#but half With the context it sounds like it was just something with his personality rather than something Major. though i dont know

[joelsrose]

First Date? Part 4

it's finally here!!! she's a long one pookies i apologise so grab your popcorn!! also warnings !! no explicit smut, but contains very sexually implicit context so 18+ only!

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

All my work here :)

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

Since your fight with Joel—though calling it that didn’t feel right, not with all the unspoken weight hanging between you—it seemed like an uneasy truce had settled. It wasn’t something you talked about, and it wasn’t something either of you dared name. But there was something different now, something that felt like slow, careful mending, like stitching a torn seam with hands that weren’t sure they could hold steady. The mess with Tiffany and Toby felt distant now, like a shadow cast by someone else’s life.

But even still—today was different. You felt it in your bones, a tension that twisted sharp and restless in your chest as you stood in the stables, readying Winnie. Your hands moved out of habit—tightening straps, adjusting saddlebags—but your mind was somewhere else, stuck on the way Joel had stood silently beside you, checking his rifle with that same quiet intensity.

This patrol wasn’t routine. You weren’t headed to the outskirts of town or to some half-cleared route. This was farther—farther than you’d ever gone. The task was simple enough on paper: sweep a remote lodge and its surrounding area, catalog supplies, bring back anything Jackson could use. Tools, medicine, ammo. It didn’t matter. If it could help, you took it.

But nothing about today felt simple.

You could handle the infected—there was something almost methodical about their terror. A pattern to their madness. A predictability to their hunger. You’d learned how to read them, how to anticipate the movement of their broken bodies like reading the lines on a map. That small sliver of control made it easier to push through the fear.

But men? Men were different. Men could be quiet in their cruelty, their malice deliberate and personal. There was no pattern to their violence. No way to predict what they might do or who they might become when the world showed them it no longer held consequences. You’d seen it before—too many times to count—and the thought of it made something curl tight in your stomach.

The water crisis was worsening, stretching everyone dangerously thin. Resources were depleted, manpower spread too far, and urgency growing like a storm cloud on the horizon. Normally, a task like this would demand at least four, maybe five people—more hands, more eyes, more safety in numbers. But now, it was just you two.. Joel hadn’t said it outright, but you knew—he wouldn’t be taking you out this far unless there was no other choice.

Now, he stood across from you, his presence filling the quiet of the stable like a shadow that had always been there, steady and immovable. The faint light leaking through the wooden slats fell unevenly across him, catching on the lines of his face and the tousled disarray of his hair—soft in a way that clashed with the sharp edge of his gaze.

His arms were crossed tight over his chest, a tension in his posture that told you everything you needed to know: this wasn’t routine. This mattered.

“Alright,” Joel started, his voice low, the rough timbre of it carrying the weight of every unspoken warning. “This ain’t a normal sweep. It’s an overnight run—further out than we’ve gone. We can’t afford to mess around.”

His words landed heavy, final, cutting through the stale air of the stable. The rhythmic rasp of the brush in your hand was the only answer at first, the quiet sweep against Winnie’s coat grounding you more than you cared to admit. You paused mid-stroke, the bristles hovering just above her flank as your gaze drifted back to Joel, lingering longer than it should have.

“I understand,” you said finally, breaking the silence. You gestured toward the modest bag slung over your shoulder, forcing your voice to sound even. “I packed light. Just extra clothes, some rations. Not much else.”

Joel’s gaze flickered down to the bag, his brow furrowing slightly as though he were running calculations in his head—weight, distance, the chances you’d both make it back in one piece. He nodded, short and curt, but didn’t look away, his eyes lingering like he was searching for something he hadn’t quite found.

“Good,” he said at last, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “You don’t want more than you can run with.”

It sounded practical enough on the surface—just another piece of advice, one of the many Joel had given you over the years. But something about the way he said it made the words land differently, like they carried more than just instruction. No more than you can run with.

Joel took the brush from your hand with a movement that was firm but not rough, his calloused fingers grazing yours for the briefest moment before he set it aside. There was no room for softness now, not with what lay ahead. He stepped closer, close enough that the space between you felt tight, close enough that the faint scent of him—leather, woodsmoke, something unmistakably Joel—crowded your senses. His voice cut through the quiet, low and clipped, each word carved out with purpose. “Say it back.” His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his stance unyielding.

The demand hung in the air, sharp and immovable.

You exhaled sharply, the weight of his voice pressing down like a hand on your chest. The words were bitter on your tongue, a promise he’d drilled into you too many times this morning. Your gaze flicked to Winnie, as if the horse might somehow pull you out of this moment, but her dark eyes watched you, unbothered and unmoved, a silent witness to the tension that hung between you.

Still, Joel waited. His stare was relentless, pinning you in place like a blade to a board.

“I listen to what you say,” you murmured finally, the words quiet but clear. You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “If we’re in danger, I…” The rest of it caught, refusing to come. Your chest ached with the effort of holding onto it, of refusing to let the final piece fall, but Joel didn’t waver.

“Go on.”

His voice was gentler now, but that only made it worse—like it cost him something to say it, too.

You forced yourself to look at him, meeting those dark, unrelenting eyes. The words slipped out like splinters, each one sharper than the last. “I leave you and go get help.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the soft sound of Joel’s boots shifting against the straw. He stepped even closer, the crunch of it grounding and disorienting all at once. When he stopped, there wasn’t much space left between you, and the line of his jaw was tight, like he was holding back more than he wanted to say.

“And?”

It was one word, soft but unyielding, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

Your shoulders stiffened, rebellion sparking somewhere deep inside you. You hated this—you hated him for making you say it, for forcing you to promise something you weren’t sure you could give. But Joel was staring at you with that steady intensity of his, like he could see right through you to the parts you tried to bury.

“And I don’t argue,” you bit out, the resistance lacing your voice clear despite your best efforts to hide it. The words tasted bitter, your jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might snap.

Joel’s gaze stayed on you, unwavering. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension in the air coiling tighter and tighter. “That last part’s not negotiable,” he said, his voice low but razor-sharp. “Out there, you listen. You don’t think twice. You don’t second-guess. Not if it’s between your life and mine.”

“I know, Joel,” you murmured, your voice small and subdued.

“Do you?” he pressed, his voice rough and edged with something that wasn’t just frustration. It was sharper, heavier, laced with the kind of urgency that came from experience—from loss.

“Do you really get it? Because this ain’t just somethin’ I’m sayin’ to piss you off.” He stopped, just shy of touching you, his eyes burning into yours as though the sheer force of his stare could make you understand. “If somethin’ happens out there, you don’t get to argue. You don’t get to waste time thinkin’ you know better.” His voice dipped lower, softer, but no less intense. “You leave. You get help. You survive. That’s the deal.”

The bluntness of it hit like a blow, scraping against every fragile edge you’d been trying to hold together. Your throat tightened, your pulse stuttering beneath the weight of his words. You looked away, the floor suddenly far more interesting than Joel’s face, his eyes too sharp, too knowing. “I get it,” you whispered, the words barely audible, the tremor in your voice betraying you.

Joel’s silence was heavy, stretching like a thin wire between you, so taut it felt ready to snap. You braced yourself for more, for another sharp command or a biting remark, but when he spoke again, it was quieter. Gentler.

“I’m not sayin’ it to be mean,” he murmured, his voice steady now, stripped of its earlier edge. “I’m sayin’ it because I need to know you’ll make it back. That’s all.”

The quiet plea in his words was enough to make you look up, your gaze meeting his again despite yourself. Joel didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. Hell, he barely asked for anything. But here he was, asking—with words, with that rawness he rarely allowed to show.

Your chest ached with something unnameable as you swallowed hard, steadying your voice. “I’ll make it back,” you said, stronger this time, every word laced with quiet resolve. “I promise.”

For a long, tense moment, Joel held your gaze. His eyes searched yours, looking for cracks, for hesitation, for anything that might betray you.

Finally, he nodded, slow and gruff, the tension in his shoulders easing—just enough to make you breathe a little easier. “Alright,” he muttered, stepping back and motioning toward Winnie. “Let’s get movin’.”

The spell broke, but something lingered in the space between you as you climbed into the saddle. Joel mounted his own horse without another word, and the two of you rode out into the chill of the early morning, the sky painted pale with dawn.

The cold bit at your skin, sharp and merciless, but it wasn’t the wind that made your hands tremble around the reins. It was the fear that burrowed deep and refused to let go.

Fear of what might happen out there.

Fear of what it would mean to live in a world where Joel didn’t come back.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The hours stretched endlessly as you and Joel rode through the dense, untamed woods. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it carried a certain gravity—a weight that seemed to echo in the hushed whispers of the forest. No one from Jackson had ventured this far in years, and the wildness of the terrain felt as much a challenge as it did a threat.

He rode ahead, his shoulders broad and sturdy beneath the leather of his jacket, his frame bent slightly forward with the kind of quiet focus that only came from years of surviving. His sharp eyes never stopped moving—darting between the overgrown trail and the treeline, watching, waiting, always searching for something he’d never let take him by surprise.

Occasionally, his voice broke the stillness—gravelly and low, delivering a curt instruction or muttering an observation. Each word, clipped and measured, was so distinctly Joel that it filled the silence in a way that steadied you, though you couldn’t explain why.

“We’ll stop here,” Joel said abruptly, reining in his horse. “They’re tired.”

You glanced down at Winnie, her steps sluggish and uneven, her breaths heavier now, her coat dark with sweat. Concern flickered through you, and you leaned forward to press a soft kiss against the side of her neck. “Good job girl,” you whispered gently, your voice low and soothing.

When you looked up, Joel was watching. His gaze lingered, flickering with something that disappeared too quickly for you to catch, before he dismounted in one fluid motion. His boots hit the dirt with a thud that seemed louder than it should have been in the stillness, and he reached for his pack, already untying supplies from the saddle.

Sliding off your horse, your legs hit the ground stiff and aching from hours in the saddle. You stretched briefly, then sank down against the nearest tree, your back pressing into its rough bark. As you settled, a soft groan slipped free, the ache in your muscles easing just slightly. The earth beneath your boots felt unfamiliar, solid and strange after so long riding, but the air here—cooler, gentler beneath the shade of towering oaks—was a quiet relief. You closed your eyes, leaning fully into the tree, letting the hush of the woods settle over you.

When you opened them, Joel was close by as he sorted through supplies.

“Water.” His voice broke the quiet, low and rough as he held a canteen out toward you without looking up. The canteen was cool against your fingers as you took it, your throat burning with relief as you drank. “Thanks,” you murmured, handing it back. You had your own water in your pack—he knew that—but still, he offered you his, as if yours were somehow too precious to waste, as if the effort to keep you going outweighed his own needs.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He capped the canteen and stood, his gaze moving over the clearing with that practiced vigilance you’d come to rely on. And then, just for a moment, his eyes landed on you.

“You cold?” he asked suddenly, his tone flat but edged with something softer. “Too hot?”

You shook your head lightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I’m fine,” you replied softly, though your chest felt tight at the way he was watching you, like he needed to see the answer, not just hear it.

He’s sweet, you thought, the words catching on something tender and fragile inside you, something you couldn’t quite name. It was the way his care came without flourish, without asking for anything in return, that made it linger—made it ache. It wasn’t fair, the way he did this, leaving pieces of himself in small gestures that stayed with you long after.

Joel’s gaze lingered a moment longer, his brow furrowing slightly like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The woods were quieter here, almost serene. You stood, brushing the dirt and stray leaves from your pants, and let your gaze wander. The afternoon light filtered through the dense canopy, painting the forest floor in patches of gold and green. It was breathtaking in a way that made your chest ache—a fleeting moment of untouched wilderness, fragile and rare. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen something so still, so utterly removed from the chaos of survival.

Joel was nearby, crouched low, fussing with his rifle. His brow was furrowed in that familiar look of concentration, the kind of focus that made the rest of the world fall away. He hadn’t spoken in a while, his attention entirely consumed by the task at hand, and for a moment, you let yourself watch him—drawn to the way his hands moved, precise and practiced, the lines of his face set in a look of quiet determination that you knew well.

Your attention drifted, though, drawn to something else—a cluster of dark, plump berries growing just a few feet away. They stood out against the underbrush, rich and inviting. Curiosity tugged at you, pulling you closer. You wandered over, crouching down and plucking a small handful, the berries cool and smooth as you rolled them between your fingers.

“Hmm,” you murmured, holding them up to the light. A smile tugged at your lips, you raised one halfway to your mouth, your tone light as you added, “Yummy.”

“Stop.”

Joel’s voice cut through the stillness like a gunshot—sharp, commanding.

You froze, the berry hovering inches from your lips. His head snapped toward you, his rifle abandoned as he stood, moving toward you with a purposeful stride that made the leaves crunch like brittle glass beneath his boots.

“What?” you asked, blinking up at him, startled by the intensity etched into his features.

“Show me.” His tone left no room for argument.

You sighed, shooting him an exasperated look before opening your palm, the berries resting innocently there. Joel crouched slightly, his shadow falling over you as he inspected them, his sharp gaze narrowing like they were a threat to be neutralized.

“Open your mouth,” he said suddenly, his voice low but firm.

You pulled back slightly, incredulous. “Seriously?”

His glare flicked to yours, and you realized he was serious.

“Fine,” you muttered, sticking your tongue out in a dramatic show of obedience. “Ahh,” you said, exaggerating it, hoping it might earn you some amusement.

It didn’t. Joel just stared at you, his jaw tight, the muscle there ticking as though he was fighting to keep a lid on something darker, something far less restrained. His gaze lingered a beat too long on your tongue, the way you’d held it out for him without hesitation, obedient to his command. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with a tension that left his thoughts wandering where they shouldn’t—where they couldn’t—imagining that same mouth, soft and ready, offering him something far more intimate. His hand twitched at his side, as if warring with the urge to reach for you, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his touch.

“Good. Now throw ’em out,” he said, the gruffness in his voice doing little to disguise the way he avoided looking at you as he turned away.

“What?” You gawked at him, utterly indignant. “Joel, they’re blueberries. They’re not gonna kill me.”

His arms crossed over his chest, his stare harder than stone. “Could be poison berries. They look the same. You don’t know the difference, so don’t pretend you do. Toss ’em.”

You held his glare for a moment, your fingers curling defensively around the berries, but there was no arguing with Joel when he looked at you like that. With a dramatic sigh, you dropped the berries, watching them tumble unceremoniously to the ground.

“Happy?” you muttered, brushing your hands off against your pants.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He adjusted the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, his gaze flicking briefly to the trees before landing back on you. “Stay close,” he said, his voice gruff, tinged with that familiar note of exasperation. Then, quieter, muttering more to himself than you, “Do I gotta put a leash on ya or somethin’ to keep you outta trouble?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before you snorted, the laughter escaping before you could stop it. A grin tugged at your lips as you leaned against a nearby tree, playful mischief alight in your eyes. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” you teased, your voice dipping low, your tone laced with challenge. The insinuation hung there, bold and undeniable, a spark igniting the air between you.

Joel froze, his body going rigid. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, his expression stuck somewhere between surprise and frustration. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding faintly as he glanced at you, then away, then back again—like he was trying to find words that refused to come.

And then, it happened. The faintest flush crept up his neck, blooming at the collar of his shirt and spreading up to the tips of his ears. He swallowed thickly, his gaze dropping to the forest floor like the answer might be buried there.

“Christ,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, almost a growl.

You watched him turn sharply, shoulders squared as he moved back to his things, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch. The corners of your mouth curled up as you pushed off the tree, following after him with a bounce in your step that hadn’t been there before.

Joel didn’t look back, but his ears were still red.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The sound of the horses’ hooves echoed steadily beneath you, a rhythmic cadence that seemed to sync with the pounding of your heartbeat. The trail had narrowed as the hours dragged on, with Joel riding ahead of you, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure against the dimming light. The trees on either side stood like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching longer and darker as the sun dipped lower. The sunlight, once warm and golden, now barely pierced through the dense canopy, casting everything in muted shades of green and gray.

Every rustle of leaves or sudden snap of a branch had your hand twitching instinctively toward your weapon, your gaze darting into the underbrush as if the trees might shift and reveal something waiting there. Unease clung to you, winding tight in your chest and mingling with the steady rhythm of the ride.

“You’re quiet,” Joel’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, low and rough, like gravel against steel.

The sound startled you, yanking you sharply out of your thoughts. You blinked, your grip on the reins tightening for just a moment before your gaze lifted to his back. He sat tall in the saddle, his movements steady and sure as he guided his horse down the narrow path.

“So are you,” you shot back, your tone light but edged with something defensive. It was easier to focus on the banter than to acknowledge the gnawing knot of anxiety that had been building in your chest.

Joel huffed out a sound that was almost a chuckle, low and dry, the faintest tug of a smirk visible as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice carrying just enough warmth to soften the bite, “I’m not the chatterbox.”

Any other day, you might’ve rolled your eyes. Maybe tossed a sharp quip back at him—something to tease out that rare flicker of dry humor.

But today, the woods felt heavier.

The isolation pressed too close, the silence too vast. Laughter felt out of place. Even the air seemed thinner, harder to pull into your lungs. You didn’t smile. Didn’t even try.

Joel noticed. Of course, he noticed.

Without a word, he tugged gently on his reins, slowing his horse until it fell into step beside yours. The sound of their hooves merged into one rhythm, steady and constant, but the quiet between you was anything but still.

He looked over at you then—really looked—his gaze dark and probing. Joel had a way of watching people that made it feel like he was peeling them apart, pulling back layers you’d much rather keep to yourself. His eyes flicked to your face, studying every shadow, every line of tension, and for a long moment, he didn’t say a word.

His voice broke through the suffocating quiet, softer now, gentler in a way that made your breath catch. “Hey.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the reins until your knuckles turned white, the leather biting into your palms. You didn’t want to look. Didn’t want him to see whatever it was clawing at the edges of your composure, threatening to spill over. But Joel’s voice—steady, unrelenting—left no room for refusal.

“Look at me.”

So you did.

And it hit you like a punch to the gut.

His eyes weren’t just steady—they were heavy with something raw, something stripped bare and unguarded that settled deep in your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. There was no mask this time, no shadow of distance in his expression. It was just Joel—staring at you, open and unhidden, and for once, you saw everything he wasn’t saying. Worry. Frustration. Something deeper, sharper, that you couldn’t name.

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, carrying a weight that wrapped around you like armor. “You hear me? We’re fine. You’re fine.”

You wanted to believe him—God, you wanted to—but the creeping shadows in the trees, the silence that stretched too long, whispered otherwise. They sank their claws into your chest, cold and unshakable. “You don’t know that,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s jaw flexed, his gaze hardening, though not at you. The muscle in his cheek ticked as he looked past you, scanning the treeline like he might fight off the invisible threat himself.

“I promise,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less steady, each word deliberate, like he was forcing them out against his better judgment. His eyes met yours, unrelenting in their certainty, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to that look—like nothing else mattered but the weight of what he was saying.

Joel Miller didn’t make promises. Not like this. He knew better than anyone that the world didn’t care about promises, that it didn’t hesitate to tear them apart, leaving nothing but regret in their place. He’d learned that lesson too many times, carried the scars of it. Promises were dangerous—they were traps, liabilities in a world where survival demanded detachment.

But this wasn’t about logic, and it wasn’t about the world’s cruelty. It was about you. About the way fear clung to you, raw and unspoken, written in the tightness of your shoulders and the way your hands trembled just enough to make him notice. He couldn’t bear to let you sit in that fear alone, to let it eat away at you when he could say something—do something—to make it stop, even for a moment.

So he broke his rule. For you. Because you needed to hear it, even if he couldn’t control what came next. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you,” he said again, the quiet steel in his voice daring the world to prove him wrong, daring himself to make it true.

Your head shook instinctively, the words a hollow comfort, because the truth—the real, aching truth—had already slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

“I’m not worried about myself, Joel.”

His expression shifted, like you’d reached inside and knocked the breath out of him. The words sat heavy between you, tangled with everything you hadn’t said before now. Joel stilled, his fingers flexing against the reins as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

And for a moment, the silence stretched out again, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick—with fear, with understanding, with something else.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice softened, a quiet plea that pulled your eyes back to his. He leaned forward just slightly, his presence grounding you as he held your gaze like it was the only thing keeping you both steady. “Nothin’s gonna happen to me either. You hear me?” He let the words settle, his brow furrowing like he was daring you to disagree. “Neither of us.”

The quiet stretched again, but it felt different this time.

Safer.

Joel watched you, his eyes searching, patient, waiting until you gave him even the smallest nod, until the tension in your grip loosened just enough for him to see the edges of your fear start to soften.

“I’ll make you dinner when we’re back,” he said suddenly, his tone quieter now, almost teasing, the rough edges smoothed by something gentler. He leaned back slightly in his saddle, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth—small, but real. “How’s that sound? I’ll even let you pick what I make. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded, the movement small but feeling monumental, like handing over a piece of yourself. Joel didn’t look away, his gaze holding yours, dark and steady. It wasn’t just a look—it was a promise, a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Good girl,” he murmured, so soft it was almost lost to the stillness.

The words hit you like a spark catching fire, sudden and uncontainable. Your breath faltered, catching in your throat as heat flooded your cheeks, spreading like a slow, uncontrollable burn.

You felt it down to your bones, something raw and visceral that left you stunned, reeling. Joel must’ve noticed—how could he not?—but he didn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze lingered for one beat longer, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly before he nudged his horse forward.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice low, rough in that familiar way that grounded you, even now. His horse moved ahead, the steady rhythm of hooves against the earth filling the quiet he left behind.

You nudged Winnie forward, falling in line just behind him, your gaze lingering on the back of his broad shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his frame as he rode. The woods stretched endlessly ahead, the shadows still thick, the danger still lurking unseen—but for the first time, it didn’t feel so close.

You couldn’t explain it, not even to yourself, but it was there. The safety. The trust.

The quiet understanding that as long as Joel was there—this close—you would be ok.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The dense forest finally opened into a clearing, the trees pulling back to reveal a lodge at the edge of the horizon. The last rays of daylight stretched thin and golden across the landscape, pooling in the long shadows that crept toward the building. The lodge loomed, weathered and tired, its sagging wooden frame darkened by years of rain and neglect. It stood like a forgotten relic, its emptiness heavy, as if waiting for something—or someone—to disturb its silence.

Joel pulled his horse to a halt first. The shift in him was subtle but clear—the way his shoulders squared, his spine went ramrod straight, his jaw set in that way you’d come to know so well. He said nothing at first, his sharp eyes sweeping the clearing in a calculated rhythm, scanning for threats like he could feel something lurking just beyond the edge of sight. The air around you seemed to thicken, every rustling branch and distant creak amplified by the stillness.

“We’ll walk the rest,” Joel said finally, his voice low, the gruff edge leaving no room for discussion. Without waiting for your response, he swung off his horse, landing in a crouch with a practiced grace that belied his size.

You followed suit, sliding down from Winnie’s saddle. Your legs wobbled slightly, stiff and sore from the hours of riding, but you steadied yourself quickly, reaching for the straps of your pack. Before you slung it over your shoulder, your hand lingered on Winnie’s mane, your fingers brushing through the rough strands in slow, absent motions. There was something soothing about it—the rhythm, the warmth, the small bit of comfort she offered without knowing it.

“Bye, girl,” you whispered, the words hushed and raw, like you were leaving more behind than just your horse. Winnie let out a soft whinny, her dark eyes meeting yours with a quiet patience that settled somewhere deep in your chest, even as it made your throat tighten.

When you turned back, Joel was watching you. He stood a few steps ahead, the rifle slung across his back, his pack heavy over one shoulder. But it wasn’t the readiness of him that stopped you. It wasn’t the rifle or the sharp lines of his posture or even the way his fingers flexed restlessly at his side. It was his eyes.

There was something in them—something unspoken, unreadable, but unmistakably there. Worry, maybe. Or caution. Or something deeper. The amber light caught in their depths, softening the edges, but his gaze remained locked on you, unmoving.

Joel stepped closer, closing the space between you in an instant. The shift was so deliberate, so him, it made your breath catch. His hands came up to settle on your shoulders, grounding you with a steadiness that you didn’t know you needed until it was there. His grip was firm but not harsh, his palms rough against the fabric of your jacket, calloused from years of work and survival.

But it was the way his thumbs brushed the material—soft, fleeting, almost unconscious—that sent a shiver through you. A gesture so small, you might’ve missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him.

“Yes, Joel,” you said quickly, the frustration already seeping into your voice before he could even open his mouth. “I’ll do what you say.”

It wasn’t enough to satisfy him. His lips pressed into a hard line, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he studied you. He didn’t speak right away, and the silence between you became heavy, dense. His shoulders shifted just slightly, like he was bracing himself, and his eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with something closer to disbelief.

Like he didn’t trust you to listen. Like he couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.

He shook his head, the smallest motion, full of resignation. “Listen to me,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly, a steady edge that made it clear he wasn’t giving you room to argue. “You follow me. You stay quiet. If I say run, you run. You take Winnie, and you leave. You don’t look back. Got it?”

You blinked, unable to speak, the weight of them clawing tight at your chest. Run. Leave.

The very thought of it felt like ice splintering through your veins. You couldn’t picture it—couldn’t imagine a world where you turned your back on him, where you left Joel behind in the dark while you ran ahead.

Your throat tightened painfully, and you shook your head, your voice cracking as you whispered, “Joel, I—”

“Got it?” he pressed, his voice soft but edged with steel. He stepped closer, close enough that the fire in his eyes became undeniable, that the space between you disappeared entirely. Joel had always been unyielding, but this? This was something more. A desperation failing to hide beneath the surface.

You swallowed hard, the words scraping against your throat like they didn’t belong there. “I’ll run,” you said finally, though it felt like a betrayal to even admit it aloud. “I’ll take Winnie. I’ll… leave.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, his eyes locked on yours with a searing intensity that made it hard to breathe. His gaze wasn’t just searching—it was prying, deliberate and unrelenting, peeling back the walls you’d built to keep yourself steady. And under it, you felt seen—exposed in a way you didn’t quite know how to protect yourself from.

Because he wasn’t looking at the stubborn mask you wore, the one you threw on when the world demanded you be strong. No, Joel was looking deeper, into that part of you that screamed a truth you refused to say aloud: You wouldn’t leave him. Not really. Not ever.

“Promise me,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but quiet, threaded with something you weren’t used to hearing from him. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Something that cracked at the edges, barely holding together.

“Joel…” you started, your voice faltering, thin and soft like you might shatter right there.

“Promise me,” he said again, firmer this time, though it trembled just faintly at the edges. Like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

The ache in your chest deepened, spreading through every inch of you like a poison. He was breaking his own rules, showing too much, and it was undoing you piece by piece. Joel didn’t let his guard down. He didn’t falter. But here he was, standing in front of you like this—raw, exposed, and asking for something he needed.

Joel nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he pulled his hands from your shoulders, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder. But his eyes—steady and unrelenting—gave him away. He didn’t believe you, not fully. You could see it in the way his gaze lingered, searching your face like he was trying to etch your promise into something solid, something he could hold onto when the time came.

You stayed rooted in place, frozen as you watched him move toward the lodge. Every step he took was deliberate, every turn of his head precise as he scanned the tree line, his hand hovering near his rifle. Ready for anything. Always ready.

And that’s what gutted you—truly gutted you—because you knew, with a clarity that scraped against your ribs like glass, that Joel wouldn’t hesitate. If it came down to you or him, he’d throw himself into the fire, step in front of the bullet, let his body be torn apart before he’d ever let harm come to you. And he’d do it without question. Without pause.

As you began following him, the words echoed in your head, unspoken but deafening. Don’t ask me to run, Joel. Don’t ask me to leave you behind. Each step felt heavier, the thought pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake. Because I won’t. I can’t.

You knew he felt it, even if neither of you said it aloud. He felt it in the way your pace never strayed, your steps falling in line just behind his, close enough that he could hear the faint crunch of leaves beneath your boots. He felt it in the way your breaths synced with his, steady but strained, like you were holding something back. He felt it in the moments you lingered too long when his gaze flicked over his shoulder to check on you, your eyes locking with his for a beat too long before darting away.

He felt it in the way your fingers clenched the strap of your pack, white-knuckled and trembling, as if anchoring yourself to the promise you hadn’t meant to make. In the way you hovered just behind his shadow, always there, always ready, like you were silently daring the world to try and take him from you.

And maybe that’s why he didn’t look back to meet your gaze.

Because he knew. Knew what you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

Knew the truth that tore at you with every step closer to the lodge—that no promise, no command, no amount of pleading would ever change it.

