of you says much as you cross the lobby. You’re sobering up, not from the drinks but from the tension, from the weight of how close you came to doing something you wouldn’t be able to take back.

The elevator ride is quiet. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin, thick with all the things you didn’t say downstairs and the weight of the moment you pulled away. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just nodded, like he understood. But you can feel him beside you now — his body still turned slightly toward yours, hands in his pockets like they’re keeping him grounded.

You reach your floor and step into the hallway, carpet soft under your shoes, air humming faintly with recycled chill. You walk ahead, both of you a little unsteady, a little too aware of each other. He stays close but doesn’t touch you. Not once.

When you stop outside your door, you turn toward him and smile, barely.

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way.”

“Old habits,” he says.

There’s a pause. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. You know that move. You remember him doing it when he wasn’t sure if he should kiss you that first time. He looked just like this. Nervous. Hopeful. A little in over his head.

And still, you don’t move.

“I should go in,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he says. “You probably should.”

You look at him.

He looks at you.

It’s nothing and everything all at once. That ache that’s been stretching all night tightens until you can’t take it anymore.

And then you kiss him. You don’t think. You just lean in and grab the front of his jacket and pull him down to you and his mouth meets yours like it’s still been waiting this whole time. It’s not soft. It’s not neat. It’s relief. All heat and breath and too much all at once, like if you stop it’ll disappear again. His hands find your waist and you stumble back into the door. He laughs against your mouth, breathless.

“You said you couldn’t.”

“I lied,” you murmur, kissing him again.

It’s messy. Familiar. A little dizzying. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw like he forgot what your skin felt like. Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, tugging him closer, closer.

He breaks the kiss long enough to whisper, “Tell me to go.”

You don’t. You just kiss him harder.

He makes this low sound against your mouth that you remember too well, and suddenly you're fumbling with the keycard, trying to get the door open while he's still kissing you, his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. The card reader beeps angrily. You try again, breathless, and he's laughing into your neck.

"You're shaking," he says, not teasing. Just noticing.

"Shut up," you breathe, and the door finally gives.

You stumble backward into the room, pulling him with you. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds too loud in the sudden quiet. The only light comes from the city through the window, casting everything in amber and shadow. You can see his face now, flushed and a little stunned, like he can't quite believe this is happening either.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice rough.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you step closer, close enough that your chest brushes his, and reach up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertip. His eyes flutter closed at the touch.

"I missed you," you whisper. "I missed this."

He opens his eyes, searching your face in the dim light. "I never stopped missing you."

This time when you kiss him, it's slower. Deeper. Like you're both trying to memorize something you lost. His hands slide up your back, pulling you against him, and you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. Fast. Unsteady. Like yours.

You walk him backward toward the bed, lips still locked, hands roaming over familiar territory that feels both foreign and like coming home. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sits down hard, pulling you with him so you're straddling his lap, your dress riding up your thighs. His hands find your hips, steadying you, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.

"God," he breathes, looking up at you like he's seeing something he thought he'd lost forever. "You're so beautiful."

You lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of whiskey on his tongue and the way his breath catches when you bite his lower lip gently. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, and you arch into his touch.

His fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress, hovering there in silent question. You nod against his mouth, and he slowly pulls it down, the sound cutting through the quiet room. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your spine. You shiver, and he pulls back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.

"We don't have to—"

You press your finger to his lips. "I want to."

The words hang between you, heavy with meaning beyond this moment. You're not just talking about tonight. You both know it.

He kisses your fingertip, then your palm, then your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours. You feel something unravel inside you—that tight knot of regret and longing you've been carrying for months.

Your dress slips from your shoulders, and his breath catches. His hands are reverent as they trace your skin, like he's relearning a map he once knew by heart. You tug at his shirt, impatient now, and he helps you pull it over his head. His chest is familiar—that same constellation of freckles, that same scar near his collarbone from when he fell off his bike at twelve. You touch it, remembering the story he told you once, laughing in bed on a Sunday morning.

"You remember?" he asks, watching your fingers.

"Everything," you whisper.

He pulls you closer, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat, and you close your eyes against the rush of sensation. It's too much and not enough all at once. His hands slide up your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, and you laugh softly against his hair.

"Still got it," he murmurs, grinning against your skin.

"Some skills never fade," you whisper back, and then his mouth is on your breast and you can't think anymore, just feel—his tongue, his teeth, the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against you.

You rock against him, feeling him hard beneath you, and his hands tighten on your hips. There's an urgency building between you now, months of distance collapsing into this single point of contact. He flips you suddenly, pressing you into the mattress, his weight a welcome anchor. His lips trace a path down your stomach, and you arch up, wanting more, wanting everything.

"Joaquin," you breathe, and he looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry.

"Otra vez," he whispers.

You say his name once more, quieter this time, like a secret you’re not ready to share with the world. His eyes fall shut as though he’s holding the sound within himself, letting it resonate in the hollow spaces where loneliness used to cling. As his hands find their way to the waistband of your underwear, they tremble, a delicate dance of anticipation and reverence. You lift your hips slightly, a silent invitation for him to continue, to explore uncharted territories that still remember the map of his touch. The fabric is gone in a heartbeat, lost somewhere in the chaos of desire that swirls around you both.

His lips trace a slow pilgrimage along your skin, starting at the curve of your hip bone before journeying inward to the sensitive haven of your inner thigh. Each kiss is deliberate, an act of devotion that speaks volumes louder than words ever could. You’re quivering beneath him now, every nerve alive with sensation, and your hands clutch the hotel sheets as though grounding yourself against an oncoming storm.