You’d rather die than leave him.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The lodge emerged from the shadows of the trees like a ghost, its silhouette jagged against the fading sky. Joel crouched low, signaling for you to do the same, his movements fluid and deliberate as he wove through the underbrush with the quiet confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. You mirrored him without question, your weapon clutched tightly in your hands, though the prickling sensation crawling up your spine refused to settle.

The building was a monument to ruin—ivy clawed greedily at its sides, creeping through splintered boards and shattered windowpanes. The roof sagged under the weight of neglect, and its walls seemed to lean in on themselves, like they couldn’t bear the burden of holding anything upright anymore. Every creak of the structure, every shift of the wind, sent your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Joel moved closer, crouching low to inspect the ground near the lodge’s entrance. His fingers brushed over the dirt, scanning for prints or disturbances, but there was nothing—just layers of leaves and twigs undisturbed by anything more threatening than the wind. He glanced back at you, his expression unreadable but wary, before tilting his head toward the lodge.

You both edged forward, your eyes darting to the windows for movement, though the shattered panes reflected only the fading light. Joel stopped by a section of the wall, brushing aside ivy to check for signs of tampering or recent use, but the wood was damp and untouched.

He raised a hand, the gesture sharp and commanding, and you froze mid-step, holding your breath as his gaze swept the clearing with hawk-like precision.

Nothing stirred—not in the shadows, not in the lodge, not in the quiet woods that stretched around you like a living trap. Still, Joel’s hand hovered near his weapon, his muscles taut as he nodded for you to follow.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, just loud enough for you to hear.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, your breath shallow as you fell into step behind him.

The front door hung crookedly on rusted hinges, groaning in protest as Joel nudged it open with the barrel of his rifle. The sound scraped through the silence like a knife, too loud, too exposed, and you couldn’t stop the way your fingers tightened around your weapon.

Joel stepped inside first, his silhouette a wall of quiet strength against the dim light leaking through the cracks in the boards. You followed, forcing yourself to move with the same care, though your heart thundered loud enough that you swore he could hear it.

Inside, the lodge was a shell of its former self. Dust blanketed the warped floorboards, and the air hung heavy with mildew and rot. Furniture lay upturned and broken, a chair leg splintered like a bone. The stillness was oppressive, a silence so deep it felt wrong.

Joel stopped, raising his hand again—split up, the flick of his fingers said. Be careful.

You hesitated, your chest tightening as your eyes locked with his. You didn’t want to split up—he could see it, clear as day, in the way your gaze lingered, pleading silently even as your jaw set with determination. But you were a big girl. That’s why you were here. You were his partner, and partners pulled their weight, even if the fear inside you threatened to tear you apart.

Joel’s expression shifted, his own hesitation flickering just beneath the surface. For a moment, it looked like he might say it—that you could stick together, that he’d shoulder this for both of you. But before he could, you forced yourself to speak.

Joel held your stare for a second longer, his eyes sharp and searching, as if making sure you were ok. Finally, he gave a short nod and disappeared down the far hallway, his boots making the faintest creak against the wood.

Then he was gone, and you were alone.

You turned toward what looked like the kitchen, your steps slow, deliberate. Every movement felt amplified, the sound of your boots on the floorboards bouncing off the walls like a warning. The cabinets hung open, their hinges rusted and warped, shelves stripped bare save for a few unidentifiable cans buried under layers of dust. Drawers yawned empty, their contents long since ransacked, and the grime clinging to the countertops filled the air with a damp, sour tang that made your nose wrinkle.

You pressed on, your breathing shallow as you opened door after door, each creak of the hinges slicing through the silence like a threat. Each room you entered felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to pounce the moment you let your guard down. But all you found were shadows and decay.

When you stepped back into the main room, your heart thudded as Joel appeared from the opposite hallway, his rifle still raised, his shoulders squared and tense. His sharp gaze swept the room first, scanning every corner, lingering a second too long as if he expected something to emerge from the shadows. Finally, his eyes found yours.

“Clear,” you whispered, your voice tight but steady, the tension in your chest easing just slightly under the weight of his presence.

Joel nodded once, his reply a low murmur. “Same here. No signs of infected or raiders.”

The stiffness in his shoulders loosened—just a fraction—but it was enough for you to catch. He lowered his rifle, the grip of his hand softening, though his gaze stayed sharp, cutting through the dim light as he glanced toward the darker corners of the lodge. The faint furrow in his brow lingered, betraying the quiet calculations still turning behind his eyes.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “Grab what you can. Then we move.”

You didn’t argue. There was no room for debate, just the quiet understanding that lingered between the two of you. With a sharp nod, you turned back toward the shadowed remnants of the lodge, splitting up again, each step deliberate as you scoured opposite sides for anything that might help you survive.

The finds were sparse but not useless. In the back of a closet, buried beneath a heap of moth-eaten fabric, your fingers brushed over something cool and familiar. You pulled out a small, dusty box of bandages—the edges frayed, but the contents inside still sealed and intact. “Bingo,” you murmured, though the sound barely broke the silence. In a drawer, you found a small box of ammo, the label faded but legible, and a pair of rusted scissors, their edges dulled but still functional with some effort.

Across the room, Joel worked with practiced efficiency. He knelt, his hand closing around something tucked behind a fallen shelf. Holding it up to the faint light filtering through the shattered windows, he revealed a hunting knife, its blade dulled with age but still capable of damage. Joel turned it over once in his hands, inspecting it with his sharp, calculating eye before tucking it into his pack without a word.

You met back in the main room, the eerie silence of the lodge pressing in around you.

“Not bad,” Joel said when he found you again, his voice steady and grounding, cutting through the quiet like a steady anchor. He turned a wrench over in his hands, the faint light glinting off the tarnished metal as he inspected it, then stowed it with the tools he’d collected. “Could’ve been worse.”

His eyes flicked to your pack. “What’d you find?” he asked, nodding toward it.

“Bandages, some ammo, scissors,” you shrugged, shifting the weight of your pack slightly. “Not a lot, but…”

“Good job,” Joel interrupted, his tone gruff but sincere. The simple words settled something in your chest, the heaviness easing just slightly as he gave a brief nod.

“Alright,” he said, his gaze shifting to the staircase that loomed ahead, its warped wood groaning faintly under the weight of the silence. “I’m gonna check upstairs quickly. You stay here—I’ll be ten minutes tops.”

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes landed on you then, steady and searching, and you felt yourself stand a little straighter without realizing it. It wasn’t a look that checked for injuries or exhaustion—it went deeper, something quieter, something anchoring. His gaze carried a weight that pressed against you gently, like he was grounding you in a way words never could. It made the world seem to pause, holding its breath for just a moment.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, the gravel softened by a note of concern he didn’t manage to hide in time. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t just protocol—it was real, slipping through the cracks of his usual guarded demeanor.

You hesitated. “Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. It wasn’t a full lie—you were fine enough. But there was something about the lodge, the way the air felt wrong, like it wasn’t meant to be this quiet. It stayed with you, tugging at the edges of your nerves. Still, the steadiness in Joel’s gaze was enough to hold you upright, to keep the words from cracking. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

Joel’s eyes lingered on you a moment longer, his brow furrowing just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you but didn’t see the use in pressing further. He gave a small, tight nod. “I’m here,” he said simply, like it was a promise—because it was. It always was.

Before you could answer, Joel turned toward the stairs, his boots creaking softly against the worn wood as he began to ascend, his figure fading into the dim shadows above. You stood there, rooted in place, your fingers tightening instinctively around your weapon.

The lodge still felt wrong.

The air still felt thick.

The room too quiet.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

You stood planted for a few minutes, your ears straining to track the faint sound of Joel’s footsteps overhead as he maneuvered through the rooms. The steady rhythm of his movements was oddly comforting, a reminder that you weren’t completely alone in this place. Still, the unease gnawed at you, curling tighter in your chest with every creak of the old wood.

You sighed, turning reluctantly. If you were waiting, you might as well keep looking for something useful.

As you moved deeper into the lodge, the air seemed heavier, like the walls themselves were pressing in. Your boots crunched softly over the debris littering the floor, your eyes scanning each corner with wary precision. A collapsed shelf caught your attention, leaning crookedly against the far wall, its splintered remains scattered like an afterthought. But it wasn’t the mess that made you pause—it was what was behind it.

A door.

Half-hidden, almost like it didn’t want to be found. The frame was warped, its paint chipped and peeling, the edge barely visible against the shadows.

You froze for a heartbeat, instincts tugging at you, warning you to wait for Joel. To call him. To let him take point, like he always did. But something—curiosity, stubbornness, or maybe just the restless hum of adrenaline in your veins—made you step closer instead. Your hand brushed the debris aside, and the door groaned faintly as it gave way under your touch.

A rush of stale, frigid air met you, sharp and sudden, crawling against your skin like unseen fingers. You swallowed hard as your gaze fell to the narrow staircase leading down into the basement. It was steep, shrouded in darkness, the light from above barely brushing the first few steps. Something about it felt wrong, ancient in its silence, like the lodge itself had buried it for a reason.

You lingered there, the weight of uncertainty pinning you in place. You could turn back. Go find Joel.

Just a look, you thought, forcing yourself to believe it.

Your fingers curled around the grip of your weapon, the metal cold and grounding against your palm. You took the first step down. The wood creaked under your weight, loud enough that you winced. Quiet, you told yourself. Be quiet.

The silence was unbearable, so thick and oppressive it almost buzzed in your ears. Without realizing it, you began to hum softly under your breath—a faint, wavering melody that meant nothing and everything, a trick to steady your pulse and force the tension back into something manageable.

Then you heard it.

Voices.

They slipped through the darkness, muffled and low, with an edge to them that turned your blood to ice. You stopped cold, your breath catching in your throat as your heart slammed hard against your ribs. You couldn’t make out the words, but they were unmistakably human. Not infected—humans. That realization did nothing to settle the nausea twisting in your gut. If anything, it made it worse.

You strained to hear, your head tilting slightly, every muscle in your body coiled tight. The voices were distorted by the walls and distance, but they were close. Too close. Your grip on your weapon tightened until your knuckles ached, sweat slicking your palms.

Turn back.

The warning flashed through your mind like a flare in the dark, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t. You flattened yourself against the wall, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding like a war drum in your chest. Slowly, carefully, you peered around the edge of the doorway, and there they were.

Three men stood clustered near a ring of dim lanterns, their shadows stretching long and jagged against the crumbling basement walls. The tallest of the three—a wiry figure with gaunt cheeks and a scar bisecting his right brow—commanded the space, his voice cutting through the stillness like the scrape of a blade against bone.

“She was a fuckin’ bitch,” he spat, his knife twirling restlessly between his fingers. The blade caught the flickering light, winking like a predator’s eye. His movements were sharp, erratic, as though violence lingered just beneath his skin, waiting for an excuse to break free. “Got what was comin’ to her.”

“Jesus, Tom,” the broad one muttered, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. He leaned against the wall with a forced laziness, one hand brushing the edge of the handgun strapped at his hip. Everything about him—his stretched vest, his patchy beard, the sneer that seemed permanently carved into his face—radiated menace. Even his stillness felt dangerous, like the coiled pause before a snake strikes. “That was your girlfriend.”

“Ex,” Tom snapped, his voice dripping venom, the scar over his brow twisting with his sneer. “Skank.”

The youngest of the group lingered just outside the lantern’s glow, his presence twitchy and uncertain. His rifle was clutched tightly to his chest, the whites of his knuckles visible against the stock, his eyes darting constantly toward the shadows as though they might swallow him whole. He wasn’t built for this. You could see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he flinched every time Tom’s knife flashed.

“How far’s the settlement?” the kid asked finally, his voice thin and hesitant, as if he already feared the answer.

Your stomach dropped like a stone. Jackson.

“A few hours,” Tom said, flicking his knife toward some vague point in the distance, his tone dismissive, almost bored. “If we don’t hit any patrols.”

The broad man scratched his beard, considering. His sneer deepened into something uglier, the edges curling with grim satisfaction. “They’ve got guards,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, as though he were savoring them. “Ain’t no easy pickings. We wait. Arm the rest of the crew first. Then we hit ‘em.”

The floor felt like it shifted under your feet. Ice pooled in your veins, spreading outward until you couldn’t feel your fingertips wrapped white-knuckled around your weapon. They weren’t scavengers. They weren’t drifters looking for a warm corner or forgotten scraps. These men were here for blood.

Jackson—your home —was in their sights.

The kid shifted uncomfortably, his boots scuffing against the concrete. “You sure this is a good idea?” he muttered. “We don’t know what they’ve got. What if it’s more than we can—”

Tom rounded on him in an instant, the knife snapping to a stop in his hand. The kid flinched as Tom stepped close, his scar twisting with his sneer. “What, you scared?” he hissed. “Gonna piss your pants, kid? You signed up for this, remember? Or you wanna end up like the bitch we left back there?”

The kid’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his knuckles somehow tightening even more on his rifle. “No,” he murmured. “I’m good.”

Tom turned away, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

Your heart hammered so loudly you swore they could hear it. You couldn’t stay here—couldn’t listen to another second. The world around you narrowed to the single, desperate thought pounding through your mind.

Get out. Find Joel.

You moved, forcing yourself back a step, slow and deliberate. Another step. The floor beneath your boots creaked—loud, impossibly loud—and your breath caught in your throat.

The kid’s head snapped up. “Did you hear that?”

Shit.

You froze, pressing yourself hard into the shadows, your pulse so frantic it was a miracle you didn’t pass out right then.

The broad man sighed, disinterested. “Probably rats. Place like this, I’m surprised we ain’t wading through ‘em.”

Tom grunted, but his gaze lingered on the dark edges of the room for a beat too long before he turned back to his knife, twirling it once more. “We move at first light,” he said flatly, his voice sharp as flint. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

They didn’t notice you. Somehow, they didn’t notice.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself up another step. And then another. Every nerve screamed at you to run, but you couldn’t risk it—not yet. You climbed the stairs, each step a slow, deliberate fight against panic.

When you reached the top, the cold air of the lodge hit you like a slap. You pushed the door closed with trembling hands, the sound of your breathing ragged in the stillness. For one long moment, you stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide as you fought to push down the panic clawing at your throat.

Find Joel.

That thought broke through the haze, sharp and clear. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, and turned back toward the main room. Each step felt deliberate, your movements careful as you attempted to stay as quiet as possible.

Joel. You needed to find Joel. Now.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

Joel appeared out of the shadows like a ghost, his presence so sudden and silent that you didn’t register him until he was right there. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice low and startling in the suffocating quiet, his concern clear though he had no idea what you’d just witnessed.

You reacted instinctively—without thinking. Your hand shot out, fisting the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer with a force you didn’t know you possessed. The other hand pressed firmly over his mouth before he could say another word. Wide-eyed, trembling, you stared up at him, your silent plea screaming louder than any sound ever could.

Joel stilled. Completely. His body went rigid beneath your touch, but his gaze—sharp as ever—locked onto yours. His expression shifted as he took you in, reading you the way only Joel could: the panic in your eyes, the tremble in your shoulders, the urgency of your grip. Then, as if following some invisible thread, his eyes flickered over your shoulder, narrowing on the dark, half-open basement door.

The change in him was instant. His entire frame tensed, his jaw tightening until you swore you heard his teeth grind. The flicker of soft concern vanished, replaced by something colder, harder—Joel the protector, Joel with the sharp edges and the deadly calm.

“How many?” he mouthed, his lips barely moving, his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as your trembling hand rose slowly. Three fingers. Three.

He nodded once, sharp and precise. They see you? his expression asked, his brow lifting just enough to push the question.

You shook your head, the words stuck somewhere in your throat, fear silencing you.

Joel’s eyes sharpened, calculating. His hand shifted slowly toward his rifle, every movement deliberate, measured, a man preparing for war.

He didn’t need to speak—his body said it all. Calm. Controlled. Lethal.

He gestured sharply, flicking his hand toward the wall behind you—a command, clear as day. Get out of sight. His eyes pinned you, unyielding, daring you to argue. Let me handle this.

But your body didn’t move. You couldn’t move.

Your feet felt glued to the floor, your fingers twitching against the grip of your weapon, your chest so tight it hurt to breathe. The idea of Joel walking toward that basement alone—that black hole of danger—sent ice shooting through your veins.

Joel turned back just in time to see you still standing there, your eyes flicking between him and the door. His expression darkened like a storm cloud. He adjusted the strap of his rifle, the motion sharp, almost angry, before his voice cut through the quiet like a whip.

“No,” he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re not coming.”

“Joel—” You didn’t mean for it to sound so small, so pleading.

His head snapped toward you, his glare pinning you in place like a physical force. “No,” he repeated, harsher now, his voice a low growl that reverberated in the small space. “You said you’d do what I told you. You promised.”

Your lip trembled as you looked at him, your fear laid bare in a way you couldn’t hide. It wasn’t for yourself—you knew that. It was him. The idea of Joel walking down there alone, of you standing helpless while something happened to him—it gutted you. You couldn’t let that happen.

Joel saw it. Of course, he saw it. His eyes flickered to the whiteness of your knuckles around your weapon, to the way your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the tears brimming but refusing to fall. His jaw tightened, his shoulders coiled like a wire pulled too tight, but when he exhaled, it wasn’t anger that bled through. It was something quieter, rawer—something meant for you alone.

“Stay here,” he said again, but this time, his voice had gentled, as though he knew he was asking for too much. He paused, and then—just as you thought he might turn and leave—he stepped closer.

Before you could process it, his hands were on your face—broad and calloused, cradling you as though you were made of glass but still the only thing keeping him steady.

His thumbs hovered, the faintest pressure brushing your cheeks, anchoring you, grounding you. His presence overwhelmed everything, the lodge, the danger—it all faded away until there was only Joel.

“No matter what you hear,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with something so desperate, it made your stomach turn. “You do not come down. You hear me?”

His eyes bored into yours, dark and unyielding, as if he could carve the command straight into your soul. It wasn’t just a warning—it was an order, sharp and desperate.

You nodded, small and mechanical, because your throat was too tight to speak. Your eyes burned, blurring the lines of his face, but you couldn’t look away.

Joel didn’t move. His fingers stayed where they were, his palms warm against your skin, and his brow furrowed like he was trying to memorize you. Like some part of him was begging for more time. Then his thumb traced your cheek—so soft, so fleeting that it almost didn’t feel real.

His next words fell like a blow.

“If I don’t come back…” Joel hesitated, his voice breaking like he hated every syllable he was forcing himself to say. His grip on you tightened—barely, but enough to steady himself. “You take Winnie. You leave.”

“Joel—” you choked out, the crack in your voice making him flinch, but he didn’t let you finish.

“You leave,” he repeated, the word a command, a plea, everything in between.

“You get back to Jackson, and you don’t stop. You don’t look back.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he wrestled with something unspoken. “You don’t wait for me.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over, hot and silent as they ran down your cheeks. “Don’t talk like that,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut for the briefest moment like he couldn’t bear the weight of you breaking right in front of him.

“Promise me,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, his words breaking apart with the effort it took to say them. “Promise me you’ll go.”

Your chest ached, torn apart by the desperation in his voice, by the way he held you like you were the only thing left in the world. You couldn’t breathe past the tightness in your throat, but somehow, you found the words. Barely.

“I promise,” you whispered, the lie slicing through you like a blade.

Joel stilled, his gaze lingering on you—memorizing you, you realized—until you thought the weight of it might crush you. His eyes were dark, burning with everything he couldn’t say, everything he wouldn’t allow himself to feel. It was more than care. More than duty. It was him, all of him, tangled up in that look like a confession carved into silence.

He pulled back just enough to let you go, his hands dropping away with a slowness that made your heart seize. It felt wrong, like he’d taken something with him when he stepped back.

And then, without another word, he turned. His shoulders squared, his rifle steady, every step deliberate and heavy as he moved toward the basement door. He looked invincible, unshakable, a fortress built to protect—but you saw it. You saw the way his steps faltered, just slightly, right before he disappeared from view.

It was so small, so fleeting, but you caught it—the hesitation. The doubt.

And when he was gone, swallowed by the dark, you were left with nothing but the sound of your pulse pounding in your ears, the echo of his voice, and the truth you couldn’t ignore

You’d made him a promise.

But you already knew you’d break it.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

You stood frozen, your weapon clutched so tightly your knuckles ached, staring at the empty space where Joel had been just moments ago. Your breath hitched as your chest caved inward, a frustrated whisper escaping you before you could stop it. “Fuck,” you murmured, wiping the tear that streaked down your cheek.

The silence that followed was suffocating—thick, heavy, pressing against your skin until you felt like it might crush you.

You strained to hear something—anything—beyond the shallow rhythm of your breathing. A voice, the creak of a floorboard, the sharp crack of a rifle.

But there was nothing.

You trusted him. God, you trusted him. Joel was the sharpest, most capable man you’d ever known, his movements precise, his instincts lethal. If anyone could handle this—three men, armed, their voices dripping with cruelty—it was him. But trust didn’t stop the fear.

Your mind spiraled, unbidden. Joel alone in that basement, the shadows creeping too close. Joel outnumbered, surrounded. The scarred man’s knife glinting in the flickering lantern light. Joel going down, because you—because you—

No. You shook your head sharply, forcing the thought back. Joel had told you to stay. Had made you promise. You clung to the memory of his hands on your face, his words—steady, pleading—cutting through the fear like a tether.

“Stay here.”

And then it began.

The first shot shattered the silence like glass, the sound so sharp it felt like it had punched straight through your chest. You sucked in a ragged breath, squeezing your eyes shut as your mind filled in the image: Joel, calm, unflinching, taking the first man out with lethal precision.

Then came the shouting, frantic and chaotic, movement as they realized they weren’t alone. The second shot cracked through the air, echoing with brutal finality, followed by the clang of metal hitting concrete. A rifle? A knife? You didn’t know. Another one down.

Joel was fast. He was sharp. He was—

But then the rhythm changed.

The sounds turned messier, louder. Boots scraping. A grunt—low, pained. The thud of bodies colliding, struggling. Your blood ran cold. Every nerve in your body tensed as you heard it: Joel’s voice. A noise that was undeniably him—guttural, strained, torn from somewhere deep.

Stay here. Joel’s voice echoed in your head, the quiet plea from earlier ringing like a hammer against your skull. You owed him this. He’d trusted you with this. You’d promised.

But that sound—his sound—kept replaying in your head, pulling tighter around your throat, suffocating you. Joel was down there. Fighting. Alone. And you were here. Frozen.

No. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, instinct screaming louder than any promise you’d made.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t stay here while he fought for his life. If something happened to him—if you let something happen to him—you wouldn’t survive it.

The old stairs creaked under your weight as you descended, slow at first, your boots deliberate against the wood. But then your pace quickened, reckless and raw, urgency pushing you faster than reason could hold you back. Each sound below sharpened with terrifying clarity as you drew closer: the crash of something breaking, the thud of heavy footsteps, the ragged cadence of Joel’s breathing.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you flattened yourself against the wall, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. The cold concrete pressed hard against your back, grounding you even as your mind screamed at you to move, to act. Slowly, you edged around the corner, just enough to see—and the sight that met you stopped your heart cold.

Joel was locked in a brutal, desperate struggle with Tom, the leader. The raider’s knife gleamed wickedly in the dim lantern light, a wicked arc of steel that seemed to catch the room’s shadows and pull them with it. Tom lunged, his aim sharp and merciless, the blade slicing toward Joel’s ribs. Joel twisted at the last second, his hand snapping out like a vice to clamp around Tom’s wrist, halting the strike before it could land.

The two of them slammed into the wall with a thud that reverberated through the basement, bodies straining, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. Joel deflected the knife again, his forearm cracking hard against Tom’s, the impact loud and jarring. But Tom was quick—too quick—and he broke free with a snarl, his lip curled into something vicious and ugly.

“Come on, old man,” Tom taunted, his voice drenched in mockery, his grin sharp and mean. “What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?”

Joel didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His focus was absolute, his movements deliberate, honed by years of surviving men just like this. But you could see the wear creeping in—the slight falter in his step, the way his breath came shorter, sharper. The next swing of the knife was too quick, too cruel. It slashed across Joel’s side, the tear of fabric punctuated by a sickening bloom of red that spread dark and fast against his jacket.

Your breath caught in your throat, the sound choked and ragged as you saw him stumble back a step. Joel grunted, the pain flashing across his face before he swallowed it down, straightening with that same unrelenting resolve. But the blood—his blood—dripping onto the floor sent a bolt of panic through you, sharp enough to shatter any instinct to stay hidden.

“Joel!” The word tore from your lips, loud and unrestrained, a burst of desperation you couldn’t hold back.

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in shock—“No!” he barked, his voice hoarse—but the warning came too late.

Tom’s grin twisted into something crueler, something darker, as his gaze swung to you. “Well, look at this,” he sneered, his knife glinting as he straightened. “Didn’t know you brought a partner. Real sweet.”

He moved fast—too fast. Before you could blink, he was closing the distance, the blade flashing as he lunged. You fired, the crack of the shot splitting the air like a whip, but it was too close, too rushed. The bullet skidded off the concrete near his feet, sending up a burst of dust but leaving him unharmed.

“Too slow,” Tom hissed, and then the knife was slashing toward you.

Pain ripped through you, hot and searing as the blade bit into your thigh. You gasped, stumbling back, your vision blurring slightly at the edges.

But you didn’t let go. Your grip on your rifle tightened, and with every ounce of strength you had left, you swung it hard. The butt of the weapon crashed into his shoulder with a dull, heavy thud, the force of it making him stagger to the side.

But he recovered too quickly, his movements fueled by something feral and unrelenting. His eyes found yours again, narrowed with ruthless intent. He came at you once more, his steps predatory, the knife gleaming red.

You didn’t hesitate this time.

You steadied your breath, your hands trembling but sure as you raised the rifle again. Time slowed as you lined up the shot, Joel’s warning, the chaos, the fear—all of it fading into the steady pull of your finger on the trigger.

The shot rang out, louder than thunder in the small space, and Tom jerked back, the force of it ripping through him. The knife slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor as his body crumpled. His eyes were still open, vacant and unseeing, as he slumped against the concrete.

The silence that followed was deafening.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

Silence stretched thin, broken only by the ragged, uneven gasps tearing from your chest, the weapon still trembling in your hands. The sharp sting of the cut on your thigh barely registered, drowned out by the aftershocks of adrenaline flooding your veins. You sank against the wall, its cold, unyielding surface pressing into your back like an anchor, keeping you upright when your body felt like it might fall apart.

Across the room, Joel cursed—a low, guttural sound, tight with pain and something darker. When he moved, his steps were heavy, deliberate, like he was holding himself back, like he didn’t trust himself to close the distance without breaking something.

When he finally stopped in front of you, the air itself seemed to coil tighter, pressing down on your chest until it was impossible to breathe.

You looked up, your stomach twisting as his dark eyes locked onto yours. The weight of his gaze hit you like a physical blow, heavy and unrelenting, and you couldn’t stop the small flinch that followed.

“What did I tell you?” he bit out, his voice rough, his chest rising and falling as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “What did I make you promise me?”

Your back hit the wall as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Joel—”

“No,” he snapped, cutting you off. His palm slammed against the wall behind you, the sharp crack ringing out and making you flinch. “You don’t get to talk right now.”

The anger in his voice was volcanic, but there was something else beneath it—a crack, a tremor, something raw that made it hit twice as hard. He bent down so he was eye-level, his face inches from yours. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break, his dark eyes burning into yours with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine.

“You promised me,” he ground out, his voice shaking now. “I said don’t come down here. I said no matter what you heard—no matter what, you stay put.” His voice cracked on the last word, his brow furrowing like it was taking everything in him not to lose control. “Why is that so goddamn hard for you to understand?""

Your jaw tightened, the tears that had been burning in your eyes threatening to spill over. The knot of fear and frustration that had been choking you since this all started finally snapped, the words tearing out of you before you could stop them. “Joel, he would’ve killed you!”

“I don’t care!” Joel roared, the sound like thunder in the small, suffocating room, shaking the air between you. His voice wasn’t just loud—it was broken, raw, splintered with something too jagged to contain.

The sheer force of it made you flinch, but not because it scared you. It was what you heard in it—his anguish, his desperation, all of it bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, his breaths ragged and hard, like the words had been ripped from someplace deep and untouchable. “Do you hear me? I don’t care!”

“Well, I care!” you screamed back, your voice cracking under the weight of it all as the tears finally spilled free, hot and relentless. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping what poured out now, no holding back what had clawed its way to the surface.

“I care, Joel! You think no one does? You think no one gives a damn what happens to you? I fucking care!”

The last words hit like a gunshot, reverberating through the space, leaving the air thick and choking.