When his mouth finally finds its destination, it’s like a homecoming. You arch off the bed with a breathy gasp that breaks through the room’s stillness and wraps itself around you both. He moves with an intimate knowledge of you, every motion recalling memories of nights past when only the moon bore witness to passion unfolding between whispered promises and dreams half-spoken.

The rhythm he adopts is one learned long ago but never forgotten, seamless in its execution as though no time has passed since last he worshipped at this altar. His touch is gentle yet insistent—the perfect paradox—exactly as you need it. Your fingers entwine into his hair once more for anchor and connection both; he hums against you—a low sound that vibrates through your core and ignites every part of you all over again.

The sense of nearing completion builds inside you rapidly—too rapidly—as if months apart have condensed into this singular moment of intensity threatening to spill over without warning. Waves crest within your belly, hot and urgent in their sweep toward release.

"Wait," you breathe out urgently, yet soft enough not to break what threads hold this tapestry together just yet. Tugging at his shoulders slightly with desperate urgency tinged by longing unspoken but always present there beneath everything else clouding these precious moments shared tonight after too long apart. "Come here."

He kisses his way back up your body, mouth finding yours again. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you dizzy with want. Your hands fumble with his belt, and he helps you, kicking off his jeans until there's nothing between you but skin and heat and six months of longing. He hovers above you, braced on his forearms, looking down at your face like he's searching for something.

"You okay?" he whispers.

You nod, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. "More than okay."

In the soft shadows of the room, he enters you, and you both exhale sharply, as though surfacing from the depths of an ocean where breath had been a distant memory. The sensation is one of rediscovery, a familiar yet long-forgotten dance. Stillness enfolds you as he pauses, his forehead resting gently against yours. You can feel the ragged ebb and flow of his breath matching your own. This dance—this intimate choreography—is etched into your bodies, even if time and distance tried to erase it from your minds.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, you draw him deeper into the space that feels both foreign and unmistakably home. His groan reverberates through the stillness, your name a sacred chant murmured against the warmth of your neck. His movements begin in slow, deliberate strokes, each one held with the weight of potential farewells lingering in unspoken words. It’s cautious yet intense—a savoring of moments that feel fleeting.

Your fingers dig into the solid expanse of his shoulders, an encouragement driven by urgency that pulses under your skin. As he hones his rhythm, it transforms gradually—a measured tempo building to something more urgent and alive. The room captures the symphony created by your intermingled breaths and soft exclamations of pleasure; tender whispers punctuate every shared heartbeat.

“Mírame.” he murmurs softly, and you oblige by opening your eyes. What you find in his gaze transcends physical intimacy—a vulnerability laid bare beneath the depth of those dark irises. There’s something exchanged between you in that shared look; a silent acknowledgment binding hearts entwined not just by touch but by something deeper—a promise unspoken yet understood.

As he moves within you with growing intensity, everything coalesces into a crescendo orchestrated by longing rekindled after months apart. This moment stretches beyond time—each motion weaving threads back together until they form one seamless tapestry, rich with color and meaning.

You unravel beneath him then, as pleasure overwhelms your senses like waves crashing upon the shore—leaving you trembling in its aftermath—a mosaic remade anew with each crescendo reached. It's only heartbeats later that he too succumbs; whispers woven with devotion spill from his lips—your name uttered like prayerful benediction—as he collapses against you under comforting weight rather than burdened heaviness reminding once distant souls they are home again.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. The only sound is your breathing gradually slowing, his heart pounding against yours. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you press your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—soap and something distinctly warm that you could never quite name but always recognized. 

The sheets are tangled beneath you and one of your legs is still hooked loosely around his, the weight of him grounding you in a way nothing else ever really has. He shifts just enough to ease some of the pressure from your ribs, but he doesn’t pull away. He just rests his forehead against your temple and exhales, long and shaky.

You could fall asleep like this. You think maybe you will. His fingers keep moving, slow and aimless, brushing the slope of your shoulder like he’s memorizing it all over again. Your name leaves his lips again, softer now, like it doesn’t have to be anything more than sound.

You whisper, “You okay?”

He nods. Doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Yeah. I just… missed this.”

You close your eyes. That ache settles in your chest again, but it’s quieter now. Less sharp. He missed you. You missed him. Maybe that’s enough for tonight.

You shift just enough to look at him. His eyes are already on you, sleep-soft and open in that way only Joaquin can be when he’s let his guard down completely. You brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking.

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

That’s it. No big promises. No next steps.

He nods again, relief flickering through his features so fast it almost doesn’t register. Then he dips his head and presses a kiss to your collarbone—slow, tender, like punctuation. He pulls the blanket up over both of you and shifts to lie beside you properly, one arm curling beneath your neck, the other resting across your stomach. You curl into him like you never left.

Outside, the city keeps humming, but in here it’s still.

Eventually, his breathing evens out. You listen to it until yours matches. He’s heavy against you, solid and warm, and you feel the weight of everything that just passed between you start to settle. You let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment.

Sleep takes you slowly. Quietly. With him still holding you.

You wake before the sun’s fully up, the room washed in a soft, blue-grey hush. For a second, you don’t know what stirred you—until Joaquin shifts beside you, mumbling something half-asleep into the pillow. His leg slides against yours, warm and lazy, and he tucks his face into the curve of your neck like he never left it.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

“Your hair’s in my mouth,” he mumbles, voice gravelly and ridiculous.