Joel stilled, like you’d physically struck him, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of what you’d said. The fire in his eyes dimmed—just a little—but something else flickered there, something darker and heavier. Guilt. Regret. Maybe even shame.

His hands flexed at his sides, restless and uncertain, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotions you’d unleashed in him. His lips parted slightly, like he was searching for something to say, something to give back to you, but nothing came. His face softened in the slightest way, his fury tempered by the truth you’d thrown at him, but it was still too raw—you were still too raw—for either of you to move past it.

The silence between you pulsed like a heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting, until you swallowed hard, forcing down the sob lodged in your throat. Your voice trembled but carried a quiet, cutting edge as you pressed on. “And you—you—promised me.”

Before he could stop you—before you could stop yourself—you reached for him, your fingers curling around the edge of his coat. “You promised me nothing would happen to you,” you said, quieter now but no less fierce, no less shattering.

The torn fabric gave way easily as you pushed it aside, revealing the steady seep of blood from the shallow cut along his side. Your hands trembled as you let the coat drop, the image of the blood burned into you.

“So let’s just call it even,” you said finally, your voice small but heavy with the kind of exhaustion that only came after fear. You sank back against the wall, your head falling back to rest against the rough wood as you squeezed your eyes shut, like shutting out the world might hold you together for just a moment longer.

Joel’s gaze flicked down to the blood staining your jeans, the dark patch spreading too quickly for his liking. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek, and he let out a sharp, uneven breath through his nose—like he was trying to hold something back, something he didn’t trust himself to let out.

His hands hovered near your thigh, close but not quite touching, his fingers twitching at his sides. They curled and uncurled, restless and aching, as if he were caught in some invisible war with himself.

“You’re hurt,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, quieter now, like speaking it out loud might make the wound worse. He wasn’t looking at you—he was staring at the blood, his expression so tight it looked painful.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” The last part was barely above a whisper, more to himself than to you, as though he couldn’t reconcile it—like the fact that you were bleeding was something he couldn’t forgive.

“It’s just a graze,” you replied quickly, your tone sharper than you intended. It wasn’t just dismissive—it was defensive, a knee-jerk reaction to the way he was looking at you. Like the blood on your leg was his fault, like it was a wound he’d put there himself. “Joel, I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

But Joel didn’t look fine.

His dark eyes stayed locked on the stain spreading across your jeans, heavy and unrelenting, as though he couldn’t look away. It wasn’t anger in his gaze now—it was something else. Guilt.

“That don’t matter,” he muttered, his voice low, gruff, but you could hear it—feel it—just beneath the surface. He wasn’t angry at you. He was blaming himself. “It don’t matter if it’s a graze or worse. I shouldn’t’ve let it happen.”

Joel crouched, pulling his knife free and slicing through the hem of his shirt without hesitation. “Hold still,” he said, pressing the clean fabric to your leg, his hands firm but careful.

He wrapped the strip tightly around the wound, securing it with a knot. His fingers lingered briefly, checking the tension before he leaned back, his sharp eyes scanning your leg.

“This’ll hold for now,” he murmured, quieter this time. “We’re goin’ to the safe house,” his voice dropping into that tone that left no room for argument. Commanding, but not unkind.

You tried to push yourself upright, to stand on your own, but your legs betrayed you, shaky from adrenaline and exhaustion. Joel was there immediately, his arms slipping around you with the kind of ease that made you think he hadn’t even considered letting you fall. One arm looped around your waist, steady and unyielding, while his other hand hovered near your shoulder, ready to catch you if you wavered.

“Easy,” Joel murmured, his voice softer now, though the crease between his brows stayed etched deep, carved by worry so heavy it made your chest tighten.

You let your eyes drift around the room then, your breath hitching as the scene unfolded in jagged snapshots: the lifeless bodies, the chaos Joel had waded through alone. Your heart clenched, a surge of guilt and helplessness rising in your throat.

“Don’t look,” he said, his voice a quiet command, his tone gruff but layered with something protective. It wasn’t just the violence he was shielding you from—it was the truth of it all, the weight of what survival demanded.

Your knees wavered, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him—more than you wanted to, more than you meant to. But Joel didn’t stiffen, didn’t flinch. You turned to him, burying your face against his shoulder, your sobs spilling out in jagged waves you couldn’t control.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but low, steady, the kind of sound that wrapped around you like a shield. His hand slid up to the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair, grounding you with every careful touch.

You pulled back reluctantly, tears streaking your cheeks, your chest tight with the vulnerability you hated showing. You looked up at him, your eyes red and swollen, voice breaking as you asked, “Are you mad at me?”

Joel froze. It was barely a second—a hesitation so fleeting you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching so closely. But his hands betrayed him, his grip on you tightening just a fraction, grounding himself as much as you. He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw working, chest rising and falling with an uneven rhythm. The question had shaken him; you could see it in the way his eyes flickered away for just a moment, like he needed time to collect himself.

“You’re mad,” you said again, your voice trembling, words spilling out unbidden, raw and unsteady. “Aren’t you?”

That pulled his gaze back to yours. His eyes—sharp, searching—locked onto you, and you braced for it. The anger. The storm. The hard words that would push you away.

But they didn’t come.

“No,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I ain’t mad at you.” The words hung in the air, weighted with a sincerity that made your heart squeeze. He hesitated again, his thumb brushing the edge of your jacket, the touch so light you weren’t sure it was real. “Could never be mad at you.”

Joel’s hand lingered a moment longer, his fingers twitching like he might reach up, like he might cup your face and hold you still, make you look at him, make you understand. But instead, he pulled back, his hand curling briefly into a fist at his side, as if he had to physically stop himself from touching you.

Joel nodded once, a sharp, subtle motion, like he was giving himself permission to believe you.

With a quiet sigh, Joel shifted, pulling you closer against his side, his movements gentle but decisive as he helped you toward the stairs.

You let him, your body too tired and your heart too heavy to argue.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The ride to the safe house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy—thick with all the words neither of you could bring yourselves to say. The rhythmic crunch of hooves against the dirt road was the only sound that filled the space between you, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

Every few minutes, Joel glanced back over his shoulder, his brow furrowed deep, his expression hard to read but unmistakably Joel. Protective. Unrelenting.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Joel, you’re gonna break your damn neck,” you called out, your voice cutting through the stillness, sharp enough to make him slow.

“Ride beside me,” he said, his voice gruff but steady. It was a command, sure, but you heard the care threaded beneath it.

You sighed, nudging Winnie forward until you were riding alongside him. Joel’s horse matched your pace easily, the two of you falling into a quiet rhythm together. He didn’t say anything right away, but his eyes drifted over you again, scanning you from head to toe with that maddening focus of his—like he was trying to convince himself you were still in one piece, like he could find a hidden injury just by looking hard enough.

“How’s your leg?” Joel asked after a long beat, his voice softer this time, the edge of his usual gruffness dulled by something heavier—something tender.

“Fine,” you replied quickly, maybe too quickly. You sat straighter in the saddle, biting back the wince that wanted to pull at your features. The throbbing beneath the bandage hadn’t eased, but you weren’t about to let him see it.

Joel’s jaw worked tight, his fingers flexing briefly around the reins, knuckles pale. He didn’t look convinced, though he held himself back, his voice dipping low as he muttered, “Should’ve stayed put.” The words came out soft, almost defeated, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. “You didn’t need to come down there.”

“Joel,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet. “Are we really gonna do this again?”

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with the weight of unspoken things. His eyes lingered on yours, then followed your gaze as it drifted to the dark stain where his blood had seeped into the fabric of his jacket.

“I’m fine,” he said when he caught you looking. The words were clipped, dismissive, like brushing it off might make it disappear entirely.

“Sure,” you replied, raising a brow, the disbelief clear in your voice. “You’re bleeding, but you’re fine.”

Joel let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, frustration mingled with something else—resignation, maybe.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

“So have I,” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The safe house was as bleak as you expected: four walls, a fireplace barely clinging to life, and a draft that made your skin prickle.

It didn’t matter. It was shelter. It would keep you alive tonight.

Joel gritted his teeth as he shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a wobbly chair. His rifle clattered softly onto the worn table nearby, within arm’s reach, always within reach.

The room seemed smaller with him in it, his broad frame commanding the space even as he knelt by the fireplace. You could hear the low rumble of his voice—soft, agitated muttering—lost beneath the crackle of kindling catching flame.

You sank onto the faded couch, its springs groaning beneath you as your body gave way to exhaustion. The pull of sleep was strong, the ache in your leg reduced to a dull throb—manageable, but not forgotten.

You let your head tilt back against the threadbare cushions, your eyes slipping closed for what felt like the first time in hours. The warmth of the fire began to spread, chasing the cold from the air and unraveling some of the tension from your limbs.

“Let me see that leg.”

You blinked, the haze of near-sleep lifting as you tilted your head toward him. He was standing there, bottle of alcohol in one hand, a roll of bandages in the other.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, a groan escaping him as he set the supplies on the dusty coffee table with a deliberate thud, the sound cutting through the silence. He didn’t look at you, his attention fixed on unrolling the bandages, his movements methodical.

“Didn’t ask if it was fine,” he muttered.

His hands were steady and deliberate as he reached for your leg, lifting it with a care that felt almost out of place against his usual rough exterior. He settled it across his lap, his touch firm but gentle.

Joel didn’t say anything as he began peeling back the bloodied makeshift bandage he'd tied earlier. The fabric clung stubbornly to the dried blood, and when the wound was finally revealed, he let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat—a noise caught somewhere between relief and disapproval.

“Could’ve been worse,” he muttered, shaking his head, his fingers hovering near the edge of the gash but never quite touching. His voice dropped lower, as though he were speaking more to himself. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you said softly, your voice catching as you tried to wave him off.

“Don’t.” His voice was low, rough, but not unkind. “Don’t act like this ain’t a big deal.”

Joel shifted, pouring alcohol onto a scrap of cloth, and the sharp scent of it filled the small room. When he pressed it to your leg, the sting came quick, searing and unforgiving. You sucked in a breath through your teeth, your fingers curling tightly into the worn fabric of the couch.

“Shit,” you hissed, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.

“Easy,” Joel muttered, his voice dipping softer, gentler now in a way that made something catch in your chest. “I know it stings. Just—” He paused, his hands steadying your leg, his thumb brushing absently against your skin. “Just stay still. I’ve got it.”

It was such a small thing—his touch. Thoughtless and unintentional, but it lingered, warm against the ache spreading through you, grounding you in a way that made your breath hitch. Joel didn’t notice; he was too focused, his brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration, like the world could burn down around him and he’d still finish what he started. But that only made it worse. Or maybe it made it better. You weren’t sure which.

“You don’t have to fuss, Joel,” you said finally.

“Yeah, I do,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “S’my job.”

“Your job?” you echoed, raising a brow in faint disbelief. “Don’t remember signing a contract for that.”

That earned you a huff from Joel—a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t buried beneath layers of frustration and weariness.

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, just barely. “You’re a fuckin' smart-ass,” he muttered, the words gruff but not unkind, and there was something almost fond threaded through the irritation, like he couldn’t help himself.

Joel’s hands slowed as he secured the bandage, his touch careful, deliberate, but heavy with exhaustion. When he finished, he leaned back with a quiet sigh, the sound deep and tired, like it carried the weight of more than just today.

He didn’t move your leg from where it rested across his lap. He didn’t push you away. So you left it there. His thumb traced slow, absent-minded patterns against the fabric of your jeans, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Even though you didn’t listen to me…” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, trailing off into a sigh. His hand scrubbed over his face, and when he dropped it, the lines of his features seemed deeper, etched with something too raw to name. “Never fuckin’ listen,” he added under his breath, but the edge in his tone was missing.

He turned his head to look at you then, “You did good back there,” he said, “Real good.”

Your throat tightened, and you dropped your gaze, your hands fumbling aimlessly at the hem of your shirt. “That was…” you started, but the words faltered, catching in your throat before you could finish.

“What?” Joel asked, his voice soft but firm, laced with that quiet insistence of his—the one that made it impossible to hide. His brow furrowed as he studied you, his sharp gaze narrowing like he could see right through you. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you lied, the words slipping out too quickly, too softly to sound convincing. You didn’t dare meet his eyes, instead leaning forward, focusing on the task at hand.

Your fingers busied themselves with his jacket, brushing aside the torn fabric and smudges of dried blood as you dabbed gently at the wound. The quiet scrape of the cloth against his skin filled the silence, and you hoped—foolishly—that the distraction might be enough to make him drop it. But the weight of his gaze lingered, steady and unyielding, like he could see right through you.

It wasn’t.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice broke through the silence, low and steady, the sound grounding in a way that made your heart stutter. His hands moved to your wrist, his grip firm but careful, stilling your movements with the gentlest pressure.

The warmth of his skin against yours made your breath catch, and you froze, your eyes locked on where his fingers wrapped around your own. He didn’t let go. He didn’t move. “Look at me,” he said softly.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, his voice impossibly gentle.

“That was really fucking scary,” you whispered, barely able to force the admission past your lips.

Your eyes dropped immediately, your hands twisting nervously in your lap as you added, quieter still, “I thought… I thought I was going to lose you.”

You braced yourself for the gruff dismissal that always seemed to follow moments like this—Joel waving off fear like it wasn’t worth the air it took to name it. But instead, he stayed quiet, so quiet you thought for a moment he hadn’t heard you.

“Yeah,” Joel said softly, “It was scary.”

Your head snapped up at the admission, your breath catching in your chest. You weren’t sure what you’d expected—an argument, a dismissal, maybe even some clipped comment about how it was all fine now. But there was none of that. Joel’s expression was open in a way that made your heart ache, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen, the firelight painting the lines of his face with hues of gold and shadow.

He dragged a hand slowly over his face, the gesture weighted, as if trying to erase the tension coiling in his jaw. When he finally spoke again, it was quieter, rougher. “Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared.” He paused, his gaze flickering to yours, dark and steady, like he was trying to hold you there with just his eyes. “That kinda thing…” His voice dipped lower, softer, as if the admission was meant just for you. “It should scare you.”

You nodded faintly, unable to form words, though your lips parted like you wanted to say something—anything. But Joel wasn’t done.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he said, the bluntness of it landing like a blow. It was unpolished, unfiltered, and so distinctly him that it made your throat tighten. He shook his head, his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more of a grimace. “When I saw your dumb ass comin’ down those stairs…”

You let out a shaky laugh—small, unsteady, but real. “My dumb ass?” you repeated, the words trembling on the edge of humor but not quite making it there. “That’s how you’re gonna put it?”

“Seriously,” he murmured, and the laughter fell away completely. . “You scared me.”

The words hit harder the second time, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the way his voice cracked, just barely, on the last syllable. And when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw it—the exhaustion, the vulnerability, the unspoken weight of how close you’d come to losing each other. It wasn’t just his usual guardedness—it was fear. Real, bone-deep fear.

“I’m not scared for myself,” Joel admitted, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His hands curled into loose fists, his knuckles pale, like he needed to hold on to something solid just to say it out loud. “I’m scared for you.”

Your breath hitched, the confession sinking into you like a stone. “Scared one day I won’t be there,” he continued, his voice rougher now, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Or I’ll be too slow. Or someone’ll slip past my bad ear.”

“And as much as I’m still pissed off that you didn’t listen to me…” he started, the gruff edge of his voice undercut by the quiet, worn-out softness beneath it.

“…you saved my life back there.”

“Joel—” you whispered, your voice cracking, but he shook his head, cutting you off with a small, quiet movement.

“No,” he said softly, his voice low and rough but impossibly steady. “Don’t.” He swallowed, his jaw clenching faintly before he spoke again. “Not right now.”

His gaze stayed on you, unwavering, searching, like he was trying to commit you to memory, as if even blinking might make you disappear.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he murmured, his tone dropping even lower, the rasp of it pulling at something deep inside you. “You don’t even know.”

Joel wasn’t a man who admitted his fear. He buried it, pushed it down, locked it away behind walls of steel and silence. But right now, he wasn’t hiding anything. Not from you. Not in this moment.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t speak, and for a long moment, the world outside the safe house ceased to exist. There was no fire crackling softly behind him, no distant wind howling against the windows—there was only him, his hand on your leg, his eyes on yours, and the quiet, unspoken truth settling between you like a promise.

The tension was too much—thick and heavy, pulling at your resolve until a teasing grin tugged at your lips, breaking the silence like a spark cutting through the dark. “So,” you started, “since I saved your life, you kinda owe me, huh?”

Joel’s lips twitched, and for a moment, you thought he might brush it off, might retreat behind that stoic wall he wore like armor. But then it happened—a soft chuckle, low and warm, rolling through the room like a balm against the weight lingering between you. He shook his head faintly, his hand still resting on your leg as he squeezed it slightly. “That so?” he drawled, his voice rough around the edges, but tinged with something lighter, softer.

You nodded, settling back against the couch with mock seriousness, exaggerating the lift of your chin as you pressed on. “Mm-hmm. Now you’ve gotta do whatever I ask,” you said, letting the teasing lilt in your voice linger just a little longer than necessary. “You know, since I saved your life and all.”

Joel huffed softly, shaking his head again, but there it was—the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, a shadow of a grin. It was barely there, so fleeting you almost missed it, but it made something flutter low in your chest all the same. When his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, the firelight catching just enough to make them gleam, the teasing warmth you’d tried to ignite wavered. His gaze softened, though it didn’t lose its intensity, and you felt yourself sink under it, your breath hitching without permission.

“Thing is,” Joel said finally, his voice dipping low—low enough to send heat curling through your ribs, low enough that it felt like a secret meant just for you—“I’d already do whatever you asked.”

The words landed like a fist to your chest, knocking the air clean out of you. Your teasing smile faltered, disappearing entirely as the meaning of what he’d just said settled in. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t playing along. He meant it.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, the words barely more than a breath, like they’d escaped before he could stop them. He shook his head, his voice low and rough, cutting through the quiet with the sharp precision of a blade.

Before you could respond, Joel exhaled hard, the sound tight, his chest lifting as if the next words were being torn from somewhere deep inside him.

“I’d die for you.”

The words sat there, heavy and unshakable, like they couldn’t be taken back. Joel wasn’t flippant—he never was—but this? This was something else entirely. It wasn’t said for comfort, wasn’t offered as reassurance. It was fact. Truth. Something that lived in him, unspoken until now, but so deeply woven into who he was that you couldn’t tear it out if you tried.

Your breath left you, a shaky exhale as you stared at him, unmoored and speechless. Your throat felt tight, the weight of his confession pressing against your chest until it ached.

Joel watched you, his dark eyes softening, as though he could see the effect of what he’d said written plain as day on your face. The flicker of vulnerability in his expression knocked you off balance all over again—like he wasn’t just offering the truth but handing it to you, placing it in your trembling hands, hoping you wouldn’t drop it.

Joel straightened slightly, breaking just enough of the tension to let you breathe. His gaze dropped to the floor as he gently moved your leg from his lap and stood, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Alright,” he said, the word clipped, as if he’d said too much, come too close to showing what he really felt. His tone dipped back into practicality, trying to mask the faint, unsteady edge that lingered, betraying him.

“You need rest,” he added, his voice quieter but firm. “I’ll take watch. We leave first thing.”

You frowned faintly, the heaviness still wrapped around you like a second skin. “You’re tired,” you said softly, trying to thread some sense of concern through the tension. Your voice barely rose above a whisper, like the fire’s quiet crackle might drown it out. “You need sleep too, Joel. I’ll take watch.”

He was already shaking his head, firm and unyielding, before you’d finished speaking. “No,” he said, the word final, resolute in a way that told you arguing was pointless.

“Sleep,” he murmured, the word gentler this time, almost like a plea.

“I need you to rest.”

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The next day, you stayed home, cocooned in your little room. Normally, on your days off, you’d wander around Jackson, soak in the closest thing to normal life you might ever get again—listen to the kids laughing on the street, visit the stables, maybe stop by the tipsy bison and sit in the comforting buzz of other people’s voices. But after your yesterday, the thought of stepping outside felt overwhelming.

The weight of what could’ve gone wrong sat heavy in your chest. One misstep, one second slower, and Joel might not be here. You might not be here. That thought had rooted itself somewhere deep, growing heavier with every passing hour until it felt impossible to leave the bed.

So you didn’t. The hours passed in a haze of restless sleep, your aching muscles sinking deeper into the mattress every time you tried to drift off.

It wasn’t until a sharp, abrupt knock at your door broke through the fog that you stirred, groaning softly as you forced yourself to sit up.

You shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of pants and the cleanest top you could find before dragging your hair back into something that vaguely resembled order. Anything to look a little less like you’d spent the day wallowing.

“Coming,” you muttered, your voice hoarse as you padded toward the door. You caught a glance at the clock in the hallway. 7:30 p.m. What the hell?

When you opened the door, you blinked in surprise. Joel stood there, his broad frame filling, he was holding a neat pile of firewood, the lines of his face unreadable as ever but his presence unmistakable, grounding.

“Joel?” you said, your voice caught somewhere between confusion and something you didn’t want to name. “What are you doing here?”

Joel tilted his head toward the firewood. “Brought you some extra,” he said simply, his tone casual, like he’d just happened to pass by. Then his eyes flicked back to you, lingering a beat too long as they swept over you, taking in the slump of your shoulders, the faint tiredness in your face. “Was gonna leave it, but…” He shifted slightly, his boots scuffing against the wood floor. “Figured I’d check up on ya.”

You forced a small smile, hugging your arms around yourself as you leaned against the doorframe. “That’s… sweet. I’m fine, Joel. Just tired, I guess.”

He nodded once, though his expression stayed skeptical, like he wasn’t quite convinced. “You eat yet?” he asked abruptly, his tone clipped but not unkind.

You blinked, thrown off by the question. “No,” you admitted, maybe too quickly.

Joel’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “You plannin’ on it, or just gonna starve?”

“Joel,” you groaned, exasperated, but before you could finish, he was already stepping inside, brushing past you and heading straight for the kitchen.

“Hey!” you called after him, your voice rising in disbelief as you turned to follow. “What are you doing?”

“Making dinner,” he muttered, the words gruff and final, like they left no room for argument. He rolled up his sleeves as he opened one of your cabinets, pulling out pots and pans with an ease that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Why?” you asked, baffled, hovering uselessly near the door as you watched him root around your kitchen.

Joel paused, his hand braced on the counter, turning just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His gaze was sharp, a little too knowing, and it pinned you in place. “Because you don’t eat,” he said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, quieter, with a subtle edge of irritation he didn’t bother masking, “And you wonder why you’re tired all the time.”

He turned back to the counter, resuming his task, but not before adding, almost as an afterthought, “And I promised you yesterday I’d make you dinner.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the bluntness. “Fine,” you said, your tone clipped as you turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to go shower.”

But as you reached the bottom step, an idea sprung to mind, and before you could think twice, the words tumbled out. “Can you make pancakes?” you blurted, your grin already forming.

Joel’s brows lifted, his expression somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Pancakes? For dinner?”

“Yeah,” you said, unfazed, the prospect of pancakes more exciting than his skepticism. You didn’t catch the way his eyes darted toward the pantry or how he muttered under his breath, “Baby, I don’t think you even got the stuff for pancakes.”

“What?” you called, already halfway up the stairs, a skip in your step like you’d already decided it was happening.

Joel shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “God help me” as he crossed to the fridge, pulling it open with a sigh. You could almost hear him grumbling, counting the odds that there’d be eggs or flour or anything remotely pancake-adjacent in your kitchen.

From the landing, you glanced down, catching the faint clink of bowls being moved around, the shuffle of Joel’s boots against the floor. “So?” you called, leaning over the railing with a teasing lilt in your voice. “What d’ya say?”

He didn’t look up, but you could hear the smirk in his reply. “Go shower. You’re stalling.”

You sighed dramatically, “Fine,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “You… figure it out or whatever.”

Joel chuckled low, the sound curling warm in the space between you. “Go on,” he said, flicking his wrist to shoo you off, his voice laced with that familiar gruffness that somehow always felt like home. “Ain’t gonna burn the place down.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips as you turned away. His voice followed you upstairs, the faint sounds of the kitchen already coming alive—clattering pots, the scrape of a knife on a cutting board, all as if he belonged there.

And maybe he did.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The bathroom was a quiet refuge, the steady rush of the shower drowning out the noise in your head. You tilted your face up to the water, letting it pour through your hair, down your back, washing away the ache in your muscles and the lingering tension you hadn’t been able to shake.

By the time you’d dried off and tugged on an old sweatshirt and soft, worn sweats, the scents drifting from the kitchen had completely chased away the last of the day’s haze.

Padding downstairs, you were greeted by the faint clink of a spoon against a pot, Joel standing with his back to you at the counter. His sleeves were pushed up, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he worked—familiar, steady, like he’d done this a thousand times.

“Smells good,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet as you pulled out a chair at the table.

Joel turned slightly, his gaze flicking over you—first the clothes, then the damp strands of hair sticking to your cheeks. His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it softened him all the same. He didn’t say anything at first, just picked up a steaming dish and set it in front of you.

“Eat,” he said simply, like it wasn’t up for debate.

You smiled despite yourself, your lips quirking up as you reached for your spoon. “Yes, sir,” you teased, a playful lilt in your voice as you tilted your head, your eyes flicking to the plate. The corners of your mouth tugged higher as you raised an amused brow. “This doesn’t look like pancakes.”

Joel scoffed, his brow raising just enough to make the gesture feel pointed. “If you’re gonna complain, I can take it back,” he said, his hand moving to grab your plate with mock seriousness.

“Hey!” you yelped, smacking his hand lightly, your grin widening despite the way you tried to keep it in check. “I’m joking, geez. Don’t you dare.”

Satisfied, Joel settled back into his chair, his own plate sat untouched in front of him, but his focus wasn’t on the food. His gaze lingered, steady and intent, watching you as you took another bite.

“You’re like…” You paused, swallowing down a bite before gesturing vaguely at your plate. “The stew king.”

Joel’s spoon froze midair, his brows knitting together as he shot you a skeptical look. “What now?”

You grinned, shrugging one shoulder like it was obvious. “The stew king. This is the best stew I’ve had since—well, probably forever. Better than the shit they serve in the dining hall, that’s for damn sure.”

Joel let out a low, exasperated huff, shaking his head. “Didn’t know I was competin’.”

“You’re not,” you said, all matter-of-fact as you shoveled another bite into your mouth. “It’s an uncontested victory.”

He muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but you heard the word ridiculous and couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from your chest.

Joel stilled. He didn’t look at you—not at first. His hand tightened around his spoon for just a moment, like he was trying to keep himself steady. But then you saw it: the corners of his mouth twitched, a small, quiet smile breaking through despite his best efforts to hide it.

He ducked his head, pretending to focus on his plate, but you didn’t miss the way his shoulders eased, the way his usual guarded edges softened just a little.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

After dinner, you settled on the living room floor, the cool wood grounding you as you leaned back against the edge of the couch. You thought he might leave after dinner, but he didn’t, and that spoke louder than anything he could’ve said. A glass of whiskey sat in your hands, the amber liquid catching the flicker of the fire Joel had just lit.

He sank onto the couch above you with a low groan, the kind of sound that came from tired muscles and too many years spent carrying the weight of the world. Without a word, you passed him his glass, your fingers brushing his as he took it.

Joel nodded in thanks, his grip firm on the glass.

“You full?” he asked after a moment, leaning back into the worn cushions with a sigh, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on the flames licking up from the hearth.

“Stuffed,” you replied, satisfaction curling your lips into a small smile.

“Good.” His voice was low, almost content, a deep hum that vibrated through the quiet. “So… pancakes, huh?”

You turned your head to look at him, caught off guard. A small smile tugged at your lips. “They used to be your favorite or something?” he asked, his tone lighter than usual, almost teasing.

“One of my favorites,” you admitted, resting your glass on the floor beside you. “Pancakes, sushi, pizza—oh, my God, pizza. I miss pizza.”

A low chuckle escaped him, rough but genuine, and the sound caught you by surprise. “You’re easy to please, huh?”

“What was your favorite food?” you countered, curious now, leaning in just slightly.

Joel shrugged, the movement casual but somehow carrying a weight you couldn’t quite name. “Didn’t really have one.”

“Jesus, Joel,” you scoffed, fully turning to face him, an incredulous smile breaking across your face. “Surely there was something.”

He paused, his eyes distant, lingering somewhere in a memory you couldn’t see. “Maybe…” A faint smile curved his lips, faint enough you almost missed it. “Barbecue. Tommy used to drag me to some hole-in-the-wall joint. Meat so good it’d fall off the bone.”

You smiled softly. “That sounds good.”