You laugh, quiet and raspy. “You drooled on my arm.”

He lifts his head, barely squinting at you with a slow, stupid grin. “Worth it.”

You hum, brushing your fingertips along his side. His skin is warm, soft in places and still humming with leftover heat. You could stay like this for hours, wrapped up in his breath and that dopey smile, but he glances at the clock and winces.

“I have to go soon,” he says, voice soft. “Work.”

You nod, even though you want to pretend this room doesn’t exist outside of this moment. He leans in and kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw. Then your mouth—slow, unhurried, like he’s still not ready to leave either.

When he finally pulls back, he gives you this look. Gentle. Unspoken.

He doesn’t say thank you, or I’ll call you, or what happens now?

He just says, “You made last night feel like home again.”

And somehow, that’s the thing that gets you. You swallow around the ache building in your throat and try to smile. He kisses you one more time, then slips out of bed and pulls his shirt back on in the grey morning light. You stay where you are, curled in warm sheets, watching him tie his shoes with one knee on the floor like he’s done this in a hundred quiet mornings—only he hasn’t. Not like this. Not since you left.

He glances over his shoulder before opening the door. “Sleep a little more,” he says. “I’ll see you.”

You nod. He doesn’t push it further. He just gives you one last, crooked smile and slips out into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind him. And you’re left sitting up in bed, hair a mess, covers pooled around your waist, staring at the door like it might open again.

You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t scare you.

[bookmimipascal]

✦ Joel miller x reader female x Tommy Miller

A/N : here the new chapter of my book English is not my first language

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ *✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊

Jackson, Wyoming 📍

2033 – 20 years later

It had taken years to feel safe again.

Y/N didn’t remember every stop along the way—just the cold, the hunger, the things she had to do to survive. By the time she reached Jackson, she was half a person. Tired bones. Quiet rage. Hope buried so deep it almost didn’t surface when Tommy Miller found her on patrol, covered in dirt, blood, and shaking.

She hadn’t seen him in years. Not since those rare backyard barbecues and late-night beers in Austin, back when the world made sense and Joel wasn’t just a name you whispered in your sleep.

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy had said, wide-eyed, when he recognized her.

He took her in. No questions. No judgments.

He didn’t say a word about Joel.

And she didn’t ask.

Maybe it was fear. Maybe she thought if Joel was alive, he would’ve found her. Maybe she didn’t want to know what had become of the man who never answered her calls the night the world fell apart.

Tommy was easier to look at. He had Joel’s eyes. Joel’s voice, sometimes. The same kind of quiet pain that curled around his words. He made her feel like she wasn’t completely unrecognizable. Like someone still knew her name before everything.

So when he kissed her—months after she’d settled into Jackson, when winter was just setting in—she didn’t pull away.

She needed something. And Tommy needed her too.

They didn’t call it love. They didn’t call it anything. Just warmth in a world that froze everything else.

⸻

Jackson Gates — Present Day

Snow was falling when the gates opened.

Y/N stood on the watchtower, rifle slung across her shoulder, peering down at the small caravan being escorted in. A girl, maybe fourteen. Tough posture. Dirty. And a man beside her, taller, broader. Worn. His gray was showing. Beard heavy. Shoulders like stone.

She stopped breathing.

Joel.

Her body locked up. Cold shot through her spine—not the weather, but memory. Ghosts. The kind that didn’t stay buried.

“Y/N!” a voice shouted from below. “You’re up next on patrol!”

She barely heard it.

Joel looked up.

For a second, neither of them moved. The rest of the world blurred.

Then Tommy’s voice cut through the air.

“Joel!”

She watched them collide—brothers reunited. Laughing. Hugging. Alive.

Joel was alive.

And he had no idea that she was too.

⸻

Later — Town Hall

Y/N waited in the hallway. She could hear Tommy’s voice inside the council room, low and serious. Then Joel’s—deeper than she remembered, but unmistakable.

She pressed her palms to her thighs to stop them from shaking.

The door creaked open.

Joel stepped out, still mid-sentence with Tommy. He turned—and froze.

It was like the air left his lungs.

“Y/N?” he said, like a prayer or a curse.

You said nothing. Just stared at him. He looked older, thinner. A little slower. But the eyes were the same. That gravity. That ache.

He stepped forward once. Then again.

“You’re alive,” he whispered.

She nodded. Her voice cracked when she spoke. “I tried to call you that night. Over and over.”

He blinked hard. “I—I thought you were dead. After the city fell. No one—no one knew where you were.”

She looked past him at Tommy, who had suddenly gone very still.

“You didn’t tell him?” she asked Tommy, voice rising.

Tommy looked guilty. “You told me not to bring him up. You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t ask because I thought he was dead!”

Joel’s voice cut in, sharp: “And you—”

He stopped himself.

You waited. “Say it.”

Joel swallowed. His eyes flicked to Tommy, then back to you.

“You’re with him,” he said, quietly.

You didn’t answer. That was enough.

Joel looked away, jaw clenched. “I waited. For years. I thought—after the outbreak, when I didn’t hear from you—I thought you were gone. I buried you with everyone else.”

“I thought you were dead!” Your voice cracked. “Tommy found me. He saved me. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Joel’s face twisted. “So you just—what? Forgot me?”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare ask me that after vanishing into thin air. I waited for you too, Joel! But we lost everything. Sarah, the city, the phones, everything was gone—”

You stopped.

Joel’s face had gone hollow.

“What?” you asked.

Joel was staring through you. Through time.

“I never told you,” he whispered.

“Told me what?”

Joel’s voice broke.

“Sarah’s gone.”

Silence.

The world stopped again.

“No,” you said, stepping back. “No, that’s not—”

“She died that night,” Joel said. “Shot by a soldier. I couldn’t—couldn’t protect her.”

You were shaking. “She was twelve.”

“I know,” Joel choked. “I know.”

You covered your mouth, tears spilling. Joel didn’t reach for you. He just stood there, looking like the ruins of a man.

It felt like you were both buried beneath twenty years of silence, and grief, and choices that couldn’t be undone.

Finally, you asked, “Why didn’t you find me?”

Joel’s voice was quiet. “Because I couldn’t find myself.”

⸻

The hall was quiet.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Inside, two people who had once meant everything to each other stood in a room full of ghosts—trying to decide if there was anything left to save.

[sweetonsin]

- where he found me -

A DBF! Joel Miller fanfic. NO OUTBREAK AU!!

CW: SMUT

WC: 3.4K

CHAPTER FOUR; WRAPPED IN HIM—

———

The days blur.

You don’t know how many it’s been since that night in Joel’s bed. Since his hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, the way he said your name like a prayer and a warning.

Now it’s just silence.

And the weight.

You stay in bed too long, curled on your side beneath a tangle of sheets that smell too much like soap and not enough like comfort. The curtains stay drawn. The sun doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

It’s been nearly a year since your mother died, but some days the grief feels like it just showed up yesterday—fresh, sharp, and cruel. A ghost curled up beside you that won't let go.

You scroll your phone, not really looking, not really seeing. There are a few messages from Joel. Short. Careful. Quiet.

You okay?

Haven’t seen you in a few days.

You don’t have to talk. Just tell me you’re alright.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you don’t know what “alright” is supposed to mean anymore.

Downstairs, you hear your dad moving around. Dishes. Cabinet doors. A cough. He doesn’t knock on your door, but you know he wants to. You’ve caught the way he looks at you when you shuffle out for coffee—eyes filled with worry he doesn’t know how to voice.

You try to be good. Try to be present. You sat next to him during a movie last night, barely aware of the screen. You said “good morning” with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You even asked about the fence project like you cared. But the silence after each attempt just made it worse.

He knows something’s off.

And Joel… Joel probably does too.

You can still feel his hands on you. The weight of his body. The way he made you feel wanted. Real. And then the way you felt walking back across the yard like your ribs were hollowed out and your heart had been wrung dry.

You press the heel of your palm to your chest, as if it’ll do something—anything—to ease the ache there.

You don’t cry. You haven’t, not really. Not since the funeral.

But your throat’s tight. And you think maybe if someone said the right thing, even looked at you the right way, you’d fall apart and never put yourself back together.

Your phone buzzes again. Another message.

You don’t look.

You curl deeper into the mattress and pretend the world doesn’t exist.

Because if you don’t move, if you stay perfectly still, maybe the guilt won’t catch you. Maybe the emptiness will pass.

Maybe Joel will stop waiting.

And maybe that’s what you deserve.

The blankets feel heavier than they should, like they’ve soaked up everything you’re trying not to feel. The silence in your room is thick, broken only by the occasional creak of the house settling or the sound of your own breath, shallow and uneven.

Eventually, the weight of your exhaustion pulls you under.

You’re back in the kitchen of your childhood home. Not the one in Austin—the old one, the one that still smelled like cinnamon and your mother’s perfume in the spring.

She’s standing by the stove, humming something tuneless, the hem of her dress fluttering near her ankles. Sunlight spills through the window behind her, catching the gold strands in her hair, and for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed.

She turns, smiling. But her eyes don’t meet yours.

You open your mouth to speak, but the kitchen’s fading—her face already blurring at the edges, like the memory won’t let you hold onto it.

She reaches out, fingertips grazing your cheek.

And then she’s gone.

A sharp inhale. Your eyes snap open. The dim gray light of late afternoon leaks in through the blinds. Your throat is dry, heart aching in a way that feels old and new at once.

There’s a knock at the door. Not loud. Careful.

“Lila?” your dad’s voice, gentle.

You clear your throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah?”

He opens the door slowly, peeking in like he’s worried what he’ll find. His face softens when he sees you sitting up, eyes still cloudy with sleep.

“Sorry to wake you, sweetheart. Just... didn’t want you to miss out.”

You blink. “Miss what?”

He smiles, and it’s that easy kind of smile dads give when they’re trying to nudge you into the world again. “Got a visitor downstairs. Figured we could all sit out back for a bit. Fire up the grill. Get some air.”

A flicker of panic twitches in your chest, but you swallow it down.

“Who is it?���

“Joel. He brought over some beers. Said he figured it was a good day to get some fresh air and good company.”

Your stomach drops. Fresh air and good company? You know the real reason.

But you force a nod. Try to summon the smile you think your dad needs to see. “Okay. I’ll be down in a minute.”

He nods, lingering in the doorway a second longer before disappearing down the hall.

You press your face into your hands, take one deep breath, then another.

You don’t know what Joel expects from you—not after the silence. Not after the dreams. But you guess you’re about to find out.

You linger on the edge of your bed after your dad leaves, staring down at your chipped nail polish and the way your hands won’t stop fidgeting in your lap.