“It was,” he said, a note of nostalgia creeping into his voice. His expression softened, his gaze warming, but behind it was something heavier, a shadow of loss that never quite left him. “I remember Sarah…”

You froze. He’d mentioned her only once before, and even then, it had felt like he was handing you something delicate, something fragile and sacred. Hearing her name now felt the same—a glimpse into a part of him he kept locked away.

“I remember Sarah,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Tommy and I’d go, and she’d…” He paused, his lips twitching with a faint, bittersweet smile. “She’d have sauce all over her face. Every damn time. Couldn’t eat a rib without wearin’ half of it.”

A smile tugged at your lips, though your chest felt tight. “Sounds like she had good taste.”

“She did,” Joel said, his voice steadier now, though his eyes glimmered with something the firelight couldn’t explain. “Always wanted the biggest plate. Thought she could finish it all.” He shook his head, the smile lingering but faint. “Never could.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing, letting the moment hang between you. It wasn’t a silence that demanded words; it felt sacred, like it would break if you spoke too soon.

Joel glanced at you then, his gaze meeting yours with a flicker of vulnerability you hadn’t expected. “She’d have liked you,” he murmured, so quiet it was almost lost in the crackle of the fire.

The most cherished person in Joel’s life, and he believed she would’ve liked you—it was a thought that wrapped around you, warm and profound, settling in a place you didn’t even realize needed it.

“I think I would have liked her too,” you offered, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Joel nodded, his expression softening in a way that made your chest ache, before you turned back to the fire, letting its flickering warmth fill the quiet that lingered between you.

You sipped your whiskey, the burn familiar, grounding, as the silence stretched between you. It wasn’t heavy, not at first, just there—the kind of quiet that only existed between two people comfortable enough to not fill the space with words. But then, as if the fire itself drew it out of you, you broke it, your voice soft and thoughtful, eyes still fixed on the shifting orange glow. “I was in bed all day.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, a subtle movement but enough to catch your eye. His gaze shifted down to you, a faint glimmer of teasing in the way his lips almost quirked. “Really? Couldn’t tell,” he said, the dryness of his tone laced with just enough warmth to make it feel light. You knew exactly what he meant—the half-tangled hair, the tired eyes, the oversized sweater that swallowed you whole when you opened the door earlier.

“Ha, ha,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes as you took another sip. The corner of your mouth twitched, threatening a smile that you quickly tucked away. “I just… didn’t feel like leaving. Seeing people. Couldn’t do it.”

Joel’s expression shifted, that guarded softness breaking through for just a moment. He didn’t rush to fill the space this time, letting your words hang in the air, safe and untouched. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, steadier, like he’d weighed each word before giving it. “I get it,” he said, the rough edges of his tone smoothed by understanding. “Sometimes you just… need to sit in it.”

He leaned forward slightly, the glass in his hand catching the light as his fingers tightened around it. “I’m sorry if me comin’ by was—”

“No,” you interrupted, the word escaping you with a firmness that surprised even yourself. His brows pulled together slightly, his gaze sharp and searching, but you pushed through, needing him to hear this. “You’re…”

The words caught in your throat, and for a moment, you hated how vulnerable they felt. You hated how much it mattered that he understood, but you couldn’t let it sit there, unsaid.

“You’re the only one who could’ve come by,” you admitted, softer now, but no less certain. Your eyes flicked to his, the weight of his attention steadying you. “I didn’t mind. I needed…”

A pause, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe, but you swallowed past it, your voice quiet but resolute. “I’m glad you did.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you before returning to the fire, the flames reflected in his dark eyes as he spoke, his tone low and deliberate. “You gotta take care of yourself.”

You turned to face him now, drawn by the weight in his voice. He glanced at you, his brow furrowed just slightly. “First thing,” he said, leaning back against the worn cushions, “you gotta start with eatin’ some damn food.”

“I just ate dinner,” you protested, setting your whiskey glass down with an exaggerated huff.

Joel’s gaze slid to you then, steady and unrelenting. “And if I hadn’t come by?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Would you have?”

You blinked, your retort catching in your throat. Damn. He’d clocked you there, and you both knew it. A flicker of something soft and self-deprecating crossed your face as you looked away, your lips twitching. “Well,” you said finally, your voice quieter, “I’ll just have to hope you always come by then.”

Joel shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward before meeting your gaze again, this time holding it with a seriousness that made your chest ache. “I’m not always gonna be around to check in on you,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something that felt like regret. “You gotta promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

The words hung between you, not a demand but a plea, simple and raw. You swallowed, the lump rising again, and nodded. “I’ll try,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Not try,” Joel pressed gently. “Promise.”

A weak smile tugged at your lips. “I think we both know we’re not great at keeping promises,” you teased, your voice wavering slightly.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, sharp and unyielding, ignoring the deflection. He searched your face, his gaze cutting through your hesitation until you felt it crack. Without thinking, you nodded again, this time with more conviction.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice firmer now. “I promise.”

Joel nodded, his movements slow and deliberate, before leaning forward to set his whiskey glass on the coffee table. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the curse slipping out low and rough.

His other hand moved to the nape of his neck, his fingers digging into the tight muscle there with practiced ease. His jaw tightened as he twisted his head faintly to one side, a quiet grimace flickering across his face.

“You alright?” The question came instinctively, concern threading through your voice before you could stop it. You set your whiskey aside, shifting onto your knees as you turned to face him more fully.

“Yeah,” Joel muttered, the word clipped but gruff around the edges. He leaned back against the couch again, exhaling a breath long and slow. His hand stayed at the back of his neck, rubbing absently like the ache had been there for days. “Just gettin’ old.”

“Joel,” you pressed gently.

He froze mid-motion, fingers still kneading the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as his dark eyes flicked to yours. For a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to decide whether to give you the truth or deflect it like he so often did.

“Just my back,” he said finally, the words slipping out reluctantly, rough and low as though admitting it made it worse. His fingers stilled for just a second before rubbing over the spot again, his gaze drifting toward the fire. “Probably from pullin’ that damn horse outta the mud the other day… and, well, yesterday.”

Yesterday.

The word landed like a blow, heavier than he intended. Your breath hitched, the memory flashing unbidden across your mind—Joel, pinned and struggling, his face pale with strain, the sound of his ragged breaths tearing through the air. The raw desperation in his eyes as you’d fought to pull him free. You swallowed hard against the ache in your throat, forcing the image back down.

“Hm,” you murmured softly, as though the quiet sound could soothe him as much as yourself. Your eyes drifted over him—the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand lingered over his neck.

You hesitated, the idea flickering faintly in your mind, tentative and uncertain. The fire popped in the silence, embers snapping softly, but the moment stretched, and before you could stop yourself, the words were already tumbling free.

“Well,” you started, fumbling as you sat up straighter, suddenly hyperaware of how close you were to him. “I could, um…” You hesitated, heat blooming in your cheeks as you met his gaze. “I mean… I could maybe… give you a massage?”

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his brows lifting slightly, the expression on his face caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. “A massage?” he echoed, like the word itself was foreign to him.

Your cheeks burned under his stare, but you pushed forward, trying to keep your voice steady even as your hands twisted nervously in your lap. “Yeah,” you said, quieter now but no less resolute. “To help. With your back. Since you’re so…” You paused just long enough to let a teasing smile pull at your lips, hoping it might soften the moment. “Old.”

For a split second, he didn’t react. Then, Joel let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that broke through the tension like a wave crashing onshore. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” he muttered, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe you, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Just offering my services,” you quipped back softly, trying to keep the teasing light, but the truth of it sat heavy in your chest. You wanted to help. You wanted to ease some of the burden he carried, even if it was something as small as this.

The humor faded quickly, though, replaced by something quieter, thicker, as Joel’s expression settled. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than it should have, dark and searching, like he was trying to find the catch in your words—like he didn’t quite believe you could mean it.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You don’t gotta do that for me,” he said, almost gruff, but there was no bite to it. His hand flexed faintly on his thigh, the tension in his shoulders pulling tighter. “I’m fine.”

“Joel,” you said again, softer this time. You leaned forward just slightly, closing the space between you, your hand slipping to rest on his thigh. The fabric beneath your palm was worn and rough, but his warmth bled through it, steady and grounding. You squeezed gently, almost instinctively, your touch a silent plea.

“Something’s better than nothing,” you murmured, your voice soft but certain, coaxing. “And I want to. I want to make you feel good.”

The words hung in the air, You could see the fight in his eyes as he stilled, his jaw tightening, his gaze narrowing as though he was fighting a mental battle. The warmth of your palm on his thigh, your fingers curling ever so slightly, made his skin hum with a longing he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

His thoughts dipped lower, filthier, no matter how hard he tried to push them away. He imagined those fingers trailing higher, your lips murmuring words he shouldn’t want to hear, your touch unraveling him completely. His breathing hitched, a low, uneven rhythm he couldn’t quite control, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away before he let the fantasy swallow him whole.

If Joel was a good man—if he was honest, whole, and decent—he’d stand up right now. Put some distance between you. Tell you that this couldn’t happen, that it wasn’t right, that you deserved better than what he had to give.

His eyes betrayed him, sweeping back to you almost involuntarily—quiet, considering—lingering just a moment too long. You were sitting so still, your damp hair framing your face in soft, loose strands that shimmered in the firelight like something out of a dream. The glow caught on your skin, kissed your cheeks, and made you look like you didn’t belong in this world, like you were something holy, something untouchable.

God, you looked like an angel.

And he wanted to ruin you.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick and rough, like he was cursing himself for even considering it, for teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t take back. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t crave it—didn’t crave you. And now, you were offering it to him, your touch, your care, your everything, on a silver platter.

Who the hell was he to deny you? To deny himself?

“Alright,” he said finally, the word escaping with an exhale, low and reluctant. He cleared his throat, refusing to meet your eyes again. “But only if you’re sure.”

The corner of your mouth lifted into the smallest, most unassuming smile, the kind that made Joel’s heart stumble in his chest before he could pull himself together. “I’m positive,” you said softly.

He sighed again, muttering something about “pushy” under his breath, but there wasn’t any real heat to it. Slowly, with the careful stiffness of someone who didn’t trust their own body, Joel lowered himself onto the couch, bracing his weight on his arms before settling with his stomach against the cushions.

His broad shoulders shifted as he adjusted, arms folding beneath his head. The soft creak of the couch was the only sound for a moment, punctuated by the faint hiss of Joel’s breath as his body sank into the cushions.

You stood up and hovered for a second, nerves buzzing beneath your skin as you watched him settle in. Then, without meaning to, you spoke—your voice cutting through the quiet. “Wait.”

Joel’s head lifted slightly, his face half-turned into the cushion. “What?” he asked, his voice muffled but carrying that familiar edge of impatience.

You froze under his gaze, your hands twisting nervously in front of you, your courage faltering under the weight of what you wanted to say. “Would you… can you… if you don’t mind—” The words tangled on your tongue, awkward and shaky, and you cursed yourself for not just spitting it out.

Joel shifted, turning his head enough to look at you with a mixture of confusion and exasperation. “What’re you mumblin’ about?” he grumbled, his brows furrowed as his dark eyes scanned your face.

You exhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Just say it.

“Can you… take off your shirt?”

Joel froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you—already too small—felt suffocating now. Joel’s back, which had just begun to relax under the promise of your touch, went rigid again.

Slowly, he turned, his shoulders tense as his head tilted just enough for his dark eyes to find yours. His hair was tousled, falling forward in a way that made him look softer, but his expression was anything but. It was unreadable—his brow furrowed, his gaze sharp and searching, as though he was trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.

“What for?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough, cutting through the stillness like gravel underfoot.

Your cheeks burned under the weight of it, of him. “I just—” You swallowed hard, hating how shaky you sounded. “It’s harder with the shirt. I mean, it’d be easier if—” Your hands gestured vaguely toward him, helpless as the words tangled and fell apart.

“Forget it,” you blurted, your voice flimsier than you intended, a weak attempt to recover some semblance of dignity. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.” The words tumbled out too quickly, and you winced internally, wishing desperately you could rewind time. Erase the last thirty seconds, undo the heat climbing up your neck, and take back the way you’d all but unraveled in front of him.

Joel didn’t respond at first, just looked at you. Then he exhaled, a long, quiet breath that sounded both frustrated and resigned. His head dipped slightly, his eyes falling shut for a beat before he muttered, “Christ.”

Without another word, Joel shifted. He pushed himself up just enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was giving you time—giving you a chance to stop him. To tell him it wasn’t worth it. To look away.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The fabric rasped softly as it peeled away from his skin, loud in the stillness of the room. He tugged the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, his broad shoulders flexing beneath the firelight before he stilled, holding the shirt in his hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. For a moment, you thought he might change his mind—might pull it back on—but then he tossed it aside, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony.

He settled back onto the couch, folding his arms beneath his head and turning his face into the crook of his elbow.

You didn’t see the flush that crept up his neck and into his cheeks, the way his jaw tightened with something close to self-consciousness. Joel hadn’t bared himself like this in years—not to anyone, and certainly not to you. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it now. Maybe it was the way you’d looked at him when you asked—so open, so earnest. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he didn’t want to name—the way you’d quietly carved out space for yourself in parts of him he thought had long gone numb.

But even as he lay there, back bare and unguarded, he couldn’t stop the worry gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. What if you saw him differently now? What if you looked at the scars, the weathered skin, the way his body—so strong once—now bore the weight of a lifetime? What if it was too much, and you turned away?

But you weren’t thinking any of that.

You were staring.

Helplessly, shamelessly staring, your breath caught somewhere in your throat as your eyes moved over him, taking in every inch, every detail, every moment of him completely bare before you.

The firelight danced across his skin, casting flickering shadows that seemed to embrace the planes and ridges of his back. It was like watching something sacred, something meant to be admired but never touched—broad, powerful shoulders tapering into the graceful curve of his spine. That line, so achingly perfect, made your stomach twist tight, heat curling low and deep inside you.

Your gaze caught on the scars scattered across his back, each one like a whisper of a story he hadn’t told you. Then your eyes drifted lower, and everything shifted.

There, at the small of his back, where his skin softened, the faint dimples just above the waistband of his jeans made your breath hitch. They were so unexpected, so disarmingly tender, that they hit you like a fist to the chest. Your lips parted as your gaze lingered there, following the curve of his body where denim clung to his hips in a way that made your pulse hammer.

And then you saw it—the faint glimpse of his side where the firelight caught the gentle slope of his stomach, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

It wasn’t just the sight of him; it was the intimacy of it, the way he seemed so unaware of how devastatingly beautiful he looked in that moment. That single glimpse struck you like a match to gasoline, the heat rushing through your veins so fast it left you lightheaded.

You wanted him. God, you wanted him.

You wanted to press your lips to the curve of his spine, to trace the path of those scars with your tongue, to kiss your way down his chest, his stomach, lower—until there was nowhere left to go.

You wanted to feel the weight of him beneath your hands, the heat of his skin, the way his breath might hitch if you let your lips linger in all the places that were his undoing.

Him. You wanted him. All of him, in every possible way, until nothing else existed.

You wondered what he was like when he came undone— was he loud, or did he keep it all locked inside, biting back every sound, every moan, like he was too proud to let go completely? Did his hands grip the sheets like they might anchor him, or would he let himself give in, surrender to the feeling? The thought made your pulse quicken, your panties growing damp as your imagination ran wild, unrestrained.

You wondered when the last time was that he let himself feel good—really good. When was the last time someone touched him with care, with reverence? Had it been years? Decades?

And then, unbidden, the thought came: Does he think of me?

The question burned through you, igniting something reckless, something needy, that you couldn’t quite smother. Late at night, when the world fell silent and the weight of the day pressed heavy, did his thoughts drift to you? Did he let himself imagine you in those moments when he chased the edge—your hands, your lips, your body guiding him there?

The thought left you breathless, heat flushing through your body as your heart raced. You could almost picture it—his head tipped back, jaw clenched, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he gave in to thoughts of you.

Your cheeks burned as the images flooded your mind, vivid and unrelenting, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. Because the truth was, you didn’t just want him to think of you—you wanted to be there. You wanted to touch him, to make him feel things he hadn’t let himself feel in years. To make him forget everything else, even if it was only for a moment.

God, you wanted him. And you wanted him to want you just as badly.

You wondered if he’d make you wait, if he’d tease you until your breath hitched and your body ached with the need for him. If he’d draw it out on purpose, his voice low and rough as he asked you to say it, to tell him just how much you wanted him. And you knew you’d beg if he wanted you to. You’d let the words fall from your lips, trembling and raw, if it meant he’d touch you the way you craved.

And God, how would he taste? Would his skin taste of salt and heat and Joel, the flavor of him lingering on your tongue like something you could never get enough of? Would his hands tighten in your hair, his breath hitching against your mouth as you kissed him deeper, harder–

“Hope you’re not charging by the minute,” Joel muttered suddenly, his voice muffled against the cushion.

The comment jolted you back to reality, snapping you out of the haze you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen into. You’d been standing there, still as a statue, lost in the illicit fantasy of Joel Miller—of him touching you, holding you, taking you. A rush of heat climbed up your neck, settling in your cheeks as your thoughts scattered into disarray. “Oh,” you stammered, voice higher than you intended. “Right. Sorry.”

Joel huffed softly, the sound more of a low, gravelly exhale than a laugh. He didn’t lift his head, but you noticed it—the faintest movement in his shoulders, the ripple of tension that suggested he wasn’t entirely unaffected by your hesitation.

He stayed there, though. Waiting. Trusting.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to focus, to gather your frayed thoughts and channel them into steadying your hands. You hovered for a moment, brushing lightly over his shoulders, your fingertips barely skimming his skin as you fought to steady your pulse.

God, he was warm. Almost too warm, the faint heat of him seeping into your palms. Your hands began to move again, pressing carefully into the firm muscles beneath your touch. You could feel him—really feel him—the tautness of the knots woven into his shoulders, the quiet strength beneath the surface.

But you weren’t doing a very good job—you could feel it, your hands faltering as you tried to work against the unyielding knots in his shoulders. Your stance was off, your angle awkward, and Joel’s frame was just too much—too solid, too broad, his muscles stubborn beneath your touch like they’d been built for this kind of tension.

You pressed harder, determined, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you focused, but your movements still felt clumsy, too light, like you were trying to push against a wall that wouldn’t budge.

And then Joel’s voice, rough and gruff, snapped you back to reality. “Let me know when you start,” he said, the faint teasing lilt in his tone sending a jolt through you like a live wire.

Your gaze snapped to the back of his head. The nerve of him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, narrowing your eyes even as your cheeks burned. Your hands pressed back down, firmer this time, your movements more deliberate. “Shut up, Joel.”

Joel chuckled low in his throat, a rumbling sound that vibrated through your hands where they touched him, and damn if it didn’t do something to you.

“Just sayin’,” Joel drawled, voice rough and faintly teasing, but there was something beneath it—something that made your pulse skip. “Feels like you’re petting me, not fixin’ me.”

“I know that,” you muttered, frustration threading into your voice as you shifted awkwardly on your feet. You hesitated, your fingers curling into your palms as if anchoring yourself against the words caught on your tongue. “It’s just… the angle. It’s awkward. It’d be easier if…”

Joel shifted, a subtle movement that made your breath catch.

God, why did he have to look so handsome? His face, so rugged and worn by time, somehow managed to soften in the light. His brown eyes, deep and warm, carried a tenderness that cut through the tension like a knife. Puppy-like, almost, but still so distinctly him. And his lips, pink and full, slightly parted like he might say something else—or like he was just waiting for you to close the gap.

“If what, darlin’?” he asked, his voice low and slow, the word rolling off his tongue with a warmth that sank straight into your chest.

Darlin’.

Joel Miller didn’t say things like that—not to you, not like this. You were used to the exasperated “kid” when you annoyed him, or maybe the clipped “missy” when you pushed his limits. But this?

The way he said it was enough to make your knees feel weak, enough to send a shiver up your spine that you couldn’t control. Was he trying to kill you? Because it sure as hell felt like it. You could’ve let out a whimper if you weren’t fighting so hard to keep it together, to stop yourself from falling apart under the weight of his gaze and the slow, deliberate cadence of his voice.

Oh God. Now a new wave of thoughts flooded your mind, unbidden and unstoppable. Would he say that again? Would he call you something softer, something sweeter, if you were beneath him, breathless and trembling? Would he murmur baby, sweetheart, darlin’ in that same low, gravelly drawl, his lips brushing against your skin, his hands gripping your hips as he made you his?

The thought sent a flush of heat racing through your body, pooling low in your stomach as your heart pounded in your ears. You couldn’t stop it now, couldn’t stop picturing the way his voice might hitch, rough and wrecked, as he whispered your name like it belonged to him.

Joel’s gaze flickered, and for a moment, you swore he saw right through you. That twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely there but unmistakable—felt like something he was trying to hide. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d slipped on purpose, just enough to let you catch a glimpse of what he was keeping locked away.

His voice broke through the haze of your spiraling thoughts, cutting clean and sharp. “You alright there? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, but your voice wavered, too quick, too thin. Your cheeks burned hot, and you cursed yourself for letting your mind wander there again. Were you really that wound up? Had it been so long since you’d felt someone else’s touch that the smallest bit of attention from Joel Miller had you unraveling at the seams?

He tilted his head slightly, studying you, the weight of his stare making your stomach twist. He wasn’t buying it. “What were you sayin’?” he asked, his tone low, steady, but threaded with that edge of authority that left no room for escape. “Finish your sentence.”

You looked away quickly, heat climbing up your neck as your voice stumbled out. “If I could, um… maybe… get on your back?”

The words tumbled into the room, rushed and awkward, like you were trying to rip off a bandage.

Joel stilled. Completely.

His body didn’t move, not even the rise and fall of his chest, like he was processing what you’d just said—every syllable replaying in slow motion. His head turned slightly, enough to catch you in his gaze, one brow lifting so slowly it sent a thrill through you. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—steady and intense—made you feel like he was peeling you apart, word by word.

“You wanna…” he started, his voice low, disbelieving, “…straddle me?”

The way he said it—rough, incredulous, and yet tinged with something dangerously close to amusement—made your heart stutter.

“Yes—I mean—it’d just be easier!” you blurted, the words spilling out in a rushed, frantic tumble. “You’re too big for me to—” You flailed a hand at his back, gesturing vaguely, as if it could explain the absurdity of the situation. “It’s just practical, Joel. That’s all.”

Joel blinked at you, deadpan, his face impossibly still except for the faintest twitch of his mouth. “Practical,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue slow and deliberate, like he was testing it out.

And then, he chuckled.

It was low and brief, more of a quiet rumble than a laugh, but it sent a shock straight through you—warm and dangerous, curling low in your stomach like smoke. He turned his head back into the cushion, shaking it faintly like he couldn’t quite believe this conversation.

Your face burned, and you crossed your arms defensively. “Joel,” you groaned, the sound of your exasperation only making him huff out another low, gravelly laugh. “If it’s weird, we don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his voice gruff but steady. “Just go on. Get it over with.”

“Are you sure?” you asked softly, quieter now, your voice uncertain, like you were afraid of pushing him too far.

“I said it’s fine,” Joel muttered, the words clipped and rough, but the faint flush creeping up the back of his neck betrayed him. His face turned further away, burying against the shelter of his folded arms, as if retreating might somehow shield him—from what, you didn’t know. From the moment? From you? But the tips of his ears, dusted pink in the firelight, gave him away, whispering the truth that his gruff exterior wouldn’t allow.

Slowly, carefully, you climbed onto the couch, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of him, bracing your hands on his shoulders for balance. The motion was awkward and clumsy.

Joel tensed instantly, every muscle in his broad back coiling tight beneath your hands, like his body couldn’t decide whether to fight or flee. It wasn’t resistance, not exactly—it was more like instinct, like even now, with you above him, his guard refused to drop completely.

“You alright? I’m not too heavy, am I?” you murmured, your voice barely above a breath, the quiet intimacy of the moment making you afraid to speak louder.

“Heavy?” Joel grunted, his voice rough and low, though his hands flexed briefly against the couch, his grip tightening just enough to make the leather creak faintly beneath him. “Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice faltering slightly as your fingers hovered uncertainly above his back. “Just… let me know if I hurt you.”

Joel let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Ain’t likely,” he muttered.

You started slow, cautious, your fingers pressing into the firm muscles knotted beneath his skin. Joel didn’t relax—not yet—but as you worked, your touch finding a rhythm, you felt his breaths shift beneath you, deepening just slightly, like he was letting out something he hadn’t realized he was holding.

You pressed your thumbs along the edges of his shoulder blades, tracing the lines of tension there. The silence stretched around you, warm and heavy, the crackle of the fire filling the space where words might’ve been. You let it linger, let it be, your hands working lower along his spine, kneading the hard knots hidden there.

It was intimate, so intimate. The kind of closeness that shouldn’t feel this profound but did. You wanted to press down and kiss his skin, tan and golden from years in the sun, warmed now by the flicker of the firelight.

Slowly, deliberately, Joel was letting go, loosening piece by piece, as if surrendering was a language he’d forgotten how to speak. And maybe it was.

“Christ,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, muffled against the couch cushions. “You’re good at that.”

The compliment hit you like a physical thing, stealing the breath from your lungs. He sounded wrecked already, and you weren’t sure how to handle the way it made you feel—how it set your nerves alight and sent heat pooling low in your belly.

“Yeah?” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, breathless with the weight of his words. “That feel good?” The question was soft, almost tentative, but there was something else there too—something daring. Like you wanted to see just how far you could take him, how much you could unravel him under your hands.

Joel didn’t answer with words—just a low, drawn-out hum, deep and gravelly, vibrating through his chest and into your hands. The sound felt intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn, your thighs pressing together instinctively as something heavy curled low in your stomach.

Tension coiled in him—not the kind you were kneading away, but something else, something darker, more primal. He shifted subtly, his hips pressing into the cushion as if to ease the ache building there, but you weren’t naïve. You couldn’t stop the flush creeping up your neck, your lip caught between your teeth as you dared to imagine it. Joel Miller, gruff and unshakable, hard under your touch—and it was you who had done that to him.

You imagined how he’d react if your hands dared to drift lower, past the curve of his belly, your fingers slipping beneath the barrier of his waistband to explore the heat waiting there. Would he gasp, sharp and guttural, as your touch made contact? Would his hips lift instinctively, pressing into your hand, his body betraying just how much he wanted this—how much he wanted you?

Your fingers moved carefully, deliberately, tracing the tension along his shoulders and finding a particularly stubborn knot beneath your palms. You pressed deeper, slower, and Joel shifted under you. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, the word rough and guttural, unfiltered in a way that made your stomach twist with want, the ache in your chest spreading like wildfire.

God, you wanted more of that. You wanted to pull more of those sounds from him, to know what they’d feel like when they weren’t muffled against the couch, but pressed against your skin.

Your hands trembled as you pressed into the knot again, harder this time, like you couldn’t stop yourself from testing his limits. Joel groaned, the sound deep and rough, and it sent a ripple of electricity through you, hot and consuming. Your body screamed for relief, the ache so deep it nearly pushed you to grind against his back, consequences be damned. Your breaths were ragged, your chest rising and falling, and the slick heat pooling between your thighs had already soaked through.

“Right there,” he murmured, his voice softer now, but no less wrecked. The way he said it—low and thick, like the words had been dragged from somewhere deep inside him—made your breath hitch. “Yeah, just like that,” he added, the rasp in his voice laced with something almost dangerous.

“Jesus, Joel,” you murmured under your breath, barely loud enough for him to hear. But even as the words left your lips, you wondered if it was more a prayer or a curse.

What would his voice sound like if you leaned down and kissed the scar along his shoulder blade, your lips dragging slowly across his skin? If your hands slipped lower, teasing, inviting him to lose control? Would he moan your name, low and ruined, the sound breaking apart as your touch consumed him? Would he groan against your mouth, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he thrust into you, his words filthy and breathless, begging you to take everything he had to give?

And then you heard it.

“Good girl,” Joel muttered, the words barely audible, low and gravelly, like they’d slipped out unguarded—rough, raw, and utterly devastating.

You froze. Completely.

Your hands stilled where they rested on his back, trembling slightly, and you felt the heat rush up your cheeks, down your neck, down to your aching core in a way that made it impossible to focus.

You couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what it would sound like if he said it again—what it would feel like if he growled it against your ear, his hands gripping your tits, his breath hot against your skin.

Finally, when you were satisfied with your work—or maybe just too overwhelmed to keep going—you eased off Joel carefully, your hands trembling slightly as you pushed yourself to stand beside the couch.

Joel let out a low, deliberate grunt, his shoulders rolling as he pushed himself upright, his hands gripping the cushions like he needed a moment to steady himself. H

He reached for his shirt, tugging it back on in one swift motion. The fabric stretched over his broad shoulders as he avoided your gaze. His focus stayed fixed somewhere just past you, as though he couldn’t trust himself to look at you directly.