You stand slowly, limbs stiff from hours of lying in the same position. Padding over to the dresser, you tug off the oversized sleep shirt you’ve been living in for days and grab something clean—an old band tee that doesn’t make you feel as much like a ghost. You brush your fingers through your hair, wincing at the knots and trying to tame them into something that passes for normal.

In the bathroom mirror, the bags under your eyes are still there—soft purplish shadows that no cold water can erase. You splash your face anyway. Not because you believe it’ll fix anything, but because it’s something to do. Something that feels like control.

You take one more look at yourself.

Still you.

Still wrecked.

But upright.

That’ll have to be enough.

The hallway creaks under your bare feet as you move toward the back door, following the low murmur of voices outside. Your fingers hover on the doorknob for a second too long.

You open the door.

The late afternoon sun is golden and soft, casting long shadows across the backyard. Your dad is leaning against the porch railing, beer in hand, gesturing animatedly toward something in the yard. And beside him—

Joel.

He stands with his hands in his pockets, head tipped slightly toward your dad as he listens. His flannel sleeves are rolled up again. His hair’s a little messier than usual. And when he glances over and sees you—

You freeze.

His gaze lingers. Longer than it should. His eyes sweep over you once, slow and unreadable.

There’s no smile. No frown. Just the kind of look that says he’s thinking a hundred things he won’t say out loud.

You swallow and force yourself to walk forward, barefoot on the warm planks of the porch.

Your dad brightens at the sight of you. “There she is! We were just saying how good the weather’s been lately, huh?”

Joel’s voice is smooth, calm. “Wasn’t sure you were comin’ out.”

You can’t meet his eyes. “Was just… resting.”

“Good,” your dad says. “You’ve earned a little rest.” He slaps Joel lightly on the shoulder. “Joel here’s been giving me hell about the grill—says mine’s too clean to be trusted.”

“Man’s got it shining like a damn museum piece,” Joel mutters, a soft grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.

You manage a small laugh. The smallest one. It sounds wrong in your throat.

Joel’s eyes are still on you.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

Your dad keeps talking. Something about charcoal versus propane, the stubborn hinges on the shed, a new neighbor two streets over. You nod along, offering the occasional quiet “hm” or “yeah,” but Joel’s eyes are burning into the side of your face.

He hasn’t said a word since that first glance. But you can feel him.

You risk one quick look.

He’s already watching you.

Then—subtle as a whisper—he tips his chin toward the house.

Just once.

Your heart skips.

Joel sets his beer down on the porch railing and stretches a little, casual as ever. “Gonna check on that cooler I brought in earlier,” he says, not looking at you.

“Yeah, good idea,” your dad replies, distracted, still elbow-deep in some story about the fence posts.

Joel disappears into the house.

You wait. One beat. Two. Then you mumble something about grabbing napkins and slip through the screen door before your dad even notices.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the noise of the backyard fades instantly.

Joel’s already in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter like he’s been waiting for this all day.

You hover in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself.

Neither of you speaks at first.

Then his voice cuts through the quiet.

“You really weren’t gonna text me back, huh?”

You flinch. His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s firm—tired. Not angry. Just… disappointed.

“I didn’t know what to say,” you murmur.

Joel watches you carefully. “You don’t have to say anything perfect. Just the truth.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Look down at your feet like they might tell you what to do.

Joel steps forward, slow and steady. He stops a few feet from you. Enough space to breathe, but not enough to hide.

“Delilah,” he says softly, and the sound of your name on his lips almost undoes you.

“I can’t—” your voice breaks. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He shakes his head gently. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.”

Tears burn in your eyes before you even feel them falling.

“I don’t feel like myself anymore,” you whisper. “I feel like I’m just… going through the motions. Like if I stop moving, I’ll disappear. I miss her so much, and I thought this move would help but I’m still so—” Your voice chokes off. “And then you, and that night, and then again, and I—”

Joel doesn’t wait for you to finish.

He steps in, arms coming around you with the kind of quiet certainty that breaks you wide open. His chest is warm and solid against your cheek. You sink into him like a wave collapsing into shore.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. “You hear me? I got you.”

You nod, tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” you whisper.

He brushes a hand over the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

And for a moment, wrapped in his arms, the ache dulls—just a little.

Just enough.

You don’t even realize how tightly you’ve been holding everything in until it starts to slip—your fingers clutch at Joel’s shirt, trembling, your face pressed to the warmth of his chest as the sobs come.

Ugly. Guttural. Real.

It startles you. The force of it. The way your chest heaves like something’s breaking open after being sealed shut too long.

Joel holds you through it all. One hand firm at your back, the other stroking softly through your hair, patient as stone. Not asking questions. Not rushing. Just staying.

“I’m sorry,” you choke, words muffled against him.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, his mouth near your temple. “You don’t need to be sorry for feelin’, darlin’. Least of all with me.”

You shake your head. “You don’t even know what I’m crying for.”

He leans back just enough to see your face. His hand cups your cheek, thumb catching a tear as it falls.

“Don’t gotta know,” he says, quiet and sure. “You need someone there, I’m here. That’s all.”

His words are like a balm—low and rough and steady. Like he could stand there all night holding your pain if it meant you’d let it out.

You meet his eyes, your lashes wet, and something in your chest softens completely. Collapses.

Without thinking, without fear, you lean forward.

He meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft—barely there. But it lands like thunder.

His lips are warm, slow, tender. Not greedy like before. Not hungry. Just present. His fingers skim your jaw like he’s learning you by heart. When he pulls away, just an inch, he whispers against your lips:

“I was so damn worried about you, Delilah.”