But little did he know, you weren’t meeting his eyes either. Against your better judgment, your eyes betrayed you. They drifted down, hesitant but hungry, until they landed exactly where you knew they shouldn’t.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The worn denim of his jeans was taut, straining against the undeniable evidence of his arousal. There was no mistaking it—the hard outline pressing against the fabric, the way he shifted slightly like he was trying to find relief but didn’t want to make it obvious. Your stomach flipped, heat flooding your cheeks and slick pooling between your thighs as you realized what you’d done to him.

He wanted you.

That knowledge hit you like a freight train—overwhelming, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. You couldn’t look away, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself to. The sight of him, hard and straining against his jeans, burned itself into your mind, your heart thundering so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him clear his throat.

Your breath came faster, your chest heaving as the thought consumed you. You wanted to help him. God, you wanted to. Wanted to take away that tension, to make him feel good in a way you knew he hadn’t let himself in far too long. The idea of his release—of you being the one to give it to him—had your thighs clenching, a needy heat coursing through you.

What would he do if you sank to your knees right now, positioning yourself between his thighs? Would his body tense in shock, his breath catching as he looked down at you, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer? Would he mutter something low and strained, about how this couldn’t happen, how it shouldn’t?

Or would he give in? Would his breath hitch as he whispered your name, rough and almost reverent, his hands tangling in your hair, guiding you with a quiet desperation? Would he let you take control, let you explore him at your own pace, or would he seize it, the tension breaking as he pressed you deeper, showing you exactly what he wanted, exactly how he needed you?

Joel must have noticed the faraway, dazed look in your eyes, the way you lingered in the heavy silence between you both. “Well,” he said finally, his voice quiet and rough, almost hesitant, as though he was testing the waters. “Thanks. That was… that was good.” His hand dragged through his hair, mussing the curls even further.

You forced a small smile, your chest tight and aching as you tucked your hands behind your back, hoping it might steady you somehow. “No problem,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. Your eyes flicked to his, and then, almost without thinking, you added, “I like making you feel good.”

The words hung in the air, soft but deliberate, their weight landing squarely between you. Joel froze for a moment, his breath catching audibly as his Adam’s apple bobbed with a sharp gulp.

Fuck, Joel thought. You were making a damn mess of him. He should leave—really leave—go home, take care of the growing ache in his pants, and swear off ever talking to you again. It would be the right thing to do. The smart thing. But, of course, he didn’t.

How could he, when you looked like that? Wide-eyed, red-cheeked, lips slightly parted like you were holding back something that could ruin him completely.

“Did you…” He trailed off, his voice rough and hesitant, his fingers rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was unsure.

“Did I what?” you asked softly, your tone careful, coaxing, almost gentle.

Joel sighed heavily, shaking his head like he regretted even starting. His hand dropped back to his knee, his jaw tightening as though he was debating just walking out. For a moment, you thought he might.

But then, finally, he said it.

“Did you want me to… y’know, help you out?” His voice was quieter now, gruff and uneven. His eyes darted to you briefly, then away, like he couldn’t quite face whatever was stirring between you.

“Your back,” he clarified after a beat, clearing his throat. “I remember you said somethin’ about it the other day, when you were ridin’ Winnie. Twinge, or somethin’.”

Joel cleared his throat again, the faintest pink creeping up the sides of his neck as his gaze flicked to you and then away. “But, uh, no big deal,” he added gruffly, his voice rough and low, like he was backpedaling, trying to give you an easy out. “I can just head out.”

He was trying to play it off—acting like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just offered to touch you, to take care of you in a way that mirrored what you’d just done for him. But the way his voice faltered, rough and quiet, told you everything. He cared—more than he wanted to admit.

Finally, you managed a small smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that.”

Joel stilled for a moment, his hand dropping away from his neck to rest in his lap. He hesitated, his dark eyes flicking back to yours. “You sure? I can leave if you—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” you interrupted, your voice soft but steady.

Joel inhaled deeply, the sound heavy and deliberate, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. The movement made him seem taller, broader, as if he took up all the space in the room at once.

“Uh… can’t promise it’ll be any good,” he muttered, a faint vulnerability beneath his words that made your chest ache.

“That’s okay,” you replied quickly, too quickly, your voice rushing out as you offered him a small, nervous smile. You hesitated for half a second, biting the inside of your cheek as your heart hammered in your chest. Then, finally, you asked, “How do you want me?”

The words left your lips before you could stop them.

How do you want me?

God - If only you knew. If only you understood the way those four words hit him—hard and unrelenting.

Joel’s chest tightened, his cock hardening as his thoughts spiraled, unbidden and entirely indecent, leaving him gripping for control. He pictured you asking that question with a different tone, a different look in your eyes, and it wrecked him. On your back, your legs tangled with his. On your knees, your hands gripping his thighs as you gazed up at him with those wide, innocent eyes. Bent over the arm of the couch, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

He swallowed hard, his throat working against the heat rising in him, and his hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms in a desperate attempt to stay grounded. Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me?

“I, uh…” His voice was rough, strained, his words catching as though they didn’t want to leave. “Just, uh… wherever you’re comfortable. On the couch, or… wherever.”

You nodded, though you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes darkened, his lips parting as he muttered a low, almost inaudible fuck under his breath. The sound sent a ripple through you, your body buzzing as you followed his direction, sinking slowly into the cushions with your back to him. You angled your body slightly away to give him space, though the air between you felt anything but distant.

“Uh… keep your shirt on,” he mumbled, his voice rough and uneven, like he was struggling to get the words out.

“Oh,” you replied, the disappointment creeping into your tone before you could stop it. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. Maybe he didn’t want to see you like that. Maybe this wasn’t what you thought it was.

But God, were you wrong.

Joel knew the truth—knew it with every ounce of restraint he was clinging to. If he saw you topless, in nothing but your bra, he’d lose it. Completely. If he saw your breasts, the curve of them rising and falling with each unsteady breath, if his eyes traced the slope of your bare shoulders, your bare back, he’d be done for. His control would snap like a thread pulled too tight, and he’d ruin everything—you.

So, for now, you had to keep your shirt on. Not because he didn’t want you, but because he wanted you too much.

“I, uh…” Joel started, his voice low and faltering, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, twitching slightly with hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

Without thinking, you reached up, gathering your hair and sweeping it over one shoulder, baring the curve of your neck to him. The movement was small, simple, but it felt intimate—like offering something unspoken. Your skin prickled with anticipation, the charged air between you thickening as you turned your head slightly, glancing back at him with wide, steady eyes.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, the words threading through the heavy stillness between you. “You can touch me.”

Fuck. Joel’s chest tightened, his mind spiraling as the words echoed between you. Touch you. God, he wanted to. More than he should. More than he could admit to himself.

He stared at his hands—rough and calloused, worn by years of work and hardship—and for a moment, he faltered. These weren’t hands meant for softness. Not for you.

Finally, slowly, Joel lifted his hands, each movement deliberate, as if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. The hesitation was written in every breath, every twitch of his fingers, a quiet war waging inside him even as he reached for you.

When his hands settled on your shoulders, they were tentative at first, his palms warm against your skin, rough but somehow gentle. Joel’s thumbs pressed carefully into the tight muscles of your shoulders, moving in slow, deliberate circles.

A soft, unbidden sound escaped your lips, barely audible, but enough to make his hands falter mid-motion. His grip loosened slightly, and his breath hitched audibly, like the sound had caught him off guard.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, every word dragged out as though speaking them took effort. His hands hovered, poised to pull away if you gave even the slightest indication of discomfort.

“No,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes fluttered shut. The tension in your shoulders began to melt under his touch, leaving you pliant beneath him. “You feel good.”

Joel exhaled then, a quiet, shaky sound that carried the weight of something unspoken—something he didn’t know how to put into words. His hands settled back into their rhythm, more assured now, his thumbs sliding down the line of your shoulder blades with purpose before gliding back up, tracing the curve of your neck with a reverence that sent your pulse skittering.

It was steady, methodical, almost too careful, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper, darker, like he was learning you, memorizing you with every pass of his hands. His jaw tightened, his thoughts spiraling as the weight of your words replayed in his head—you feel good.

You let your head tilt forward as Joel’s hands found a tight spot at the base of your neck, your body instinctively yielding under his touch. Relief washed over you, a soft sigh slipping from your lips before you could stop it. Joel froze, his hands hesitating, until you murmured hazily, “Fuck, Joel…”

His hands slid lower, kneading the muscles along your upper back with careful precision. “Feels good,” you murmured, the words slipping out, soft and dreamlike, unbidden. You melted further into the couch, into him, your body pliant under his touch, like you were made for it.

Joel clenched his jaw, his hands faltering for the briefest moment before finding their rhythm again. He wanted to tell you to quit it. To stop saying all these things to him—these words that wrapped around him like a vice, squeezing until he could barely breathe. To stop making those noises that made his resolve waver, that made him ache in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years.

But how could he?

How could he tell you to stop when the sound of your voice, soft and wrecked, was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard? When the way your body leaned into his touch, so trusting, so vulnerable, felt like the closest thing to heaven he’d ever known?

You held your breath, heart pounding wildly as Joel’s thumbs pressed—just slightly—into the tight muscles near your lower back. The pressure was perfect, and before you could stop yourself, a soft, unbidden moan escaped your lips.

Joel froze instantly, every muscle in his body going taut, coiling like a live wire as that sound echoed in his head. It hit him hard, sharp and visceral, sinking deep into his chest and sparking a fire he couldn’t control.

That moan—soft, breathless, and so fucking sweet—was seared into his memory now, unraveling every thread of restraint he’d been clinging to. Would you whimper for him? The thought tightened his chest, his jaw clenching hard as his hands faltered against you, his grip tightening briefly before he forced himself to ease up.

Would you gasp his name, needy and wrecked, if his lips pressed to the curve of your neck? If his hands slid lower, over the gentle slope of your hips, past the thin fabric separating him from you? Would you beg for him? For him?

If he touched you now—if his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your pants, sliding lower to feel the heat of you—would you be wet?

God, would you be ready for him? The question burned through his mind, relentless and vivid. He could almost feel it—the way your body might arch into him, the way your breath would hitch when he touched you there. Would you moan again, that same soft, wrecked sound, but this time louder, fuller, edged with need?

The images came faster now, vivid and impossible to suppress. He could see it so clearly: your body trembling beneath him, your lips parted in a breathless plea, your eyes half-lidded, hazy with the kind of need he didn’t deserve but craved all the same.

Joel took a deep breath, sharp and ragged, before abruptly pulling his hands away from you, dropping them into his lap like they’d burned him. “That’s all I got,” he said finally, his voice low and strained, the edge to his words making it sound almost like he was angry—at himself, at you, at the fragile control he was barely holding onto.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, as if waking from a dream you weren’t quite ready to leave. Turning just enough, you caught sight of him leaning back against the couch, a pillow now strategically draped over his lap, his hand covering his eyes as though shielding himself from the sight of you—maybe from the way you made him feel.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice soft, still tinged with the haze of his touch, the weight of his hands lingering on your skin like a memory. “It was good. Really good.”

Joel’s only response was a single nod, curt and clipped, his jaw tight as though he didn’t trust himself to say more. “Yeah,” he muttered, the word rough, almost bitten out, as though forcing it past his lips was a battle. “Glad it helped.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy and tense, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. Finally, Joel cleared his throat, shifting as if to stand, his voice low and hesitant. “Look,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, like he was trying to steady himself. “I should… I should really get going. I—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, turning fully toward him now, your voice soft but insistent.

Joel turned to you slowly, his movements deliberate, like he was fighting every instinct telling him to stay right where he was. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything in him seemed to fray at the edges. Please don’t ask me to stay, his mind begged, the words unspoken but screaming in his head. Because I don’t know if I can control myself any longer.

You faltered, suddenly shy, your gaze dipping for a moment before finding his again. “I wanted to ask you something I noticed earlier… when your shirt was off.”

Joel’s brow twitched, the lines on his forehead deepening as his eyes sharpened. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the weight of your words settling over him.

What was she gonna say?

Was it about the way his stomach wasn’t as flat as it used to be, softened by the years and the hardships he carried? Or maybe the way his body groaned with every movement, the weight of too many fights, too many scars etched into his bones? Or was it the silver streaking through his hair, glinting in the firelight, betraying just how much time had carved itself into him?

The look he gave you was cautious, expectant—like he was waiting for you to confirm the insecurities he worked so hard to bury. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual, softer but guarded. “Yeah?”

Your fingers moved before you could stop them, trembling slightly as they reached out, grazing the edge of his shirt near the collar. Joel went utterly still, his breath slowing, like he was waiting—letting you. You hesitated, your heart pounding, before gently tugging the fabric down just an inch, revealing a little more of his skin.

Your gaze caught on it immediately: the scar.

It was jagged and pale, stark against the warmth of his skin, carved into his collarbone like a brand from another life. Your breath hitched, a shaky exhale escaping as your eyes lingered on the mark. Your fingers hovered close, just near enough to feel the heat of him, but you didn’t dare touch.

“What… what happened?” you asked finally, your voice soft, trembling.

Joel’s gaze followed yours, his face unreadable. He expected the worst—a comment about his body, about the way time and hardship had worn him down. But how could he expect that from you? You, the sweetest woman he’d ever met. This was almost worse, though. Because you cared. And that care, that softness, felt like it would undo him completely.

Slowly, he leaned back, putting a sliver of distance between you as if he needed the space to steel himself. “Knife,” he muttered, his voice rough and clipped.

Your eyes flicked to his face, searching for something in his expression—a trace of the story written into that scar, an emotion he didn’t want to reveal. But Joel didn’t look at you.

“Some guy,” he continued after a beat, his tone measured but guarded. “Long time ago. Tried attackin’ me.”

You hummed softly, the sound filled with a quiet empathy you didn’t know how to put into words. For a moment, you pictured him—Joel, younger but still so unmistakably him. Less gray in his hair, more fire in his eyes. Sharper around the edges, all raw survival and steady hands that had learned how to do what was necessary.

“Had to stitch myself up,” Joel added after a long pause, his voice low, each word deliberate, like it cost him something to say.

Your chest ached with the weight of it, and when you spoke, your voice was barely more than a whisper. “Ouch.”

He huffed a quiet, humorless sound, his lips twitching for the briefest second before settling back into a thin line. Without thinking, you shifted closer, the space between you narrowing until your knees brushed his. Joel stilled at the contact, but he didn’t pull away.

And then, quietly, carefully, your hand reached out.

Your fingertips grazed the edge of his temple, tracing the faint curve of a scar that rested just above the bone. It was subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely, but now that you’d seen it, you couldn’t look away.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked to yours, his jaw tightening as though he wasn’t sure if he could let himself breathe. But you saw him—really saw him. You always did.

“And this one?” you asked softly, your voice low, reverent, as if afraid to shatter the fragile stillness of the moment.

He didn’t move, didn’t pull away, but when he spoke, his voice was rough and uneven, your name slipping from his lips like a plea. “Don’t.”

The word was soft, almost broken, and the way he said it sent a pang of something deep and aching through you. There was no bite to it, no command—just Joel, asking for something unspoken.

“What?” you whispered, your hand stilling but refusing to pull away. Your eyes searched his face, lingering on the tight line of his jaw, the way his lashes brushed his cheekbones as he closed his eyes.

“It’s nothin’,” Joel muttered gruffly.

“I want to know,” you urged gently, your voice steady but soft, carrying the kind of quiet insistence that could slip past defenses. “Please.”

“Took a hit to the head,” he muttered finally, the words clipped and bitter. “Made a dumb mistake. Should’ve seen it comin’.”

Slowly, you pulled your hand back, the motion deliberate, leaving a trail of phantom heat in its absence. Joel’s hand twitched, halfway between you, like it wanted to reach for you but couldn’t quite make it.

“Why d’you care ‘bout this?” Joel asked finally, his voice low and rough. It wasn’t an accusation. It was confusion, like he genuinely couldn’t comprehend why anyone would care enough to notice, let alone ask.

His dark eyes flickered over your face, searching for something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find.

You stared at him, your lips parting as you tried to find the words, but nothing came at first. How could you explain it? How could you tell him that every time he let his guard slip, even just a fraction, it felt like he was handing you something sacred, something no one else had been allowed to see?

How could you tell him that you cared because he mattered.

How could you tell him that you cared because you loved him?

“Because it’s you,” you said softly, the words slipping free before you could stop them.

His expression faltered—just for a second. His eyes flickered, dark and searching, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe it. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, like he was holding something back—something too big, too fragile to name. Then he shook his head, the motion slow, deliberate, like he was trying to will the moment away.

“Don’t say somethin’ you don’t mean,” he muttered, the words rough and low, swallowing against the literal pain that burned in his throat as he forced them out.

Your brows furrowed, your chest tightening as you shifted closer to him, the air between you thick and charged. “Joel you told me a while ago,” you began, your voice steady despite the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your ears, “that you cared about me.”

Joel’s gaze snapped up at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sharp, almost wary intensity. He looked like a man cornered, searching for an angle, a way out of a conversation he hadn’t realized he’d walked straight into. But there wasn’t one. You both knew it.

Finally, after a long, loaded silence, he nodded once. It was curt but deliberate, his jaw tightening as his Adam’s apple bobbed in a reluctant swallow. “I do,” he said, his voice gravelly, like the words dragged themselves out of him against his will. “Course I do.”

"Then why can't you believe me when I say I care about you too?" The words spilled from you before you could stop them, your voice softer now, trembling with the mix of pleading and frustration that had been building inside you. Vulnerability bled through, and your chest ached as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. Don’t look away.

"Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

Joel's jaw clenched, and his lips pressed into a thin, pale line. His eyes flicked down, unable to meet yours. His hand moved absently, rubbing the worn denim of his thigh, the restless motion betraying the storm brewing just beneath his skin.

"It ain't..." he started, his voice faltering, so low it felt like a confession. "It's not the same."

"Not the same how?" you pressed, leaning forward. Your voice was steady now, firm, as if the calmness might coax him into staying—into answering. "I don’t get it, Joel. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to just… let me care about you."

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to face you.

You couldn’t take it any longer. Slowly, you reached out, your hand finding his face, gently tilting it toward you. The contact was soft, tentative, but the gesture felt like an unspoken plea, like you were begging him to let you in.

"I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone like I trust you." Your voice cracked, just barely, as you took a breath, searching for the courage to say what you hadn’t said aloud. "You make me feel safe. Joel... I don’t know what I’d do without you."

Joel’s head snapped up at that.

“Look,” you began softly, leaning forward, your voice threading through the heavy quiet between you. “I’m not fighting you on this. It’s not a battle, Joel. It’s just the truth. Whether you believe it or not, I care.”

“And I know you’re stubborn,” you added, your lips quirking in a small, fleeting smile, an attempt to lighten the moment before it swallowed you both whole. “Maybe even more stubborn than me.”

That earned you something—a tilt of his head, just barely, his brow furrowing as his eyes flickered to you, guarded but curious. “I’m the stubborn one?” he asked gruffly, his voice rough and low, though the faintest thread of incredulity cut through it.

“Yeah,” you replied, letting the smile tug a little wider as you leaned back, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You can be just as bad as me. Maybe worse.”

“But it’s true,” you pressed gently, the teasing giving way to something deeper, something unshakable. Your gaze caught his, steady and unyielding, holding him there even as you saw the flicker of resistance in his eyes. “I care, Joel. I really do. And it’s not gonna change just because you’re too damn stubborn to believe it.”

Joel’s head lifted fully then, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a focus so intense it made your breath catch. The walls he’d fortified so carefully, so stubbornly, seemed to waver, crumbling at the edges. And for the first time, you didn’t just feel like you were talking to Joel—you felt like you saw him.

The space between you felt smaller, sharper, like gravity was pulling you together. You became acutely aware of how close you were, your knees brushing his as the firelight flickered against his face. And then, his gaze dipped—to your lips.

Oh my god. Is he going to kiss me?

The thought slammed into you, leaving your heart racing in your chest. Time seemed to slow, his gaze lingering there just a beat too long. The air felt charged, thick with something unspoken. Your breath hitched, and for a split second, you thought he might.

But then Joel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping abruptly to his hands. He shifted against the couch, the movement slow and deliberate, like he was forcing himself to break the spell. “Well,” he said finally, his voice rough and uneven, cutting through the fragile quiet. He cleared his throat, his hands smoothing over his jeans in a nervous, practiced gesture. “I should probably get goin’.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve, a sharp pang settling in your chest. “Oh,” you murmured softly, the sound escaping before you could stop it.

“Yeah, okay.” Your lips curved into a small, fleeting smile, the best you could manage. “Thanks for, uh…” You gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, your voice light but thin. “…the dinner. And the firewood.”

Joel nodded once, his eyes flickering anywhere but you—the door, the fire, his boots—like looking at you might undo him entirely. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “No problem.”

He hesitated, the pause stretching longer than it should’ve. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, the familiar, disarming motion drawing your attention to the tension still coiled in his frame. His bicep flexed subtly, and you hated how that flicker of movement sent heat curling in your stomach even now, when all you wanted was for him to stay.

“And… thanks for, uh… the back thing,” he added gruffly, his voice a shade quieter, more uncertain.

The words caught you off guard, and a soft, unsteady laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “The back thing?” you echoed, arching a brow at him, the teasing edge in your voice betraying the weight pressing on your chest. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

Joel’s lips twitched—just barely—a flicker of something lighter that tugged at the corners of his mouth before disappearing as quickly as it came. His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, warmer now but still guarded, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to let it linger. “You know what I mean,” he muttered, the words rough but softer this time.

“You’re welcome,” you said gently, the teasing fading from your voice as you watched him.

When he stood, you followed him toward the door, the sound of his boots against the floor punctuating the silence between you. Every step felt heavy, the space around you thickening with all the things neither of you could bring yourselves to say. He reached the door and paused, his hand resting on the knob, his broad shoulders shifting just slightly like he was caught between leaving and staying.

For a beat, he didn’t move. And then, slowly, he turned back to you, his dark eyes flickering to yours with an uncertainty that made your heart stutter. “Good night,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, but there was something in it—something more—that he didn’t let himself say. His fingers curled tighter around the knob, knuckles pale from the tension. “Lock up after me, yeah?”

You nodded, your voice steadier than you felt. “Good night, Joel.”

But you wanted to say more.

Don’t leave.

Don’t walk out that door. Stay. Stay here with me.

Let me show you that I care.

Let me show you that I love you.

For a moment, you held your breath, your pulse pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Please. Just say something. Stay.

But he didn’t.

He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his face shadowed in the soft glow of the firelight, and turned away.

The door creaked softly as it opened, the cold night air rushing in, biting against your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room. For a heartbeat, you saw the stars outside—endless, distant, uncaring—before the door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden stillness.

You exhaled shakily, the sound unsteady as you pressed your forehead lightly against the door, your eyes fluttering shut. The house felt too big without him, the fire behind you too quiet to chase away the chill that crept into your bones now that he was gone.

“Don’t go,” you whispered, the words breaking like a secret in the empty room—soft and fragile, meant for him but swallowed by the night.

Outside, the stars stretched on forever, distant and silent, but you stayed there, rooted to the spot, the ache of all the words you hadn’t said pressing heavy against your chest.

And you let them linger.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

The next day, you found yourself trudging toward the dining hall with Maria, trying—and failing—to suppress a yawn. Sleep hadn’t come easy after last night. The weight of Joel’s touch, the sound of his voice murmuring your name, lingered stubbornly in the quiet of your mind, replaying like a song you couldn’t shake.

“Late night?” Maria asked, her tone teasing but curious as she nudged you gently.

“Something like that,” you murmured, rolling your shoulders in a vain attempt to shake the ache that still clung to them.

Stepping into the dining hall, the low hum of conversation and the clatter of trays greeted you, a comforting sort of chaos that momentarily distracted you from the exhaustion curling behind your eyes. Maria stopped short and turned to you, motioning vaguely.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the back. “The boys are over there.”

At her words, your gaze followed her subtle nod—and your heart stilled.

As you made your way toward them, it was Tommy who spotted you first. His face split into a wide grin, his arms already opening before you reached him. “Hey, darlin’,” he drawled warmly, his Southern lilt wrapping around the word like it belonged there, soft and easy. “Joel was just tellin’ me how you saved his old ass the other day. You’re somethin’ else, you know that? A damn badass.”

Your heart gave a sharp skip at the mention of Joel, your gaze flicking instinctively to him. He stood just a step behind Tommy, his tray in one hand, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. He was watching you—quiet, steady—but there was a softness in his eyes, the kind he reserved only for you. Without a word, Joel reached for an extra tray and handed it to you, his movements deliberate but natural, like it wasn’t even a question.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice quiet and shaky, betraying you. The faintest blush crept into your cheeks, and you watched Joel’s jaw tighten as he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. His gaze dropped, flicking away shyly—a softness so uncharacteristic of him that it pulled at something deep in your chest.

“You sleep alright?” he asked, his voice low, quiet enough that it felt like it was meant only for you.

You nodded quickly, gripping the tray a little tighter as you found your words. “Yeah. Your, uh… back thing helped, I think.”

Joel hummed, the sound deep in his chest, approving but subdued. “Good,” he said, his voice warm, his eyes flickering up to meet yours again—and then lower, to your lips. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but enough to make your breath catch.

Tommy’s brow furrowed, his tray hovering in mid-air as he looked between you both, confusion clear on his face. What the hell are they talkin’ about? he wondered, his lips twitching as if he might interrupt.

Before you could even process it, the moment shattered.

“Hey, lady,” a sharp, abrasive voice cut through the air behind you.

Startled, you turned sharply, the tray wobbling slightly in your hands as you found yourself face-to-face with someone you didn’t recognize. He was large—towering, broad-shouldered, with a head shaved so close it gleamed under the lights. His scowl was deep, a permanent mark etched into his face, and the way his eyes raked over you felt dismissive, hostile.

“Oh,” you stammered, caught off guard as your pulse quickened. “Hi.” Did you know this guy? No, you decided, swallowing hard. He was new—one of the recent arrivals who hadn’t yet settled into Jackson’s quiet rhythm.

You felt it before you saw it. Joel.

He hadn’t moved, not yet, but you could feel the change in him—subtle but unmistakable. The air between you shifted as if the temperature had dropped, the warmth of his earlier softness disappearing in a heartbeat. His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring, and Tommy turned too, his expression darkening as he registered the tension.

“Not sure what you think you’re doin’, cuttin’ in line like that,” the man sneered, his voice rough, laced with something sharp and ugly. His eyes flicked over you again, dismissive in a way that made your stomach twist. “Think you’re special or somethin’?”

“I’m—” you started, flustered, the words sticking in your throat. “I didn’t realize—”

You felt Joel move before you saw him.

“Hey,” Joel’s voice cut through the hum of the dining hall like the edge of a blade—low, deliberate, and unyielding. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.

Joel stepped forward, his broad frame eclipsing yours completely as he inserted himself between you and the stranger, shielding you with a movement so instinctive, so deliberate, it made your chest tighten. Without turning his head, his hand found your waist—firm but gentle—as he nudged you back toward Tommy.

Tommy let out a quiet, resigned “Oh boy,” under his breath, his grip on your arm steady, like he already knew where this was headed. Around you, the energy shifted. Conversations dimmed to nervous murmurs, trays clinked against the tables, and chairs scraped as people turned to watch.

Everyone in Jackson knew better. They knew Joel Miller. His name carried weight—a reputation forged in blood and grit, etched into every line on his hardened face. He didn’t need to bark orders or shout threats; his presence alone did the talking. Joel was a man who didn’t bluff, and everyone who’d lived here long enough understood that much.

But this man didn’t. Or he was too new—too reckless—to realize what kind of line he’d just crossed.

“She’s with me,” Joel said, his voice quiet and cold.

The stranger scoffed, his lip curling as he stepped forward, puffing out his chest in a challenge that only made him look smaller next to Joel’s unflinching presence. “Does it look like I care?” he spat, his tone dripping with mockery.

You flinched instinctively, but Joel didn’t react—not at first. He stood stock-still, his profile unreadable except for the faint tick in his jaw, the slow curl of his fingers into a fist at his side. His stillness was terrifying, the kind that signaled restraint—restraint that could snap at any moment.

When Joel spoke again, his voice dropped lower—deadly and cold, each word a warning wrapped in a promise. “It does,” he said, and his eyes sharpened like twin shards of glass. “If you wanna keep breathing.”

The newcomer didn’t take the hint—or worse, he did and chose to shove it aside with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. He rolled his eyes, his scowl twisting into something cruel and sharp, a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, man. Tell your brat of a girlfriend she can’t just go around cutting in line. That’s not how things work.”