You almost cry again. But not out of sadness this time.

And then—

A sound. The creak of a door.

Your dad.

Joel steps back fast, hands off, shoulders tensing.

“What’s—?” Your dad stops in the doorway, brow furrowed when he sees your tear-streaked face, your arms limp at your sides. “Lilah?”

Your breath catches in your throat. Panic blooms.

Joel steps in.

“She just—" he says quickly, glancing at you, "—just started cryin’ outta nowhere. Thought maybe she hadn’t eaten. Heat’ll do that sometimes.”

Your dad frowns deeper, stepping closer, voice laced with concern. “Baby… are you okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. I’m—fine. Just got dizzy, I think. I’m okay now.”

Joel shifts beside you, his body angled like a shield.

Your dad looks between the two of you, quiet for a moment. Then nods slowly.

“Alright,” he says gently. “Let’s sit inside for a bit, yeah? Get you some water.”

You nod again. Joel’s gaze lingers on you, silent and unreadable, before he follows your dad out the back door.

You’re left standing in the kitchen, your heart still racing, your skin still humming where his hands had been.

And you realize, in that quiet space—

you’ve never needed anyone the way you need him right now.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

The night stretches on.

You sit curled on the far end of the couch, wrapped in a blanket even though the house is warm. Your dad flips through movie options like he hasn’t seen every single one before. Joel sits in the recliner across the room, legs spread, one arm draped casually over the armrest. He’s quiet—too quiet—but you can feel the pull of him like a tide under your skin.

You’re supposed to be watching Tombstone, but the screen’s just a blur. Every nerve in your body is trained on the man across from you.

Joel’s here. Close. Breathing the same air.

And yet he might as well be a hundred miles away.

You ache for him. Ache so badly it makes your chest tighten. Your body still remembers the feel of him—his weight, his mouth, his hands guiding you like he knew you better than you knew yourself. You want to crawl into his lap and bury your face in his neck. You want him to pull you into him and keep you there, safe and wrecked and warm.

Instead, you sit frozen.

Your dad chuckles at some line in the movie and Joel hums softly in response, leaning forward to sip from a glass of water like he’s completely at ease.

But you see it—his jaw’s tight. His eyes flick to you every so often, brief glances when he thinks your father won’t notice. And each one sets your skin on fire.

Your legs squeeze together beneath the blanket. It’s maddening.

At one point, Joel shifts—reaches behind his head, stretches his arms—and the way his shirt lifts just enough to show the line of his stomach makes your breath catch. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from groaning.

He’s doing it on purpose. You know he is.

And you hate how much you want him for it.

“I’m gonna get some water,” you say, standing a little too quickly.

Your dad nods, eyes glued to the screen. Joel doesn’t move, but you feel his gaze follow you as you slip into the kitchen.

You lean over the sink, gripping the counter, chest rising and falling fast.

You hear footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

Joel appears in the doorway.

He says nothing at first—just watches you.

Then, quiet enough that it won’t carry past the walls:

“You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”

You turn to face him, heart in your throat.

“I can’t do this,” you whisper, but even you don’t believe it.

Joel steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough to remind you how much you want to be ruined by him all over again.

“I know,” he says, voice low. “But you don’t need to say a word. I’ll wait.”

Your hands tremble against the counter.

You want to touch him so badly it hurts.

But then your dad calls from the living room, “Lilah? You good in there?”

You blink, throat tight.

“Yeah,” you call back, forcing your voice steady. “Grabbing you a soda.”

Joel’s eyes burn into you for another heartbeat before he steps back, jaw clenched.

“I’ll be right out,” you say.

And when you return to the couch, your body still buzzing, Joel’s already seated again—arms crossed, pretending nothing happened.

Eventually, the movie ends. Your dad stretches, lets out a long yawn, and says something about calling it a night. Joel stands too, casual as ever, hands tucked into his back pockets.

“I’ll walk him out,” you offer quickly, already rising from the couch.

Your dad nods, eyes heavy with sleep. “Alright. Don’t stay up too late.”

The door closes behind you both with a soft click, the porch bathed in moonlight and the hum of summer cicadas. The night air is thick, warm, buzzing with the tension you’ve both been pretending to ignore for hours.

Joel stands a little too close as you walk him to the steps.

Joel stands a little too close as you walk him to the steps.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you in the dark like he’s trying to memorize your face.

“You did good tonight,” he murmurs finally. “Held it together. Even when I know you’re barely holdin’ on.”

You swallow hard, heart beating too fast. “You make it harder.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Ain’t tryin’ to.”

He steps forward, slow—measured—and leans down just enough to brush his lips against yours. Quick. Soft. But deep enough to leave you stunned.

Your hand finds the front of his shirt on instinct, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear before you can feel him again.

Before he pulls back, he slips the thin fabric off his shoulders, and presses it into your hands.

“Take this,” he says, voice low and almost boyish. “’Til I can give you more.”

You blink, clutching it to your chest like it’s something sacred.

“I’ll be thinkin’ about you all damn night,” he adds, his eyes soft, sincere. “Text me if you want. If you don’t… I’ll still be here.”

And then he turns, walking back across the dark yard, disappearing into the shadows like he was never there.

You slip back inside as quietly as you can, flannel tucked under your arm like a secret. Tiptoe past your dad’s room, upstairs, into your bed. The shirt still smells like him—like woodsmoke and sweat and something warm beneath it all.