Brat.

The word struck like the crack of a whip, each syllable biting deeper than the last. A flare of heat surged through you—anger, humiliation, a wild tangle of words clawing their way up your throat. Who does this guy think he is? Brat? Your mouth moved on instinct, the retort already forming, sharp and searing: “Who do you think you’re—”

But the words never landed. Tommy’s hand found your arm, firm and grounding. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it carried weight, his presence a tether against the storm building inside you. His voice was low, a quiet murmur meant only for you, but the warning in it was unmistakable.

“Don’t,” he said, his tone a weary drawl laced with a hint of something heavier. Experience. Resignation. “Trust me. Don’t.”

It happened in a flash—so fast you could barely process it. One moment, Joel stood beside you, his presence solid and unyielding like a dam holding back a flood. The next, that flood broke.

Joel surged forward with a force that was all precision, controlled fury, and raw intent. His hand shot out, gripping the man’s collar with a strength that sent him stumbling back. The motion was seamless, deliberate, like the inevitable force of a storm bearing down on its target. The man’s back slammed against the nearest wall, the impact reverberating through the dining hall like a clap of thunder.

“What,” Joel growled, his voice low, dangerous, and deadly, “did you just say?”

It wasn’t a yell. Joel didn’t need to raise his voice. The menace in his tone—the quiet, simmering fury—was far more terrifying. His grip on the man’s collar was ironclad, his knuckles white against the fabric.

The man squirmed, his bravado already cracking like thin ice. “Get the fuck off me!” he barked, shoving weakly at Joel’s chest. His hands trembled with effort, but it was like trying to move a mountain. Joel didn’t budge—not even a flicker of motion.

“Say it again,” Joel snarled, his voice dropping to a whisper that coiled through the room like smoke, suffocating and inescapable. He yanked the man closer, their faces level now, his grip tightening like a vice. “Go ahead. Say it again. And see what happens.”

“I didn’t—” the man started, his voice hitching, but Joel slammed him harder against the wall, the sound louder this time, sharp enough to make a few people in the crowd flinch.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” Joel snarled, his voice low and venomous, each word laced with a fury that could melt steel. “Hell,” he growled, his breath steady but deliberate, like he was holding back a storm, “you don’t talk to her ever. You don’t look at her like that.” His grip tightened on the man’s collar, knuckles white, and with a sharp shove, he slammed him against the wall again. The dull thud of the man’s head meeting the surface reverberated in the tense silence.

Joel leaned in, his face inches from the man’s now paling one, his voice breaking through the quiet like a crack of thunder. “And you sure as hell don’t get to call her—” His voice cracked, raw and seething, but he pushed through it, his hand jerking the man forward only to slam him back again, harder this time, the impact leaving no room for argument.

“Anything but her goddamn name.”

The man’s bravado shattered completely. His eyes widened in panic, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps. “I—I didn’t mean it, okay? I didn’t mean—”

“That doesn’t sound like an apology,” Joel cut him off, his voice quieter now but no less menacing. His gaze burned into the man, and his grip didn’t falter. “Try again.” He yanked him closer, the venom in his words unrelenting. “And look her in the eye while you do it.”

The man’s head jerked toward you, his movements jerky and frantic, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out, the words spilling over themselves in his panic. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry!”

The dining hall felt like it had frozen in time. Conversations had ceased, forks hung mid-air, the faint crackle of the fire in the corner the only sound to break the silence. Joel was unyielding, a pillar of unrelenting fury. You could see the man squirm beneath his grip, his panic rising with every second that passed.

And then Joel’s gaze shifted.

His head turned slightly, just enough to look at you, and it was like the air shifted entirely. That sharp, cutting edge in his expression softened—not fully, but enough that you felt it like a physical thing. His dark eyes searched yours, asking a silent question, his brow lifting just slightly in that way only you knew meant he was waiting. Not for the man’s apology. Not for Tommy to intervene.

For you.

The vulnerability in that look was enough to unravel you. Joel wasn’t questioning whether he should let go, wasn’t trying to justify the raw, unyielding force behind his actions. He was asking you—quietly, silently—trusting you to decide if the apology was enough, if you were satisfied.

It was such an intimate thing, so deeply personal, completely at odds with the way his knuckles had gone white from the force of his grip, his forearm trembling with restrained fury. The contrast was stark—his quiet deference to you and the raw, unrelenting protectiveness that radiated off him, daring the world to push him further.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you held his gaze. “Joel,” you said softly, your voice steady but laced with something tender. “It’s okay. Let him go.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, like he needed to be absolutely certain. His shoulders rose and fell with a sharp, deliberate breath, the tension rolling through him in waves before he exhaled slowly through his nose.

Then, finally, his hand loosened. It wasn’t abrupt—it was deliberate, controlled, as though every motion carried weight. Joel released the man with enough force to send him stumbling forward, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.

The man’s breath came in quick, panicked bursts as he scrambled to steady himself, his trembling hands clutching at his shirt like it might protect him. But Joel didn’t even look at him now. His gaze stayed on you, his eyes still softer, still yours.

“Go,” Joel said simply, his voice low, quiet, but no less commanding. The word carried the same weight as if it had been shouted, and the man didn’t hesitate. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, his steps hurried as he all but fled the dining hall. The door swung shut behind him with a sharp creak, the sound punctuating his retreat.

Joel turned fully to you now, his broad shoulders relaxing by degrees, though you could still see the tension coiled beneath his skin. His gaze softened further as it met yours, and for a moment, the rest of the room faded away. There was a question there, unspoken but loud enough to feel in the air between you: Did I do right? Are you okay?

Joel’s voice broke through the hum of the dining hall, rough but quieter now, carrying an edge of concern so sharp it sent a pang straight to your chest. “You good?” he asked, his gaze fixed on you in a way that felt like the rest of the room had disappeared. There was something about the way he stepped closer, his body angled toward you as though nothing else mattered—like the entire world could crumble around him, and he’d still be here, making sure you were okay.

You nodded, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat. “Yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Joel didn’t look convinced. His dark eyes scanned your face, his jaw tightening as if he could will the truth out of you, even if you didn’t want to give it. His chest rose and fell in steady, deliberate breaths, but his hands flexed at his sides like they were still fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you behind him and keep you safe.

Behind him, Tommy let out a low whistle, the sound breaking through the suffocating quiet like a crack of thunder. “Damn, Joel,” he muttered, shaking his head as a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Didn’t know you still had that in you. Hell, remind me not to get on your bad side.”

But Joel didn’t react. He didn’t turn. Didn’t even flinch. His focus remained on you, unwavering, like he couldn’t spare even a second to acknowledge anything else. And when he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter, almost tender in its roughness. “You should sit,” he said, nodding toward a table in the far corner of the hall. “I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.”

“Joel” you started, your voice trailing off as you searched for the right words. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” he interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He motioned toward the table again, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as if to guide you. “Sit.”

Joel turned back to the line without another word, his broad shoulders tense and Tommy’s chuckle following him like a low rumble of thunder. You noticed the way the people behind Joel in line stood a few paces back now, their movements cautious, like they were navigating the aftermath of a storm.

You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to relax as you glanced around the dining hall. The noise had returned to its usual rhythm—a soft din of clinking trays and overlapping conversations—but the weight of what had just happened still lingered in the air. Without waiting, you slipped toward the back of the hall, seeking the solace of a quiet corner where you could collect yourself.

Sliding into the farthest seat, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The tension in your chest eased, though the moment was short-lived. Maria appeared almost out of nowhere, her movements fluid as she took the chair beside you. She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze sweeping the room before landing on you. Her brows arched in silent curiosity, but her expression carried an edge of amusement.

“What did I miss?” she asked, “Why’s everyone looking at you like you just threw the first punch?”

You couldn’t help it—a laugh escaped you, bubbling out unexpectedly, light and tinged with disbelief. Maria’s brow furrowed deeper, though her lips twitched as if fighting back a smile. “What?” she pressed. “What’s so funny?”

“Joel,” you said, shaking your head and gesturing vaguely toward the front of the hall where the line stretched out. “He… handled a situation.”

Maria’s brow arched higher, her interest visibly piqued. “Handled a situation?” she echoed, leaning forward like a cat ready to pounce on juicy gossip. “Do tell. What kind of situation are we talking about here?”

You hesitated, the memory of Joel’s fury still fresh in your mind. Your fingers traced idle patterns on the wood grain of the table as you searched for the right words. “There was this guy. New, I think. He said something, and Joel—” You paused, the image of Joel pinning the man against the wall flashing in your mind. “Joel made sure he regretted it.”

Maria tilted her head, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “Made sure, huh?” she said, her tone teasing. “Let me guess—intimidation, maybe a little bit of his special brand of physical persuasion?”

You smiled despite yourself, the corners of your lips tugging upward. “Something like that,” you admitted quietly. “He grabbed the guy, slammed him against the wall… scared the hell out of everyone watching.”

Maria’s eyes widened slightly before a grin spread across her face. “Classic Joel,” she said with a laugh, shaking her head. But her expression softened as she watched you, her gaze turning pointed. “And I’m guessing it wasn’t just for show.”

Before you could respond, movement caught your attention. Joel was weaving through the dining hall, two trays balanced carefully in his hands. His face was set in that familiar stoic expression, his jaw tight and his steps deliberate. But then his eyes found yours, and for the briefest moment, they softened.

“Here,” Joel said simply, setting the tray down in front of you with the kind of care that felt oddly out of place in the bustling, noisy dining hall. “They didn’t have any more of that cornbread you liked, so I grabbed you this instead.” He slid a warm muffin onto your tray, its golden top glistening faintly, the scent of honey and cinnamon wafting up.

“Oh,” you breathed, your fingers brushing the edge of the tray, feeling the lingering warmth of the muffin. You glanced up at him, the words catching in your throat before finally tumbling out. “Thanks, Joel.”

He didn’t respond right away, just gave you a slight nod. Joel lowered himself into the chair beside you, the scrape of wood against the floor loud in the quiet corner you’d tucked yourselves into. His knee brushed yours briefly under the table as he adjusted his seat, but he didn’t move away. Neither did you.

Tommy arrived seconds later, sliding into the chair next to Maria with his tray in tow, his face lit up with a grin that was equal parts amused and mischievous. He stabbed a fork into the potatoes on his plate, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh.

“Well,” Tommy drawled, glancing between you and Joel, “guess we’re sittin’ at the safest table in Jackson now.”

Joel’s head snapped toward his brother, his brow furrowing in that familiar way that signaled his patience was wearing thin. “Knock it off,” he muttered, shoving a spoonful of stew into his mouth like he could end the conversation by sheer force of will.

Tommy chuckled, undeterred. “Can’t help it,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an unapologetic grin. “I mean, I’ve seen you get protective, Joel, but that back there?” He gestured vaguely toward the line where the earlier incident had unfolded. “That was somethin’ else.”

“Tommy,” Joel growled, his voice dropping into a warning. But instead of snapping, he glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly before his gaze darted back to his tray.

Maria finally chimed in, her voice carrying that same sharp amusement. “Well, Joel, if nothing else, you’ve definitely set the tone for how new arrivals should behave.”

Joel let out a soft huff, his head dipping as he dragged a hand over his face. “For the last time, I don’t wanna hear about it,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

Then you felt it—his hand, warm and solid, squeezing your knee under the table.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. The weight of his hand, the silent reassurance in the way his fingers pressed gently but firmly against you, said everything he couldn’t. It wasn’t just a touch—it was a message. I’m here. I’ll always be here. I’m yours.

─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───

My other works!

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[triglycercule]

dust and horror angel and demon themes,,,, they could totally parallel each other...... :3

dust=angel of death described in the delta rune prophecy (self declared) (i DEFINITELY elaborated on this one waayyyy before but anyways dust with a fucked up savior complex SAVE ME SAVE ME.... death is a blessing ass guy. life is torment and he will be the one to liberate monsters from their bodies and with the strength they provide to him be able to take down evil evil creation of pure misery that is the human ✨✨✨ dont worry his evil cackles are to HIDE HIS PAIN of saving everyone....... trust)

horror=demon that dragged everyone in horrortale into hell (as perceived by everyone else) (i think it would be a cool hc if everyone outside of snowdin viewed horror as literally a demon. maybe undyne preaches that. anyone outside of snowdin might be WAYYY worse because they starve for longer and literally take part in cannibalism so they might not have the same sort of mild sanity that snowdin residents do,,,, besides he DID kinda bring them all eternal suffering. kinda. nobody but undyne knows what happened at the core so she could totally just paint the story to blame horror fully)

ANYWAYS i like the possible dynamics this could have :333

dust to horror (please let me kill you PLEASE let me kill you i can end it all so peacefully wouldn't it be nice??? i promise ill make it quick just for you),,, horror to dust (i want you to live and suffer with what youve done i want you to watch all of your choices hit you one day and i'll be there and laugh at you. i'll keep you alive just to keep you suffering ok?)

OR dust to horror (you dont deserve to die you dont deserve to even be hurt by me. not because youre the exception but youre the Exception i absolutely loathe you so youll never get the sweet release of death :3) and horror to dust (just let me die already i dont wanna be here. youre supposed to be a savior right??? an angel?? then why don't you save me already when i need it more than anyone else)

[lesbianraskolnikov]

To a point i dont like how much exposistion TBK has but i get a little jealous we dont have this for rodya. However.

[hysteria-things]

MY EYES ONLY

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!chris x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a look into chris’s my eyes only…

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: PURE FILTH, p in v, unprotected sex (nuh uh!), swearing, choking, stomach bulge, oral (female & male receiving), praising, degradation, daddy kink, jealousy, squirting, spanking, possessiveness, overstimulation, dumbification, cream pie, semi-public, ROUGH

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 888

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: sorry for all the chris stuff lately i’m just so down bad for him but matt will make an appearance (hopefully) soon!

also… the last one will be turned into a fic😉

mattress digging deeper into your back every second, the hand around your throat only tightens. your small palm doesn’t even fit fully around his wrist. moans and pleas of ‘don’t stop!’ aren’t the only sounds echoing off the walls. the headboard bangs rapidly against the wall, a chuckle coming from chris every so often at your fucked-out state.

you two were extra horny this day, it seems, and of course, you had to take advantage of it. the video is taken from your drooling mouth down to the bulge in your stomach, chris quite literally balls deep inside of you. tits bouncing at the rapid pace he’s going, your nails dig deeper into his flesh. “yes! yes! yes!” you scream like a mantra, cum then coating his dick.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ❦ ⋆⁺₊⋆

to him, his finger slipped and “accidentally” pressed the post button. it starts casually with the desktop displaying fortnite, then he flips the camera to his face. a smug look is plastered on it before the camera flips again.

this time, it’s of you — under the desk with your boyfriend’s cock stuffed in your mouth. his other hand is wrapped around your locks in a makeshift ponytail, controlling the way you bob your head at a decent rhythm. all you have to do is sit there and take it.

looking at the camera with tears threatening to spill from your eyes, you smile, spit dribbling from the sides of your lips. he pushes your head down further to where the tip of your nose touches his pelvis, a gulp and gag going through his headphones before his face comes into view one last time. chris smiles smugly, with a caption that reads: we’re live! come hang out :)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ❦ ⋆⁺₊⋆

legs draped over his shoulders, your fingers massage lightly at the brunette between your plush thighs. the phone is propped up on the nightstand to make sure your entire body is in view. his tongue laps agonizingly slow on your puffy cunt, but it feels so good.

you’ve been a good girl all week; no attitude, no talking back, good manners, etc. you were in for a reward. this is your reward. he wants to eat you out like no other. until you see stars and that’s it.

soft moans fill the air, eyes fluttering closed and your mind blank. just how chris likes it.

growing closer to your high, you get impatient before rutting your hips forward, your moans growing louder. he hums disapprovingly, leaving your dripping hole empty. “no need to get naughty now, baby. i thought you were a good girl for me?”

“i am.” you whimper. “i’m sorry, daddy.”

thrusting his hips subconsciously into the mattress because of the nickname, he delves back in to suck on your clit. that alone washes the first of many orgasms through you. you end up passing out at the end.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ❦ ⋆⁺₊⋆

an argument sparked this beauty, which is also chris’s personal favorite. for context, you guys argued over something stupid before going to a party. because you’re so petty, you decided to purposely talk with a random guy at the function to get chris’s blood boiling. giving him those ‘fuck me’ eyes from across the room.

before you knew it, you were holding on for dear life on a pillow in a random bedroom he dragged you into. the velvet dress you’re wearing is bunched above your ass, and your panties are ripped in half and thrown to the floor. crying out apologies into the blanket is no use, skin stinging with his handprint on it. the video is hard to make out because of how fast the phone is shaking in his hand.

“fucking brat.” he spanks you again, a sob leaving your throat. “you think he can fuck you stupid like this? huh?”

his hand makes contact at least three more times during that sentence, and your body shakes uncontrollably. he already ripped two orgasms out of you. “that’s right. take it just like that — whose pussy is this?”

“yours.” you exhale, squirting without warning from the overwhelming pleasure and penetration.

gripping the top of your hair, he lifts your head. “scream it, slut. they can’t hear you.”

“yours, chris! it’s all yours!” you gasp, knuckles white from your grasp on the sheets.

looking down at the way his cock brutally thrusts in and out of your tight pussy, his jaw slacks at the sight. you clench around him as his tip repeatedly hits your cervix, eyes rolling when you cum harder than ever before.

he arches your back further to get as deep as he can with a grunt. his hips stop, long ropes of cum spilling the farthest it goes into your womb. pulling out, he takes two fingers to help his seed stay inside you, the rest dripping down your legs the rest of the night.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ❦ ⋆⁺₊⋆

it’s dark. the photo is barely visible but visible at the same time if you look at it long enough. the table in front of you has a reflection of the moon, your tits that are painted white take up half of the screen. the other half is of your face, a smile peeking through your lip bite. a tatted arm snakes around your neck, the selfie angled up high.

be careful leaving your things behind, chris. the text says.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

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[dollishmehrayan]

# BATBOYS WITH A CLASSIC LITERATURE LOVER ── .✦ ( batboys with a s/o who loves/majors in literature )

a/n: this is requested by my amazing @kvfkas 🫶💕, I Lowkey for some reason also love literature too but like it’s hard for me to open a new book because I’m like so busy almost everyday but anywayss && I still can’t get over that one of my record players BROKE. So I can’t play my vinyls until I buy a new one which I ordered yesterday. Tags: (batboys x classic literature lover)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Dick thinks it’s adorable how much you love classic literature. He often finds you curled up with a book that looks like it’s been through several lifetimes, the pages dog-eared and filled with your meticulous annotations.

He loves watching you get animated when you talk about your favorite books, even if he sometimes gets lost when you start referencing ancient Greek tragedies or 19th-century poetry.

“Wait, so you’re saying Achilles was in love with Patroclus? Why didn’t they just say that in school?”

If you major in classics, Dick would try to support you by attending your lectures or even helping you prep for exams. He’d quiz you on authors and historical contexts, even if he can barely pronounce some of the names.

Romantic Moments: On your birthday, he surprises you with a first edition copy of your favorite book, complete with a handwritten note tucked inside the front cover. “I don’t understand half of what’s in this book, but I know it makes you happy, so that’s all that matters.”

He’d ask you to read to him sometimes, enjoying the sound of your voice as much as the words themselves. "You make these stories sound even better, you know that?"

JASON TODD ── .✦

Jason is completely enamored with how passionate you are about classic literature. He gets it; books saved his life, too.

He finds your annotations fascinating and sometimes steals your books to read through them, not just for the story, but to get a glimpse into how your mind works.

“You think Heathcliff is a terrible person, but you still love him? Explain that one to me.” He’d genuinely love hearing your reasoning, even if it ends in a spirited debate.

If you’re majoring in classics, Jason would definitely tease you about it: “So, what, you’re gonna be the next Indiana Jones but with books?” But deep down, he’s incredibly proud of you. (He has dreams of being a literature professor)

Romantic Moments: One day, he surprises you with a day trip to a small, dusty bookstore he found, knowing it’s exactly your kind of place. “Take your time. I’ve got all day,” he says, leaning against a shelf as you lose yourself in the aisles.

He’d also write little notes on scraps of paper and leave them in your books when you’re not looking: “You’re way cooler than Jane Eyre.” “That’s a lie jason.”

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Tim would be absolutely in awe of your love for classic literature. He’s a voracious reader himself, so he’d immediately start asking for recommendations.

He’s amazed by how thoughtful and detailed your annotations are. He’ll flip through one of your books and go, “You should publish these. People would pay good money for your insights.”

If you’re majoring in classics, Tim would make it his mission to help you however he can. Need to translate something from Latin or Greek? He’s on it. Got a big paper due? He’ll proofread it for you.

Romantic Moments: On a particularly stressful day, he sets up a cozy reading nook for you, complete with your favorite snacks and a stack of books he thought you’d like. “Figured you could use some time to unwind.”

He’d get into the habit of reading the same books as you so he can discuss them with you. “Okay, but why does everyone hate Tess of the d’Urbervilles? I think she deserved better.”

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Damian would find your love of classic literature incredibly admirable. He appreciates intellectual pursuits and sees your passion as a sign of your depth and intelligence.

He’d be the one to challenge your opinions on certain characters or themes, sparking debates that sometimes last for hours.

“I fail to see why Mr. Darcy is considered romantic. He was insufferable for most of the novel.” But he secretly loves how animated you get defending your point.

(I’m gonna age him up for this one NO NSFW THOUGH HE’S STILL A MINOR BUT JUST FOR THE SAKE OF MAJORS) If you’re majoring in classics, Damian would take great pride in your academic achievements. He’d even start reading some of the books you mention, just so he can keep up with you.

Romantic Moments: He’d commission a custom leather-bound edition of your favorite book, embossed with your initials on the cover. “For someone as remarkable as you, only the finest will suffice.”

He’d also secretly annotate one of the books you’ve been wanting him to read and leave it for you to find. His notes are sharp, insightful, and, of course, slightly snarky.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Bruce has always been a lover of knowledge, so he’d find your love for classic literature incredibly endearing.

He’d be genuinely impressed by your annotations and sometimes ask to borrow your books just to see your thoughts on them.

“You’ve given me a new perspective on The Great Gatsby,” he’d say after flipping through your copy.

If you’re majoring in classics, Bruce would offer to fund any research or study trips you need. “A visit to Greece would certainly enhance your studies. Consider it an investment.”

Romantic Moments: He’d host a quiet evening in the Wayne library, just for the two of you. The fireplace crackles softly as you sit side by side, reading and sharing passages that resonate with you.

He’d also make a habit of surprising you with rare editions of your favorite books, each one more breathtaking than the last.

[sgt-tombstone]

au where Johnny never joined the military (his knee got fucked up before he could and they wouldn’t let him enlist) but it’s okay because that means he got to go to college and study engineering, which is the closest he could get to being a civilian demolitions expert

Anyway, the city his college is in has an army base nearby, which means that every dating app he opens is flooded with army boys looking to marry the first person who so much as looks at them the right way. Johnny’s never been relationship-oriented; he likes hookups too much to settle down like that, but he loves scrolling through to drool over all of the gym pictures

And then one catches his eye. Simon. He doesn’t show his face on his profile, but his muscles more than make up for it. His appearance, though, isn’t what Johnny is most interested in, because his bio says…

Anyone interested in committing marriage fraud?

And that’s… something.

So of course Johnny swipes. He doesn’t expect to match, because Simon looks like a Greek God, and he almost throws his phone across the room when the little heart appears, telling him that he and Simon have both swiped on each other. Which means that Simon swiped on him first. It’s a heady feeling, but he’s not really sure why.

John: marriage fraud?

It’s not his strongest first message, but sue him, he’s curious.

Simon: I’m not interested in a relationship or even sex, but I have a very vested interest in being able to move off base

John: so, what? we get married and then…?

Simon: we don’t have to live together or even like each other. You can finish your studies, get the tax benefits, and live your life as you choose while I get to move off base and maintain my privacy

Honestly, it sounds like a win/win to Johnny. He’s not struggling financially per se, but being able to live exactly as he is while also gleaning tax benefits is… an attractive choice.

John: and if I meet someone else that I’m serious about?

Simon: I have no qualms about an uncontested divorce

John: let’s meet up for lunch and discuss the details

———

Lunch is a simple affair, just a local restaurant, frequented by students and soldiers alike, so they both fit in well. Simon is unfairly attractive, even if he only reveals the bottom half of his face to eat or drink. He’s massive and blond and his eyes do something to Johnny’s insides that he can’t bring himself to dissect further. They chat over their food, sharing details about themselves. Johnny shares more than Simon, and he has a hunch that that’s on purpose, but he doesn’t mind. They click instantly, and Johnny can tell that Simon is taken aback by that. It’s sweet, almost, the way that such a large military man is floundering in the face of genuine human connection. After they’ve finished, they turn to business.

With a quiet, deep voice, Simon lays out his entire plan, and Johnny is fully on board. He’s ready to sign the papers today, but they legally have to wait a month.

It’s the longest month of Johnny’s life.

They text constantly, or as constantly as they can. Sometimes Johnny feels inordinately young and sometimes very inferior; while he’s talking Simon’s ear off about some explosive compound used in building demolitions, Simon is off… doing god knows what, god knows where, serving the country. But Simon always listens, always sounds engaged over the phone when they call, always has follow-up questions that show he’s actually interested. And while Simon can’t talk much about his work, he can talk about details. Small stuff; the awful food, the hot dust where he’s stationed, the day-to-day activities that don’t give away too much. Johnny learns that he’s a lieutenant, a sniper (though that’s more through context clues than anything else), that he wears a mask all the time to protect himself, that he doesn’t like scrambled eggs (or at least, not military scrambled eggs), that he has a very complex skincare routine, that he respects the hell out of his captain. That he’s a good man, or tries to be. That he’s a sweetheart, deep down, despite trying to hide it.

They eventually get married, down at the courthouse, with Simon’s captain, Price, and Johnny’s best mate, Kyle, as witnesses.

And then life goes on. Johnny continues his studies, continues going to parties and hooking up with people every weekend, continues living his life. He assumes that Simon does the same. They keep in contact, for the most part, except when Simon’s in the field and he can’t have his phone, but he always brings back little inconsequential stories when he returns. It’s nice, in a way. They’d never exchanged rings, but sometimes Johnny wishes they had, just so he had something tangible to tie him to his husband.

I’m not sure how it would end, though…

Maybe it would be Sweet Home Alabama style, where Johnny finds someone that he thinks he loves and has to get Simon to sign the divorce papers, only to realize at the last minute that he really doesn’t want to, that he’s been in love with Simon all along

Maybe Simon gets medically discharged and ends up moving in with Johnny, where they both dance around their feelings for each other, despite already being married

Maybe they just… realize one day, that they’ve slowly but surely fallen in love with each other over the years and suddenly, nothing else matters because they’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for

[lime-bloods]

I honestly didn't ever expect that I'd be in the position where I'd be using this blog not just to analyse what has come before in Homestuck, but to look toward the comic's future and do some real old-fashioned theorycrafting. but the time has come. so here goes; lime-bloods' Beyond Canon theories as of the July 6th 2024 update:

Vriska's Going to Hell

were all gonna help you! / whether you like it or not

a select few eagle-eyed readers already noticed that the sound used in last month's (Vriska: Figure shit out yourself.) is called "hell_tierwav". while it was easy to dismiss this as irrelevant composer shenanigans at the time, it's now become clear exactly what this was foreshadowing. whether it would be more apt to call this "Hell" or "Purrgatory" is probably up for debate - but whatever you call it, Vriska's been placed in a dimension seemingly tailored specifically for her personal torment.

while Vriska characteristically interprets the recreation of her childhood home as a symbol of how badass she was, the ghosts of her past - both literal, as the shades of the trolls she killed as Mindfang, and figurative, in the form of sprites wearing the faces of her dead friends - show us in no uncertain terms that Vriska's childhood home is the stage where traumas play out.

Erisolsprite puts it succinctly with his welcome to hell, but pay close attention to what exactly we're being welcomed to: this update ends on page 665. so as of this next update, we'll be starting on page 666.