After your long, hot, shower— you tug it over your head. It drowns you. Perfectly.

You’re curled in bed, damp hair spread across the pillow, Joel’s flannel wrapped around you like armor.

Your phone buzzes.

Joel: You in it?

You smile, the ache in your chest easing just a little.

You: Yeah.

Still warm from you.

Joel: Good.

I like knowin' you're wrapped up in me.

You feel okay?

You hesitate, fingers hovering.

You: I don’t know.

But I feel better with this on.

Like I can finally breathe.

Joel: I wish I could say the right thing.

Hell, I wish I was there.

Your breath catches.

You: What would you do if you were?

There’s a pause. You watch the typing bubble flicker and disappear. Then return.

You suck in a quiet breath.

Joel: Wear that shirt to bed.

Think about me when you fall asleep.

And next time I see you, I’ll make sure you don’t sleep a damn second.

Your body burns.

You: Goodnight, Joel.

Joel: Night, baby.

Dream of me.

You: Always do.

[beef-brisket]

((⚠️tw: violence, unwanted touches, Lilith being a bitch and Lucifer being useless⚠️))

Lucifer glared: Oh, fuck you, Lilith. I'm surprised to see that you managed to claw yourself out of some swamp to grace me with your presence. What do I owe the displeasure?

The queen laughed: I came to speak with you! Is that so bad? Perhaps for me, but you should be begging for even one word from me! But, oh Lu Lu, I have... quite the proposition for you~.

He couldn't help but growl when Lilith disappeared in a flash of smoke before ending up behind him and running her fingers through his hair.

It was something that used to relax him, something that she onlt did when she was happy. But now, it made him sick.

Lucifer stepped back: Don't touch me.

Lilith: Come now, Lucifer. Don't be like that! You've always been a reasonable man, and my proposal will benefit you greatly.

Lucifer: ...Go on.

Lilith smiled: Even with your... tense relationship with the new king, you should understand that this isn't right.

Lucifer: ...What isn't...?

Lilith: This! Him! He isn't meant to be king. He isn't meant to be ANYTHING. Deep down, I know you still loath him, Lucifer. Your pride surely can't handle being some... lap dog for a man who took your place. And he dares pretend to do it better. Better than the sin of Pride, himself. Surely, I'm not the only one who sees something wrong with that picture~.

He watched as Lilith walked closer before cupping his face: I can help you take back your throne, Lucifer.

Lucifer: ...He gave me the throne- I ruined everything- our daughter turned her back on me-!

Lilith glared: Because she's weak. This is HELL. This place is meant to be chaotic! A punishment for the damned- there's a reason why everything appears to "fall apart" when you rule, because you are this realms true ruler. You create chaos. Hell needs CHAOS. NOT ORDER. Adam is weak and will easily fall back into Heaven's hands, he'll kneal and bow to the angels just like he did in Eden...

Lilith smiled softly and ran her sharp claws sweetly along Lucifer's face: But you, you stood for what was right. You didn't cave, no matter what Heaven did to you. Don't take this lying down. Don't let him steal what is rightfully yours.

Lucifer: ...What... what should I do...?

Lilith: Make a deal with me, darling. Let us be one again, I'll give you my power. It won't be enough to kill him, but it'll be enough to trap him... and then I'll finish the job. Hell will then take his power and deliver it to you. It's rightful king~. Let Heaven fear you once more, Lucifer. Let humanity bathe in your rule... kiss me, my darling Devil. Seal the deal. Take back your throne.

Lucifer soaked in her words, his pride suddenly felt as broken as the day he saw Adam as king. It stung, it burned. It felt wrong. Even now.

He wanted his throne back. Permanently, not on borrowed time. And no matter what he or Lilith would do to Adam would be less gruesome than what he did to Lucifer. And Charlie.

Looking into Lilith's violet eyes, he made his decision.

-

Adam: Sorry about that, Lucifer- oh.

The king looked around the now empty room. That was embarrassing. Hopefully, no one saw him talk to himself.

Maybe Lucifer went to another room. This was his daughters hotel, after all. So perhaps there were a few things of hers somewhere.

Sitting down, Adam went through a few bits of paper. This was such a huge project, but it was good to put the imps to work. And they looked happy to do it.

Adam screamed as something long and sharp cut through his spine and breastbone before stabbing into the floor. His legs went limp, making it hard to try and pull himself up off the spear.

He couldn't stop the silver shackles that appeared on his wrists, and as he felt his power drain, he felt something cold and heavy attach to his neck. And the last of his power was gone.

Lilith: My my, don't you look a tad stuck~.

Adam hated that he was crying too hard to be able to speak, but he couldn't stop the tears. And they only got worse as the pain built.

Lilith: Let's get a better look at you. You're at a very awkward angle there, Addie~.

Snapping her fingers, the chains connected to the cuffs pulled Adam off the spear and pinned him to the wall. His arms were pulled above his head, making the burn in his chest even worse.

Lilith sauntered over, and cupped his face: You took my darling husband's title. His job. His life. And I, Adam, won't stand for it. Now, if you want to get out this... only mildly bloody, you'll stay nice and still. No struggling! Like you did in Eden~.

Adam: I-I told you- I don't k-know much- of Eden- I don't know y-you-!

Lilith: Oh, darling... how could you forget me~?

-

Lucifer stood outside and listened to Adam's screams and begs. He hated how good it sounded. He hated how he felt like a coward. Standing here, letting Adam get hurt. But he hurt his daughter... and even if she won't love him again, that was more than enough reason for Adam to suffer.