Does Homestuck Have Hell?

the exact bubble of reality Vriska's currently found herself in seems to be an entirely new construction of the likes we've not yet seen in Homestuck - but that doesn't mean this kind of cosmic torment is without precedent. because while 666 is a number with Satanic connotations in the broader cultural context, it also has a very particular meaning of its own within the world of Homestuck. indeed, the latter half of the comic almost revolves around it, culminating in a climax in Act 6 Act 6 Act 6.

specifically, this repetition of a single digit is emblematic of recursive storytelling. to summarise what you can already read about in detail in my essay The World / The Wheel: when Caliborn is 'gifted' the Act 6 Act 6 supercartridge, which he is told is an "expansion" of Homestuck, it's a trick. there is no "expansion"; he's going to be trapped in a story that never ends because it keeps dividing into smaller and smaller versions of itself forever. the only way to truly beat the devil who trapped the heroes within a story is to trap him in his own story.

that's what Caliborn's "Hell" is, and that's also exactly what the Alternate Calliope achieved in Act 7 by creating the black hole which Vriska knocked Lord English into, ending Homestuck's story - something that Calliope even hints at in this very update, when she refers to the black hole as "containment"; not an accident, but a deliberately crafted prison. black holes are a symbol of recursion and regression; being sucked into one means being forced to live out your whole life over and over again, forever. so really, this is all we ever could have expected to happen when Vriska stepped into a black hole within a black hole! the presentation of the narrative even subtly hints at this; events in Beyond Canon that take place in the black hole are enclosed (in brackets), and now events that take place in a black hole-within-a-black-hole are contained within {curly brackets}, because you should always use a different kind of brackets to differentiate nested parenthesis from each other!

it is absolutely no coincidence that when Caliborn closes the curtains on his appearances in Homestuck, thinking he's won when really he's been condemned to a hell of his own making forever more, it's with a tribute to this exact same Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff strip.

IF YOU REMEMBER JUST ONE THING I SAY, OF SO MANY GREAT THINGS SAID BY ME, THEN PLEASE REMEMBER THIS. I WANTED TO PLAY A GAME.

So What Does That Mean?

one of Beyond Canon's central missions is expanding upon Homestuck's exploration of the relationships between author, text, and audience. as discussed above, a large part of Homestuck's thesis is the evil of forcing characters to live the same lives and the same stories over and over without the chance to grow or move on, and Beyond Canon picks up on this by placing Dirk in the position of trying to keep Homestuck going forever purely to appease its fans, while the Alternate Calliope continues to oppose this ideology. and while the alpha Calliope outwardly seems not to have taken a hard position on where she stands in this cosmic battle, the question posed by her device seems to be an entirely new one: can it actually be a good thing to regress, to return to ground that the story has already covered? can this path lead to something new, rather than merely stagnation?

it's so relevant that Vriska is being confronted with the crimes of her past, not only in the form of all the trolls she was personally responsible for killing but also in the form of the exact same punishment she condemned Lord English to with her heroism - complete with the herd of horses that are always present at Caliborn's demise! but where being condemned to an eternal cycle was fitting punishment for Caliborn, someone who refuses to break free of cycles of abuse and instead chooses to enact that same abuse on the world around him... if Vriska is someone who can break free of these cycles, who can change and become a better person despite what happened to her, will this punishment have the same effect? or, as Davepeta seems to believe, is forcing Vriska to reckon with her own past and traumas exactly what will allow her to break free of that cycle?

DAVE: [...] ill just be over here in the hyper gravity chamber training to beat lord english KARKAT: WE HAVE A HYPER GRAVITY CHAMBER???

it's hard not to be struck by the parallels in design and purpose between the Plot Point and Dragon Ball's Hyperbolic Time Chamber, and not just because of the Dragon Ball enthusiasts present on Beyond Canon's writing and art teams: albeit in typically Strider-bastardised form, the Time Chamber got a shoutout in Andrew Hussie's own Homestuck (see quote above), in a reference that was even picked up on by prolific theorist bladekindeyewear at the time. for the uninitiated: the Hyperbolic Time Chamber allowed its users to train for extended stretches of time, sometimes even spanning years, while a significantly smaller time period passed in the world outside - something that is actually true of real-life black holes! and with the Plot Point's own emphasis on time, represented by the hourglass included among its mechanisms, it seems to me that an essential part of making the 16-year-old Vriska ready for the trials ahead will be giving her the time to undergo the same growth her adult friends have experienced.

considering that Beyond Canon is already playing in the Ultimate Self space, where there are levels of power beyond merely the "god tiers", it also doesn't seem too farfetched to speculate that Vriska, forced to reckon with the fact that becoming a powerful Thief of Light isn't the be-all and end-all of personal growth, will take another leaf out of Dragon Ball's book here and ascend "beyond Super Saiyan". perhaps this is even the "hell tier" so cheekily alluded to in the Plot Point flash? certainly this kind of evolution would be the perfect way to challenge Dirk's belief that the Ultimate Self is the only logical final step for a character's development.

whatever the case, I believe we can take Davepeta at their word here. I don't think it's just a joke that by the end of this ordeal Vriska Serket is going to be fucking RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPED!

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

I was given oral herpes by someone who didn't feel the need to disclose that they got cold sores before we had a one-time little dalliance.

I might've gone for it anyways. I'm self destructive. But I guess the lack of being able to choose whether to take the risk, it's left me feeling pretty bitter about the experience.

And I'm left feeling like a biohazard. I haven't really been able to explain to my friends yet why I'm suddenly extremely cagey about sharing my drinks and food. And all my favorite sexual activities are off the table forever. I know, dental dams, condoms, but half the fun of oral sex and making out is, you know, the taste, the heat, the absolute control. I was good at it.

It feels especially embarrassing since I'm ace and the whole reason I hooked up with the person was kind of... I don't know, fear that if I didn't, then we wouldn't be able to hang out anymore.

I'm not sure what I'm asking. Maybe, was it wrong for them not to disclose something like that? Considering how common it is? I feel obligated to disclose myself but maybe I'm just weird for that.

Thanks for doing what you do here.

Kind regards,

Asexual for Ethical Reasons Now I Guess

hi anon,

I don't often apologize for needing time to get to anons, because I really need people to have reasonable expectations about the amount of time I'm willing to commit to my inbox, but I am sorry for not getting to this one sooner. it's a topic that's very important to me, and I can tell you're dealing with a lot of hurt.

first off: I'm very sorry someone wasn't totally honest with you. that's never a good feeling, and especially in the context of sex it's a huge betrayal of trust. it's deeply unfair to you, and I hope you're able to recover from that.

having said that: you are not a biohazard. you're a person with an incredibly common virus. the World Health Organization estimates that somewhere around 80% of people worldwide have herpes (and that's a rough estimate, since they use different age ranges for HSV-1 and HSV-2). skip to the factual part of this tiktok at 00:10 seconds. herpes has been with us since before we were human; there's nothing disgusting or even unusual about having herpes.

herpes is different from most STIs in that it is lifelong, but that doesn't make you an unfuckable pariah. it makes you someone who may sometimes have open sores, and should give partners a heads up about your virus to avoid putting anyone in the same situation you're in. while you're at it, let them know that most people with herpes live asymptomatic and uncomplicated lives. many people never even know they have it!

I understand that spending the rest of your life with a viral buddy doesn't sound super fun right now, but I promise that as viruses go you can do WAY worse.

personally I've always felt the best way to get comfortable with something is to learn more about it. why not let clinical sexologist Dr. Doe talk to you about her own herpes, and how to be conscientious about minimizing the risk of sharing herpes with others?

or listen to writer Ella Dawson talk about learning to cope with the exact stigma you're currently struggling with?

or listen to Dr. Sydnee Smirl McElroy explain why herpes bears such a heavy stigma for such a mild virus in the first place?

you're not a biohazard, and neither is anyone else with an STI. that's a terrible way to think about yourself and others.

you're under no obligation to stop being sexually active if you don't want to be.

please don't feel that you have to have sex with anyone out of a sense of obligation anymore, but also please don't feel that herpes is a punishment. sickness isn't something that happens to people because they're bad or deserve, sickness happens to people because people get sick.

take care 💜

[fawnprincessblog]

𝐿𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓃𝒾𝓰𝒽𝓉'𝓈 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒷𝒶𝓃𝒸𝓮.

type: smut (tom kaulitz 2010 × fem reader)

includes: mastrubation, needy tom 💗 uh, blurb please! : tom suffers a painful erection and needed some help jerking off, only to be caught right after.

bambi's note! : soo...apparently i didn't get the request back...so i do hope the person finding this story will realise it's the request! it's abt 2010 tom jerking off on a call to readers voice and it ends up in a 'funny' moment!

Tom woke up at around 2 a.m. to a dreadful boner. He couldn’t remember what he was dreaming of, but it surely did trigger something in his sleep. He was insanely tired, but the feeling of his cock twitching and straining against the fabric of his pants really bothered him. He couldn’t go back to sleep. He was hard and he needed help. The first thing that came to his mind was you. 

Letting out a small grunt, he quickly grabbed his cell from the small table by his bed, squinting at the light from the screen that beamed brightly into his eyes. He immediately scrolled through his contacts in search of your number. It was inconvenient of him to ring you up at such an hour, but his body urged him to. He needed to help himself. 

“Fuck, pick up, pick up…” he muttered to himself, pressing the cellphone to his ear, the beeping sound replaying itself again and again. It was way too late for Tom to be calling, but he was insanely desperate. 

“Hello?” You finally reply, your voice husky from just waking up at such a time. 

“Sweetheart,” Tom said through the call, his voice a little rough. 

It took you a second to really distinguish who was calling you. “What the hell are you calling me for?” You whine, still half awake, laying in your bed in a dark room, completely worn out and still in a slight daze. You were fighting the urge to just doze off. 

On the other side of the phone, Tom was already pulling his pants down. His room was dark, and it was quiet. He focused on the sound of your voice. You could only hear him grunt, and you were a little confused, but you were too tired to even comprehend what was going on. 

His cock was throbbing. It ached so badly, and he wanted to help himself quickly due to being so uncomfortable. The only way he could do that now was to hear you. You weren’t there with him physically, so he hoped this would work. His body was weak and he was insanely needy. “N-Nothing, I just…needed someone to talk to…” he responded, though his voice sounded quite uneasy. “J-Just…please talk…” 

“What?” You ask, your voice cracking a little from disuse. You prop yourself up on your elbows, phone still at your ear as one of your free hands reaches to the side to pull the string of the lamp beside your bed which lit that corner you were in. You sit much more upright now, your back against the headboard as you continue to listen to Tom. 

“Talk,” he said, his breath sounding a little heavy on his end. His hand wrapped around his hardened dick, beginning to stroke himself up and down. He needed to hear your voice, but you were still oblivious to the current situation he was in. 

“Talk about what?” You ask. You were beyond confused on why Tom called you at such an hour. He was asking you to talk at 2 a.m. in the morning with no context whatsoever to the reason on why he called you in the first place, and you were not in the mood. You were sleepy, and you needed to rest. “Are you high, Tom? Did you drink? Go to bed.” 

“Fuck,” he whimpered quietly, his right hand firm on his length as he pumped it up and down slowly to the sound of your sweet voice, imagining you were here teasing him like you always would. His left hand weakly held the phone to his ear, his body becoming overwhelmed with the pleasure as he touched himself. 

“Tom,” you call out. “I’m going to hang up.” 

“N-No, wait,” he breathed, coming back to his senses, though his hand still continued to move on himself. “I, hngh, still want to talk…” 

“Are you okay?” You ask, still confused with what was going on with Tom on the other line. He sounded so uneasy and weak. Your mind was still too tired to comprehend, but his talking concerned you a little. “Are you sick? You sound a little bit weak…” 

“Mmh, yes, Süße , I’m fine,” Tom spoke, though his words were starting to sound a little slurred. He bit his lower lip harshly, his hand going a little harsher on his aching cock, the tip leakimg of pre-cum. Tom’s hips involuntarily jerked into his palm, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to stifle his moans that threatened to spill. 

“Well then what did you call me for? If you wanted to talk you could’ve talked to me in the morning,” you then say, rubbing one of your eyes with the back of your hand tiredly. “You know how inconvenient you’re being right now?” 

“Y-Yes, but, nghh..fuck—” he groaned, his hips bucking into his hand once more, his cock desperate for release. He could barely answer; his mind was in a daze, and he just wanted to hear you talk so he could relieve himself from the painful erection he was experiencing. Tom wasn’t trying to make it obvious, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“Tom,” you call out, your suspicions growing, though at the same time you didn’t think much, since you were still tired. “What’s going on with you?” 

"Nothing," Tom replied quickly, grunting through his orgasm as his hand worked furiously against himself. “I just needed someone to—mmh…” As much as he wanted to be discreet about his arousal, he kept getting interrupted by a wave of pleasure crashing over his body. 

“Tom, just talk,” you sigh. 

“Fuck—” he whimpered softly, his bottom lip bleeding from the harsh biting. Tom’s eyes rolled in from the pleasure, the back of his head burying deep into the pillow that he lay on unable to contain his arousal. “P-Please, keep talking, mmh, sweetheart, please…” he begged, his voice strained. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you groaned, not in the mood to entertain what he wanted you to do. That groan you made only increased Tom’s pleasure. You could hear his small grunts and tiny whines through the call, and for some reason you still thought he was suffering an illness or something. Your mind was still half asleep. 

“T-Tell me, ngh–about–mmh–s-something nice…” he said, trying to keep his voice somewhat even, though whimpers and moans kept slipping through his sentences. He couldn’t control himself properly. His eyes rolled in again, his hand moving faster onto his needy cock, aching for release. He was so close.

“Well, um…” you say, rubbing your tired eyes once again. “I…made you happy the other day ‘cause I sent you…pictures of myself?”

“Mmh—fuck, yeah,” he whimpered, “Mhm, mhm, your pictures,” muttered, the images of you flashing through his mind as he stroked himself harder. “Hngh, y-you’re so perfect, sweetheart…” 

“Thanks?” You say, a small yawn escaping your lips right after. “...Look, Tom, I’m really tired—”

“N-No, wait—” he gasped, his head thrashed back deep into the pillow under his head, his breaths ragged. “Say something to me. Say something good about me. I want to hear it from you,” he pleaded. 

“Um,” you pause to think, just giving into what he wanted so you could end the call soon. “You’re really good to me, and…you’re very good-looking.” 

Tom’s breath hitched at your words. He imagined you praising him that way. It turned him on even more. “M-More,” he whimpered softly, “...tell me more…”

You sigh. “You’re very good at lots of things, Tom. And that makes me happy.” 

That was enough to send Tom over the edge. With a few more rough strokes, he immediately came, his hips jerking involuntarily as his orgasm crashed over his body. He finally gave up and let out a moan from the pleasure, one that had been stuck in his throat threatening to spill. “Fuck–mmh…” he breathed, his mouth slightly agape as his body shuddered with his release. 

Your eyes widen at the noise. “What the fuck, Tom?” You say, your body finally sitting up in a more straight position now.

Tom’s mind was still in a daze, but the moment you spoke again, he snapped from his thoughts. “Shit, um—” he abruptly spoke, his hand moving away from his length as he recovered from his orgasm. “L-Look, I gotta go. Goodnight, love .” His breaths were still unstable.

“Don’t hang up on me, Tom,” you warn. “What were you doing?” Your mind had become much more alerted now, and you were curious. 

“Goodnight, love,” he repeated, drawling. He was trying to avoid the situation, but it was way too obvious now. “Were you jerking off?” You ask, and he quickly answered with a defensive, “No I wasn’t!” 

“Jerking off to my voice, Tom? Really? At 2 a.m?” You giggle, and he was silent on the other end for a while. “N-No…” he mumbled, and you broke out in laughter. 

“It wouldn’t go away! It was painful, too,” he said, embarassment washing all over him. “Stop fucking laughing!” 

You calm down, but your face was pink, blushing at the thought of him doing that to himself to your voice. “Did you finish at least?” You ask, and there was a little bit of silence before he responded. “Yes….” He answered hesitantly, his tone laced with embarassment. 

“Come over,” you say. “I’ll give you the real thing, if you want.

Tom’s eyes widened, his cock twitching at your invitation. "Fuck, are you serious? It’s really late." Tom felt himself hardening again, hoping you were actually serious. “Mhm,” you respond. 

He took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. "Give me 10 minutes.”

And the both of you hung up.

glossary corner!! : Süße (sweetie/ sweetness, in German.)

[angelpuns]

50au Part 24

TW FOR VIOLENCE/FIGHTING/BRIEF CHOKING

Leo was having a hard time keeping up with….everything. Struggling to parse what was real and what wasn’t. 

If he weren't in so much pain he'd wonder if those birds really had done him in and he wasn't lying in the med bay imagining all this. Alone and practically comatose.

But his leg and his head and everything ached too badly for it to be a dream or some kind of weird hallucination. 

He wasn't sure his brain could make half this stuff up anyway. 

Donnie and Mikey had explained everything to the rat, who had then promised to help. After he took a nap, of course.  

Everyone seemed a little pissed off at that, but Leo was relieved. He already hated having to rely on a bunch of strangers that insisted they were family, he didn't want to add another into the mix. Even if he was Lou Jitsu ( which Leo really didn't believe that part of all this) 

Hell, maybe Jupiter Jim was uncle and was really a snake or something. 

The rest of the day was spent planning, for the most part. 

Donnie figured out exactly when he seemed to reset and said it was a breakthrough, though Leo didn't know how exactly it would help. He was going to forget either way, and it wasn't as if they could prevent it happening. Until Donnie said he was going to have Leo stay up past that point and see if it made a difference. 

Annoying, but Leo was at these guys’ mercy and all. 

He did learn a lot throughout the day. 

Mikey was a good cook. He was also the youngest. And even though he had this emotional maturity thing going, Leo could tell he was one wrong move from crying about this entire thing. 

The big guy, Raph, was the oldest. And he was super over protective and kept treating Leo like he'd break. He also wasn't as touchy-feeling as Mikey, but Leo figured if was more because of the circumstances and that Raph would hug him til he popped if he had the chance. 

Donnie was the really interesting one. They were twins, which Leo was guessing on based on a lot of context. Stuff from the montage, the way Donnie acted and the way he seemed to mumble ‘my Dumdum twin’ under his breath whenever he got the chance. He was really smart, too, Leo could barely keep up with half the stuff he talked about. 

At first he thought Donnie might be the leader, but Raph seemed to be more in charge than he was letting on. But the dynamic was still weird. Mikey definitely wasn't the leader. Leo figured he couldn't have been, because what Leader would get himself shot with a curse and then run around avoiding his problems all the time? He definitely wasn't leader material. 

Not that it mattered, because Raph had already told him they weren't going anywhere today. 

There was also the issue of Baron Draxum, the villain that had thrown Leo off of a roof and overall was just an untrustworthy bastard. They all thought it was weird that he remembered Draxum, but Leo didn't trust the guy as far as he could throw him. He definitely wasn't family. 

But he was helping them for some reason, and Leo was forced to let the yokai into his home to do so. Even if the thought made him want to be sick and made the panic and anxiety he'd been holding back all day simmer dangerously beneath the surface. 

Baron Draxum was working on the cleansing salve and promised he was almost done, that they could do the ritual tomorrow. Leo didn't like the sound of Draxum doing anything with his head, much less going into his memories. 

He brought it up with Donnie that night, while Donnie fixed the camera in the corner of his room. 

“ Are we sure it has to be him? Don't you all have any other yokai family members that weren't literally evil….?” Leo muttered, huddled in the corner of his bed. 

It was dark in the lair now. Everyone else had gone to sleep, while Donnie had Leo stay up so he could observe the resetting. 

His thought was that, maybe if Leo didn't sleep, the reset wouldn't be able to happen. Even if it was time based. 

“ Sadly, no. I would personally not love Draxum rooting around in your head either, even though I respect him as a fellow scientist and all,” Donnie answered, sitting on the edge of Leo's bed and prying apart the camera, “ but he's the only person we really know that can do all that mystic bullshit,” 

“ This all would have been so much easier if it were some kind of clinical mishap. At least then you'd be showing progress at this point, and we could probably fix it with surgery or something,” he huffed, holding up the light, “ there. You're going to forget it's up there, but at least you won't get freaked out again by the light,” 

Donnie started to put the camera back together with a sigh, still rambling. 

Leo got the feeling it helped him calm down. Even though he didn’t really understand why, he was feeling slightly calmed by whatever Donnie was going on about. Even if he was having a hard time keeping up and his head throbbed. 

“At least tomorrow we can do the ritual and put this all behind us. I've already got plans in case you somehow have lasting side effects, and of course a medical plan for your leg,” He clicked the last piece in place and headed to remount it to the wall, “ which you're obviously going to have to follow, Nardo. You were a terrible patient after the- when you got hurt, and we will not be having a repeat of that. I'm sure Dr. Feelings has his own plans about the emotional effects of all this and-”

Leo didn't have a chance to ask who Dr. Feelings was. 

The world went silent, Leo slumping forward like- 

Leo blinked awake, hunched over in the corner of his bed, his knees up to his chest. Someone was talking, but he must have just left his TV on, because who could possibly be talking? 

He fumbled for the remote on his nightstand, blinking away the sleep and fiddling with the power button. But when he pressed it, the noises didn't stop. In fact, the TV turned on when he did that, the fuzzy static making him frown. He turned it back off.

Someone was talking. Someone was in his room. 

In the corner of his room, in the dark, loomed a figure. They were tall and thin and shadowed, and Leo's first thought was that it was some kind of sleep paralysis demon. But he could move plenty, and his leg was starting to ache so badly that his knew he wasn't asleep. 

Leo rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to clear them, focusing in on the figure with a grimace. Still tall and still shadowed, but less threatening when he saw  a purple hoodie and the fact that the person was standing on a small step stool. At first he couldn't see what they were doing. But as they stepped down to admire their work, he understood. They were installing a camera.

In his room. Where he was sleeping. 

To watch him and-and do know god knows what with the information. 

Leo sat as still as he could, the figure suddenly turning to face him. They were a mutant like him, maybe even a turtle if he had to guess. Three fingers, green skin, a tail. No shell, as far as Leo could tell. Unless it was hidden well beneath the hoodie. But that didn't matter much, because all he could think was how someone could be in his room. 

The figure stared at him for a moment, no longer rambling to themselves. 

“ ‘Nardo, you okay?” They murmured, voice dropping to something closer to a whisper. 

Leo swallowed down the rising panic, glancing around the room for his swords. They weren't here. He always kept them by his bed, so why weren't they…?

Leo turned back to the mutant. This guy must have hidden them. He must have planned this so that Leo couldn't fight back…couldn't run. 

“ wh-who are you?” He asked, pieces of a plan starting to fall together. He had to fight. The mutant wasn't much bigger than him. He could fight, even if he was never good at hand to hand combat. He just had to lower this guy's guard first. If he could get him monologuing, then surely it'd be an easy fight. 

“ what are you doing in my room?” 

“ shit, did you reset?” they suddenly seemed panicked, quickly checking some sort of strange tech on their arm, “ I must have miscalculated, you weren't supposed to reset for another hour, at least-”

Now. 

Leo launched himself off the bed and at the stranger, hands outstretched to grapple him. The mutant shrieked in surprise, and Leo took him to the ground easily.

It hurt his leg, bad, but he had to fight! He wasn't gonna let this guy get away with whatever evil surveillance shit he had planned! 

“ ‘Nardo, stop- you've got to listen to me-” the mutant growled, teeth snapping dangerously at Leo's hands. He quickly grabbed their wrists and held them to the ground, far too relieved that the mutant didn't have a weapon on them, “ Leo-”

They kicked and twisted under him, but Leo was stronger. He quickly moved to straddle their legs, wincing when they kicked Hus injured one a little too hard. 

“Fuck- WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOME!?” Leo growled, leg wound throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He held his position though, the mutant struggling against him. 

“ L-Leo, it's me! I know you're confused, but I'm your brother” the mutant whined, hands clenching with the effort it was taking to fight him. They were a lot stronger than they looked, Leo straining to keep them from moving. “ Leo, please! Let-let me explain!” 

They sounded scared. And terribly desperate. 

It unexpectedly grated on Leo's nerves, a feeling like pity growing inside him. No, no he could not feel bad for this guy! A mutant who was lying to him and had literally invaded his home! 

“ tell me the truth Or I’ll kill you” Leo hissed, trying not to think too hard about the pain or the pity or the nagging feeling in the back of his head that made him want to hear this guy out, “ what were you doing with the camera? How'd you get in here?” 

The mutant let out a shaky sigh, “ I am your brother. You were cursed to forget your family and-” 

“STOP LYING!” Leo reeled his fist back and punched the mutant hard, trying not to focus on how the crack beneath his fist  made him feel sick, “ YOU'RE NOT MY BROTHER!” 

Blood gushed from the murant’s nose, their eyes widened and panicked. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, the sight of it making him feel so fucking sick and he didn't know why. 

This mutant was going to hurt him if he didn't hurt them first. They were going to watch him and use the information to get him. He knew it, he already knew their plan, so he had  to fight back while he had the upper hand. 

He reeled back to punch the mutant again, but they stuck an arm out to stop him, grabbing at his neck and trying to choke him. But they were too hesitant, like they were afraid they'd hurt him. 

Too bad Leo wasn’t afraid to hurt them. 

He threw another punch, but the mutant tightened their fingers and he choked at the last second, nearly missing their cheek. 

Leo let go with his other hand to try and wrench their hands away from his neck, suddenly sucking in a panicked breath. This reminded him too much of- he couldn't breath and it was just like-

Leo squeezed his shut, his throat closing despite the mutant barely squeezing.

He tried not to think about it. Just fight. Fight this guy, don't think about how similar it feels to- 

Something pricked his neck and Leo opened his eyes, the mutant let go of his neck and pushed him off, scrambling away from him. 

He felt dizzy. 

“You-” Leo rasped out, but he couldn't make the words work. He couldn't move. Everything seemed to be falling down around him, the world going dark. 

And then he was nowhere. 

-----

lemme know if this needs more warnings. uuuuh yeah I wanted to write this part bad cause haha there will be consequences to Leo's actions ;) Regardless of whether he remembers them or not

I hope this bit isn't too OOC for Leo specifically, I think if he were cornered he could get real real violent so. Yeah.

Also I drew a doodle for this (which is why I wanted to write this bit) TW FOR VIOLENCE/CHOKING BELOW

Sorry Donnie you are also getting more traumatized :/

Part 1 | Part 23 | Part 25

[ddejavvu]

i was using Spotify and I realized how u could see what ur friends are listening to atm on there and it would be so fun to have hotch discover this, and be surprised that the reader is listening to songs like “or nah” or j any explicit songs like that and is into it😋 could lead into something more like playing that song while they’re doing it later on

OKAY THANK YOU LOVE UR WRITING!!!

i love you! i just left this vague and open to whatever song you want to insert!

this post is 18+, minors dni.

Being Spotify friends with Aaron Hotchner only came about because of Penelope's insistence on team bonding. And because she wanted to send everyone the personalized playlists she'd made for them, and sharing became much easier that way.

All it's yielded for you is the knowledge that, very infrequently, Hotch remembers he has a music app on his phone, and that he plays 2-3 Beatles songs before he inevitably gets called to another task and has to shut off the music.

Aaron is even less frequently informed of your tastes in music than you are of his, because the few times that he's used the app, he forgets to check what the other members of the team are listening to. Not that he really cares; Spencer's listening to classical and Derek has too-loud EDM playing in his headphones that Savannah teases him for. Rossi prefers records to his phone, and JJ plays mainly kids' songs for her boys. Emily is always listening to some mid-2000's rock song, but you, you he hasn't gotten a read on. You're all over the place, switching from singer to singer, genre to genre, language to language. All in all, his team's music taste doesn't affect him, but Penelope is far more eager to snoop on you all than he is.

"Ooh, nasty girl," She gushes, head bent to look at her phone as she waits in Aaron's office. He'd instructed her to let him have five minutes to finish a report before she briefed him on a new case's details, but she's proving very distracting. With a glance up at her, half-scathing, half-incredulous, he asks, 'What?'

"Oh! Y/N's Spotify," She holds out her phone as explanation, showcasing your profile with unfamiliar album art displayed over it. It's black and red, but Aaron doesn't recognize the song or the artist.

He raises an eyebrow at Penelope, and she huffily gives into his demand.

"It's a song about sex," She informs him, "Like- feral, sweaty, hungry, clawing-at-the-sheets, scratching-up-his-back, mouth-open-so-he-"

"Alright! Enough," Hotch snaps, glaring disapprovingly at her rather vulgar language, "I think I get the picture, Garcia."

"Sorry, sir." She looks only mildly sheepish, talking more to herself than she is to him as she muses, "Didn't know she was into that kind of thing."

Aaron doesn't think about the title of the song again until well after Penelope's gone, and he's taking his lunch alone in his office. He's more a fan of songs that, if they are about sex, don't outwardly mention any vulgarity, and he's not sure if he could handle explicit material being spewed at loud volumes directly into his ear. Call it morbid curiosity, call it Disapproving Boss Syndrome, but he fishes near-new headphones out of his desk drawer to find out what you've been listening to while filling out government paperwork all day.