He didn't know how long it's been since the screaming started. But his legs were burning and aching with how long he'd been standing. But eventually, it stopped. And the door cracked open.

Lilith: Oh darling~. It's your time to shine~!

Slowly, Lucifer opened the door and stood there in shock. He didn't even register Lilith placing an angelic metal blade in his hand.

Lilith: One stab darling, and you'll end this. For good~. You'll be king again. Hell's power will once again be yours. This... cursed angel form of yours, will be replaced by the perfection you became when you fell all those years ago~.

He still stared at Adam. His stomach was cut open, his insides spread across the floor in front of him. Not to mention the other heap of deep cups around his body. Lilith had stripped him. Fully. His horns were torn off, covering his face in a pale shimmery red blood. In fact, nearly his whole body was covered.

Lucifer's body ached as he looked at Adam, and more and more wounds seemed to catch his attention the longer he looked. He felt a particular ping to his back when he saw that Adam's tail had been skinned.

Lilith leaned in close, her lips touched Lucifer's ear: Do you see how he's looking at you~?

His eyes dragged up to Adam's. The kings golden eyes burned into his with a look he hadn't seen in a long time. That's when it clicked.

Lilith: I've made him remember everything~. He knows who you are, Lucifer~. And don't worry, my king~.

She ran her hand down Lucifer's body, squeezing once she got to his clothed cock: I made sure he wouldn't forget again~.

((Yes, I know Lucifer doesn't have ears- but ew! The side of his head much be fucked up- so boom! Ears! Sue me later 😝))

HI IT'S ME-! I HAVE AN AU FOR YOU!

God of War!au

👀👀👀

It's set during the extermination. Adam and Lucifer's fight is like Thor and Kratos' fight.

Adam: You think you can fall down here, start a family, and get a clean slate after all of the shit you caused?!

Lucifer glares, struggling to hit back Adam's axe.

Adam: That's not how it works! You're a destroyer, like me!

Lucifer's quickly lost strength, and Adam manages to smack him over the head with his axe, killing him.

Everyone screams as Lucifer falls back, golden blood running down his head.

Adam: Oh no. I say when we're done, asshole!

Lucifer's eyes snap open as Adam shoots holy light into him. He convulsed on the ground as his senses started coming back.

Lucifer: S-Sto-.

Adam: Fight. Me. Asshole. Like you fucking mean it.

@beef-brisket

(Interesting)

Lucifer: A, Adam n, n, no-

Adam growled: I have had enough of this! You WILL fight me!!!

Lucifer may be battered and bruised and barely able to lift a single finger but because of his pride he was unable to beg for mercy.

Lucifer: D, do it! ...pussy!

That was it as Adam felt all his hatred and rage boil down to him in that point with one clean cut, Lucifer's head rolled down.

The demons and angels could only watch as Adam proceeded to chop Lucifer's body into piece after piece.

When Charlie finally realized what Adam was doing after her moment of shock had passed she screamed.

Her screams echoed across the pride as everyone shook from her mournful cry.

Adam stopped what he was doing and turned to the princess, watching her with a mere raised brow. She trampled forward, ready to enact vengeance on her fallen father.

However, Adam was ready for her.

He had been the moment she was born.

When she had gotten close enough he shot a powerful beam of holy light in her direction, disintegrating her entire existence.

The so-called anti-Christ was nothing more than a pile of ash.

Vaggie: CHARLIE!!!

Oh yeah, he almost forgot about the traitor.

He flew right up to her and decided that an extra punishment would be in order. He was no longer taking disrespect from a former soldier.

He held her in a vice grip and refused to let go. He saw the demons around her moving quickly to attack him, but he moved faster.

He took off to the sky high above. But not too far away that she wouldn't be able to see what was to happen.

Adam: NOW!!!

The sinner's eyes widened as the remaining exorcist girls sliced the hotel's residents with their spears.

The former soldier could only watch in despair as the people she had grown close to were butchered and mutilated before her.

Vaggie: NOOOO!!!!!

Adam: You only have yourself to blame, Vaggie.

He then gripped onto the base of her wings and started to swing her around. He threw her so hard that soon she could feel the familiar sting of her wings separating from her body.

When her dizziness dissipated, she could see Adam smiling cruelly at her while he held onto the only thing that gave her the ability to fly.

She screamed as she hurdled towards the earth. Was this what it was like to feel true helplessness?

When she had reached the near ground, she was met with only the steel of angelic metal. She gasped as she began to cough up blood.

How could this have happened? They were the good guys. They were supposed to win.

Good prevails evil.

That's how the story goes...or at least how it's supposed to.

Her vision began to blur as she began to feel cold. She saw two figures approach her. Immediately telling who it was when she heard her voice.

Lute: A debt has been paid...But I think I'll make do on my promise.

She unsheathed her sword and, with one swoop, cut out her good eye. Watching it pop right out as at long last the traitor was dead.

In the midst of it all, there was Adam with his right hand standing by proudly. The cannibal army left not too long ago. Not wanting to take any chances with their souls.

However, too bad for them Adam wasn't finished. In fact, he was just getting started.

Adam: I have had enough.

[booksandpaperss]

shot dead

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

My roommate and I had a conversation last night and I keep rotating it in my brain and I Don’t Like It

[dzozef]

im in a good mood cause my work enemy is getting her life ruined while all i had to do was keep quiet and do my best 🥱