He has the good sense to look it up on youtube without logging in. He doesn't want this attached to him in any way, and he certainly doesn't want eagle-eyed Penelope catching him on Spotify.

The beginning of the song seizes the ear right away, a unique beat that definitely doesn't sound sexually appealing. But when each different instrument filters in and the lyrics begin, he realizes that Penelope's description was not very far off.

It's filthy.

It's twenty kinds of vulgar, words that he's never even heard before being used to refer to genitalia. The only way he figures out their definitions is through context, and he thinks he may have been better off without knowing them. He's floored by the contents of the song; he knows sexual songs exist, even at this level of vulgarity, but he'd have never expected you to indulge in them. Certainly not in the workplace.

The song finishes out at three minutes and nine seconds, and Hotch feels a slight heat to his face as he unplugs his headphones and closes the tab. No one had caught him, but he feels mortified anyways, and decides he no longer has an appetite.

He puts the lid back onto the container of leftover pasta that he'd brought from home, keeping his head down as he treks to the kitchenette to refrigerate it.

Of course, his luck fails him as he nearly bumps into you, rounding the corner to the small, closed-off kitchen and finding you in front of the microwave in the doorway.

"Oh! Sorry, Hotch." You laugh, stepping out of his way to let him through. He notices an earbud in your ear and pushes away the knowledge of what song you're probably listening to, heading for the fridge instead.

"It's fine." He grumbles, electing to stay silent for the rest of your impromptu meeting if he can manage. He feels slightly guilty for being cold towards you, because it was his own curiosity that led to his embarrassment, but he can't look you in the eyes right now.

You see fit to fill the awkward silence with the tapping of your nails on the counter, and with a jolt of recognition, and something else far more intense below the belt, he realizes that you're tapping out the beat of the song.

He ignores your sharp gasp as he slams the refrigerator door perhaps a tad too hard. He doesn't have time to feel bad about startling you, though, not when he so desperately needs to be back in the confines of his office, away from the prying eyes of the team.

His sharp memory comes in handy as he calls upon the name of the song later that night, pretending to himself that he's only doing it because it's been stuck in his head. Not because every time he thinks of it, or rather, of you listening to it, his pants tighten slightly. He chooses youtube first, but something drags his thumb towards the spotify button instead, and he swallows the saliva that's suddenly pooled in his mouth when his suspicions are confirmed: you're listening to it, too.

At eleven-thirty at night, probably beneath the covers on your bed just like Aaron is, you're listening to a song about sex, and as he sinks a hand beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, he knows without a doubt that you're doing the same.

[itsclydebitches]

Hazbin Hotel: Let's Talk About Cursing!

Trigger warning for lots of cursing in this post (obviously) and discussion of canon abuse scenes

As I delve further into the Hazbin Hotel fandom, I’ve inevitably come across a variety of people who dislike the show for an equal variety of reasons. One criticism I’ve seen with some consistency is in regards to the cursing and yeah, I get it. That’s not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. However, the repeated claim that the cursing is only there as a—failed—attempt at bad, lazy humor got me thinking about why I personally liked the cursing, and why I think it serves a greater purpose in the show.

Now yes, some of the cursing does function as an arguably simplistic joke. The most common setup I’ve noticed is one that leans into a contrast in tone/personalities. We see this a lot with the polite, comparatively timid Charlie as she navigates her distinctly vulgar domain.

Charlie: “Hi, mister!” Demon: “Go fuck yourself!”

The entirety of “Happy Day in Hell” plays with this contrast, setting up Charlie’s slightly skewed, but significantly optimistic perspective of Hell. We are shown again and again how her lyrics are contradicted or twisted into something less innocent through the visuals: a “revealing” street where it’s “hard not to stare” has BDSM going on in a nearby window, Charlie will “open the door” for her people and then literally does so... for a guy who’s already dead. (Or, you know, temporarily out of commission until he heals, or whatever demons do when they’re ‘killed’ by things other than angelic steel.) The entire point here is to contrast the happy, skipping girl claiming that there’s a “warm, fuzzy feeling” in the air with the actual environment of unchecked fires and decaying limbs. And yes, that can be amusing. Not necessarily for everyone as humor is highly subjective and dependent on context, but distilling this contrast down to the shock of a polite greeting getting a “Go fuck yourself!” in response is a kind of entertainment. Especially when Charlie’s reaction adds another layer: for me that’s a very funny—and currently relatable—expression.

We can potentially make the case that this humor format overstays its welcome, but I personally think the show does a good job of keeping Charlie’s cursing both simple and comparatively rare, so that when she is put into these contrast situations the humor lands better. The best example I can think of in the latter half of the show is Susan. There we get the whiplash of polite, trying-to-get-these-people-to-like-her Charlie reaching a breaking point to become “FUCK YOU, YOU OLD BITCH” Charlie. It’s a moment that builds off of the earlier surprise of the courteous Alastor calling someone an “Ornery old bitch”—while Rosie is trying (and failing) to find a nicer way to phrase this.

However, as stated above I think the cursing serves more of a purpose than to just be funny for (some) viewers. Beyond those who simply find cursing distasteful, I’ve seen a fair bit of, “This is so stupid. No one even talks like that!” going around.

Except... I do? I talk like that.

See, I like cursing. I was born to former hippie parents and grew up playing MMOs, so cursing was something I became pretty acclimated to. Personally, I’m glad I was because I’m fascinated by language and cursing—for better or worse—is an integral way that many people communicate. I was taught to see cursing not as the Bad Forbidden Thing You Must Never Ever Do, but rather as just another form of expression, something to be used in moderation and under specific circumstances. Once I became an adult I already understood how I wanted to curse and when it was appropriate to do so. People at work are often shocked when I tell them I curse a lot because no, of course I’m not doing that at my job. That isn't considered professional in this space. Among my friends though?

We can sound a lot like the Hazbin crew.

Undoubtedly the most common curse in the show is “fuck” and its variations, which very much tracks with my personal experience among other people who curse. In fact, it’s so ubiquitous that it barely counts as a curse at all in some groups. It’s more of an easy, accepted way to add emphasis. Vaggie’s “What the fuck was that?” about Alastor’s commercial is a perfect example. She’s pissed and simply saying “What was that?” doesn’t carry the same weight, no matter how angry she may sound when she says it. Vox’s long “Fuuuuuuuck” at the end of “Stayed Gone” conveys an emotion you just can’t capture any other way. No dialogue at all would create a fundamentally different experience of Vox’s feelings and another non-cursing response is just gonna hit different. Not necessarily bad, just different.

“I don’t want to go to the party!” “I don’t want to go to the freaking party!” “I don’t want to go to the fucking party!”

The above represents three distinct characters to me and I think Hazbin Hotel gets that. Cursing isn’t thrown around randomly because something something cursing supposedly sells; it’s all linguistically logical. Characters curse when something surprising or bad happens, or when something unexpectedly good happens, when they’re angry, trying to be sexy, or they want to add that emphasis. That’s a lot of different situations where cursing can be useful and when you use “fuck” in your daily life a lot you become pretty desensitized to it. As said, for many it’s barely a curse at all. Which means that when you really want to curse you’ve got to up the ante. It doesn’t surprise me one bit that the two uses of “cunt” I can recall—a word that is generally considered far worse than “fuck” and makes a lot of people understandably uncomfortable—is used by two of the worst characters in moments that are meant to horrify the viewer:

Adam: “Can’t wait a whole year to slaughter those little cunts / I know it’s just been a week, but we’ll be back in six months!” Valentino: “When I say you’d better get that fucking cunt out of my studio, you say...?”

This horror is especially emphasized in Valentino’s scene. The creators know this word is coming up and deliberately build towards it. Angel is currently being abused and has been reminded that Valentino “owns” him. The above question is a part of a trio that Valentino asks (a standard structure in writing), wherein the third option is the outlier/most shocking of the three. The animation leans into that shock, with the music building and Valentino grabbing Angel to pull him close right on the word “cunt.” Perez even puts emphasis there because he knows that this is a significant word that will change our understanding of Valentino.

Despite having hit Angel multiple times and taunting him with the contract, this is the moment Valentino stops playing the ‘nice’ employer. This is the real him. No more fake compliments and endearments aimed at Charlie, no more fake comfort/intimacy aimed at Angel. That “cunt” conveys a hell of a lot about how Valentino really sees them and when you have a cast of characters who are already cursing on the regular, it takes a word on that level to do that kind of work. If Valentino had said, “get that fucking bitch out of my studio” it wouldn’t have had nearly the same impact because he’s the kind of guy who uses "bitch" even when playing ‘nice.’

Adam’s line from “Hell is Forever” does very similar work. The scene needs a word to align with the horrific reveal that another extermination is just six months away, that conveys Adam’s deep disgust for Charlie’s people, and that still catches the viewer’s attention even though he’s the character (I believe) who curses the most. Here the music drops and Adam is a little closer to speaking than singing; there's this shift because, like with Valentino, our perception of him is shifting. This isn’t just some egotistical idiot who wants to be called “Dick Master,” he’s the leader of an army coming to gleefully kill them. Framing a whole world of people—people Charlie loves—as “cunts” while treating their murder as a holiday that can’t come soon enough creates an, 'Oh shit. This guy is actually a threat' understanding that you can’t quite get with anything else.

On a smaller scale, cursing does other character work throughout the whole show. I watched a number of cursing compilation vids for this meta (that was a trip lol) and again, cursing is not thrown in randomly. Each character has a unique way of cursing that aligns with their personality and motivations:

As said, Adam curses the most in the show which helps sell his truly over-the-top, irreverent personality. Linguistically, the amount he curses also allows for some fun grammatical play. Lines like, “Fucking love putting my name on shit, shit’s the best!” help convey the versatility of cursing.

Also as said, Charlie curses a fair bit but she’s comparatively polite and her cursing tends to be a result of genuinely big emotions—like saying “Crap” when she’s shocked and falls, or “Shit!” when Adam locks her out of the room—rather than sprinkled into her conversations as a modifier. That leaves space to create those moments of amused surprise when Charlie really let’s loose.

Sr Pentious curses even less than Charlie which fits his secretly gooey center. He talks a big game at the start of the show, but he’s actually quite bad at being, well, bad (especially the Amazon version compared to pilot!Pentious). His idea of getting one over on Alastor is ripping a bit of his coat. He loves his Egg Bois and “doesn’t want to live” without them. He has no desire to go into battle without minions/a big machine to hide behind and, of course, he’s the first to be redeemed. He's too much of a secret sweetheart to curse a lot.

Interestingly, Niffty doesn’t seem to curse at all. At least, not enough for me to think of examples off the top of my head. Right now I’m inclined to read that as an extension of her lived experiences/design—the cute 1950’s housewife archetype who is obsessed with keeping things clean doesn’t [gasp!] curse—as well as a way to maintain her legitimate creep factor. As said, cursing is common among the hotel residents and is a way for them to linguistically fit in. Niffty, however, is positioned more as an outsider (despite how much they all obviously love her): she’s actually scary in a way most demons aren’t and despite how weird this whole world is, she stands out as someone no one else can make sense of (even Alastor). If cursing is normal, Niffty is a character who is decidedly positioned as not normal.

Angel curses a fair bit, though his irreverence is conveyed more through innuendos. Angel is great at verbally twisting others’ words (especially Husk’s) to give himself a conversational advantage:

Husk: “Go fuck yourself” Angel: “Only if you watch me~”

Husk: “You’ve come—” Angel: [very loud orgasm noise] Husk: “...to the right place.”

Meanwhile, Husk uses “fuck” plenty, but he’s also one of the few characters who use “bullshit" too. I wouldn’t say there’s anything particularly revealing about that choice, but just giving him a go-to curse that’s otherwise used infrequently helps make his character distinct in a cast of other cursing characters.

Vaggie occasionally curses in Spanish, showing us her heritage if she used to be human, or a distinct knowledge/verbal preference if she’s always been an angel.

Heaven, as the ‘good’ side, doesn’t curse as a general rule, which leaves room for cursing to do more of that silent character work. We’re reminded of the stuffy, overly critical beings she’s dealing with when Charlie receives the combined judgement of the court for saying, “Fuck yeah!” In contrast, we understand just how shocked St. Peter is to see a Morningstar when he lets out an unintentional “Fuck!” The angry vindication of Charlie’s “That’s what the fuck I’ve been saying!” lands harder after multiple scenes of very little cursing, and Lute’s “Some crack-whore who fucked up already? / He blew his shot like the cocks in his mouth—” helps set her apart as an exorcist + Adam's second in command: her shocking violence comes through in her word choice too; words that supposedly don't belong in Heaven.

In what’s arguably the funniest line in the whole show, Lucifer undermines his dramatic standoff with Adam by going, “You mess with my daughter and now I’m going to fuck you.” Beyond just cutting the tension, that fits his bumbling, oblivious personality perfectly. Lucifer is crazy powerful and can absolutely wreck Adam. He also has none of the classy intimidation that, say, Alastor displays when he tries to convey that. This is a depressed himbo who makes ducks in his free time and settles on, “Hey, bitch!” when greeting his estranged daughter. Of course he’s going to accidentally turn a threat into a promise of sex.

Which finally brings me to Alastor, someone whose cursing is already understood well by the fandom. He’s characterized as manipulatively courteous, using manners to both hide his true nature and draw attention to his power—’You’re so beneath me I’ll just calmly sip my coffee and politely ask who you are, despite the fact that we've fought multiple times.’ This is a guy who calls people “My dear” and unironically insults them with the phrase “wacky nonsense.” So when he curses you can BET it’s gonna have an impact. It sure did for me. I had to pause the episode after Alastor’s first “Fuck you” because it was so shocking to hear that language from him. And that’s the point! The scene wants that reaction from the audience. The "Fuck you"s visceral anger contrasting the fake laughs he and Lucifer have been giving, the quick-fire exchange that’s suddenly cut short by Alastor’s choice of a direct insult, the fact that he’s officially dropping the polite veneer they’ve both been indulging in and raising the stakes before Charlie intervenes, the loss of the radio filter that otherwise demonstrates his control over a situation... all of it screams, ‘THIS IS AN IMPORTANT CHARACTER MOMENT.’

"Fuck you” reveals that, for the first time in the show, Alastor is legitimately threatened by someone. Which makes sense given that, you know, Lucifer is the King of Hell. Cursing for Alastor isn’t normal, so when he does curse it’s going to reveal something about a guy who otherwise is obsessed with being unknowable. Having the King of Hell dismiss him is actually infuriating in a way Sir Pentious’ threats could never be and the exchange kicks off a rivalry that rattles Alastor in ways Vox’s never has. (Side note: is it any wonder people ship them? Character A making control freak Character B feel vulnerable is classic!) It’s no surprise to me than that the one other true curse we get from Alastor is, “I’m about to end your fucking life,” delivered to Adam who, like Lucifer, poses a legitimate threat and does end up beating him. I say “true” curse because calling Susan a “bitch” does similar work for him, but the takeaway is humorous rather than dramatic. It’s funny that the only people who can piss Alastor off enough to curse are the First Man/a powerful exorcist angel threatening his life, the literal King of Hell... and Susan.

So there’s a lot going on here, more than what many viewers might assume if they approach the show as just “stupid,” needlessly vulgar entertainment. As shown above, I don’t think the cursing is needless, especially given that, well... they’re in Hell. They’re sinners, supposedly the worst that humanity has to offer, so of course they're going to curse a lot. Does cursing mean you’re a bad person? No. Can you craft a hellish world that doesn't rely on cursing to convey a group's immoral nature? Sure.

Does it make sense that a writer would equate a sinful, irreverent cast with linguistic rebellion and would want to convey a certain vibe that, frankly, you just can’t get without dropping an F bomb?

Yeah, I think so. No one has to like that kind of creative decision, but it’s worth acknowledging it as a deliberate choice.

That’s all! Thanks for reading this fucking long post ✌️

[adoregojo]

✘ unrequited love

summary: loves echoes through the darkness, yet there's no light to erase it.

or

↝ they like you, you don't seem to share the bits of it.

context: unrequited love, angst no comfort, !!gn reader!!, angst and also angst, mention of blood, character: isagi, bachira, nagi, rin.

Isagi.y

he felt his heart break a bit, didn't shatter. just a little crack that made him lose his breathing track for a second.

he has to take a step back from you, to 'comprehend’ it, and by that he means living his ordinary road, just with a new layer of wretchedness. He really tried going on his old ways, yet his attempts were futile. He wouldn't utter a tune on breakfast with his family, his friends would ask him why he stuck to the mud all of a sudden, he would woolgather like there was a castle in the sky, in class, in practice to the locker room.

he would walk back home, stare at the mirror, and surveyed his features. fingers crossed his face, did he perhaps not fit the standards? more importantly, your standards? he does realize that he wasn't that much of an eye candy, but he definitely wasn't an eyesore either. did he look too basic? he’ve always been told that by his teammates一yet you always told him that they're just jealous that they don't carry the most splendid, navy blue pairs of eyes around really一god, he really missed you.

he tried, he really did try to connect the puzzle, solve it to get the idea out of your mind. laying in bed with his hands behind his head, his ceiling seems to be the most interesting thing to ever exist. Was he not your ideal type? you always told him that as long as heart remains genial, it’d be good enough. did his heart come out as ruthless? well, it's not like his behavior on the field is helping.

it took him a good long days to get it, this was not a game he could fathom in a blink, this was you. he can't change what you think of him, he can't force you to see him as the almighty devotion defines that he sees you as, he can't make you love him, as much as he wishes and prays to. for once, this isn't something that his ego could grasp on, even for his sake.

he asks you to be friends again, if you were kind enough to agree, he'd be willing to get on his knees, thanking what you had left of sympathy for him. even if life never came back like it used to, as long as you're by his side, it's not the end of the world just yet.

isagi could just wish, you’d somehow discern a new corner in your heart that’ll behold as a sense of love for him, for what he had of selfishness clinging onto him, for what he had of undying love for you.

Bachira.m

he really, lived and witnessed the world ending through his eyes and mostly his heart.

to put it mildly, bachira have always been out of place. to other people, he didn't seem to reach out of his weird spot he somehow earned. you were nice though, the nicest person he had ever met, you were his special place, and the safest of all. his favorite flower and the references to cross his brush over the pearly white papers. and with all the cheesiest in the world一his universe.

it was an unyielding thing to not catch feelings for you, his ever first friend that didn't feel ashamed when hearing his name beside yours, till he found himself wanting more than just that title, for you to be his better half sounded like a paradise blessing pouring on him.

there would be dreams where he'd finally get to press his lips against yours, it's too good to be true, the warmth and the dizziness, the sweet flavor against his lips was making his mind melt to a pool, made him heat up like he was standing above a low steam stone, he wanted more, till he'd fell unconscious in your arms from the lack of air, never ever wanting it to come to an end, yet I'll eventually burn to ashes.

he never hated you, he could never. even when you uttered the words of rejection that came like a keen pain right up his chest. it hurts, more than any punch, kick or insult he'd receive. his wheel of life seemed to diminish, and his eyes began to water.

a part of him knew this was coming, even when you became something of him, there will always be a sound whispering how inadequate he'll remain, no matter how he tries.

but hey, it's bachira. the same guy that’ll always look at the brightest side. above all, it's still love, yeah? even if you didn't return it, he was grateful that he somehow got to experience it, to pick raw flowers from the backyard with the biggest, lovesick smile glued to his face. to wake up everyday just to see you again was enough reason to leap off the bed. he was glad to say he for once, had a crush, coating the fact that his feelings got smashed to a wall. he was glad to feel any sense of true love.

your existence alone in his world was the definition of bliss, maybe he was sad because he wasn't in yours.

after all, you loving him back was too good to be true. being your friend should be an honor itself, he’ll keep on telling that to himself, till he finds the right extinguisher for the fire you lit up his heart.

Nagi. S

“sei.. I'm sorry, but I don't like you that way.”

“oh.” it was light, a tune of realization. In an instant, his eyes are empty again, the world blends to a hue of gray he knows the most, and suddenly sinking into a dreamless slumber for a whole day sounded like a brilliant idea.

“okay.” that's it, that's all he had to say before he's.. him again. he was nagi again, not the seishirou that fell smitten and starstruck, the one you made with your bare hands, the better version一the happiest version of himself.

he doesn't get a grasp on why he felt nothing at that moment, but at the same time he felt everything一it almost felt like he had an organ failure, but also his heart rate draw at halt. it was hard to put it on words一but what he knew, he definitely never, ever wants to experience anything like that again.

for the longest time, nagi always lends to your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours, it's been like this for the longest time. you and him, perhaps against the world一but really, it was more like you against the world while he immerse in your shadow.

he didn't mind. your light has always been overcasting. your smile was radiant, with your eyes aglow, he couldn't help but feel small. he was nothing against the brightest star to ablaze at him, and for the countless nights, he'd wondered一why him? nagi didn't exactly embrace the fact he was a slacker, he just tended to let it be this way, it was too much of a hassle to correct it一or maybe it was a truth that cannot be denied, who knows.

it was mostly his fault, for getting too used to you, for leaning on you like his own wheel of life. but he didn't want to let you go, it would be a pain一he was selfish after all.

nagi would slim down on your shoulder, he can feel your slightest tenseness. you were always comfortable, so comfortable that he could just be one with you.

“do you like me back yet?” he would ask, you say nothing. he’d inhale a soft sigh, snuggling onto you even more till his snowy locks kept on tickling the skin of your neck.

“that's okay, I'll stay here until you like me back.”

you again say nothing, but you’ll let him hold your hand, meshing your palms together. maybe he'll let go when his heart stops skipping a beat for you, or when the world comes to crumble, but they both end up with the same fate anyway, so it didn't really matter.

Rin.i

he knew he'll at some point regret this. wanting you of all people was a sin, a forbidden love.

despite his ears ringing, and his heart dropping to his core. he saw it coming, he would mutter that he'd be ready for it, just for it to sting like a sore thumb. it felt like he was collapsing on the ground with a pool of blood and tears, and all you’d do is watch with pity.

he felt bare, naked and exposed, he wanted to hide. he felt rejected and small. Suddenly he was fifteen again, pleading for his big brother to not leave him to rot in the cold, to not let the snow be the only source of comfort he had instead of a warm embrace.

for once, he had felt his heart swell with adoration一for a second, he didn't even have a name for that feeling, was was genuinely confident that you were making him somehow ill, there had to be a medical explanation for the mini heart attack he suffered from whenever he witnessed you at elation.

he allowed it to happen, he should've pushed you away more, he should've stood up his ground, he should've made more effort to strengthen his walls that you decayed with ease.

but what was there to wonder about the ‘what if's’ and the ‘maybe's’ yet again here he was, playing a secondary role in the ones he loved the most once again. digging his own grave stupidly.

for the first time in forever, he didn't feel like it was a challenge to love him, he didn't have to look at his reflection and grimace, he didn't have to be muddled by the name ‘itoshi sae’ this time, he was rin一your rin, was it bad that he wanted to live by that? it felt right to.

he knew he wasn't perfect, maybe even his flaws swamped over what he had of strengths. yet you seemed to admire him through it all, you looked at him like he was something一someone, he wanted to be that someone to you.

you managed to make everything look soft, feel warm. you stained his world with colors he thought he forgot the hues of it, he thinks he likes you a little too much.

for the longest time, rin was afraid he'll eat the life out of you, just like the maggots adore the flesh. seems like he was worried about nothing, because he’ll never be what he ought to be一yours.

you probably hate him, he did exclaimed hurtful things, he saw your eyes narrowing into a pained expression, it ached more than any rejection. he didn't know why, he was overwhelmed, angry and blinded by rage一and like the predictable itoshi he was. he revealed his cuspids and went for the throat.

he just wanted to hurt you back, that's what felt right at that moment. and yet as soon as he saw shedding tears running down your cheeks, satisfaction never came across, all he felt was a deep-seated regret. he felt ugly, sour and mean. and most of all, cruel.

and when rin sinks to his bed, he curls himself to a ball, hugging his knees to his chest. did his heart die already? or was he just too numb to feel anything at the moment? all he can sense is tiredness, so he closes his eyes to nothingness. where he dreams about you, with him in the summer breeze and cheap popsicles, and nothing bad happened to you and him.

sounds like a nice dream.

[mortalityplays]

Hi! I really liked and agreed with your post on purple prose, and I was curious what books if any you'd describe as having purple prose. Not even necessarily as shorthand for calling it bad! just examples of it, especially from non-classic literature. Unless the term is entirely subjective lol. Feel free to reply to this ask publicly or privately; I don't mind either way

Have some Conan the Barbarian (sorry about! the racism):

TORCHES flared murkily on the revels in the Maul, where the thieves of the east held carnival by night. In the Maul they could carouse and roar as they liked, for honest people shunned the quarters, and watchmen, well paid with stained coins, did not interfere with their sport. Along the crooked, unpaved streets with their heaps of refuse and sloppy puddles, drunken roisterers staggered, roaring. Steel glinted in the shadows where wolf preyed on wolf, and from the darkness rose the shrill laughter of women, and the sounds of scufflings and strugglings. Torchlight licked luridly from broken windows and wide-thrown doors, and out of those doors, stale smells of wine and rank sweaty bodies, clamor of drinking-jacks and fists hammered on rough tables, snatches of obscene songs, rushed like a blow in the face. In one of these dens merriment thundered to the low smoke- stained roof, where rascals gathered in every stage of rags and tatters—furtive cut-purses, leering kidnappers, quick- fingered thieves, swaggering bravoes with their wenches, strident-voiced women clad in tawdry finery. Native rogues were the dominant element—dark-skinned, dark-eyed Zamorians, with daggers at their girdles and guile in their hearts. But there were wolves of half a dozen outland nations there as well. There was a giant Hyperborean renegade, taciturn, dangerous, with a broadsword strapped to his great gaunt frame—for men wore steel openly in the Maul. There was a Shemitish counterfeiter, with his hook nose and curled blue-black beard. There was a bold- eyed Brythunian wench, sitting on the knee of a tawny-haired Gunderman—a wandering mercenary soldier, a deserter from some defeated army. And the fat gross rogue whose bawdy jests were causing all the shouts of mirth was a professional kidnapper come up from distant Koth to teach woman-stealing to Zamorians who were born with more knowledge of the art than he could ever attain.

Conan is an interesting example imo because it displays a lot of the highs and lows of pulp. Robert E. Howard could also write very punchy, straightforward action, and often did - but part of the selling point for the emerging genre fiction of the era was that it was lurid and lascivious. While the extract above is. Well. Bad. It is worth recognising that within its context it was also kind of experimental.

Howard wrote these drooling, sort of bewildering, sensory passages for the same reason Marvel movies punch you in the face with saturated colours and rapid cuts and a billion VFX. You see it in the work of H.P. Lovecraft too, and I will grudgingly acknowledge that that's something worth recognising about his literary impact. I also think Lovecraft was a pretty bad technical writer, personally, but that's a whole other soapbox.

My point is that a lot of truly purple prose today (in the sense that it is extraneous, distracting, undermines its own function) traces its legacy to this era of pulp where there was a distinct secondary purpose to overwhelming the reader with ornamentation. It was self-consciously indulgent, and strikingly distinct from the more genteel floridity of equally bad literary novelists. For instance, compare the above with the even purpler prose of the famously awful Irene Iddesleigh:

On being introduced to all those outside his present circle of acquaintance on this evening, and viewing the dazzling glow of splendour which shone, through spectacles of wonder, in all its glory, Sir John felt his past life but a dismal dream, brightened here and there with a crystal speck of sunshine that had partly hidden its gladdening rays of bright futurity until compelled to glitter with the daring effect they soon should produce. But there awaited his view another beam of life’s bright rays, who, on entering, last of all, commanded the minute attention of every one present—this was the beautiful Irene Iddesleigh. How the look of jealousy, combined with sarcasm, substituted those of love and bashfulness! How the titter of tainted mockery rang throughout the entire apartment, and could hardly fail to catch the ear of her whose queenly appearance occasioned it! These looks and taunts serving to convince Sir John of Nature’s fragile cloak which covers too often the image of indignation and false show, and seals within the breasts of honour and equality resolutions of an iron mould. On being introduced to Irene, Sir John concluded instantly, without instituting further inquiry, that this must be the original of the portrait so warmly admired by him. There she stood, an image of perfection and divine beauty, attired in a robe of richest snowy tint, relieved here and there by a few tiny sprigs of the most dainty maidenhair fern, without any ornaments whatever, save a diamond necklet of famous sparkling lustre and priceless value.

Christ. Hopefully you can see the depth of the scale here - the Conan extract is muddy and difficult to read, but this is near incomprehensible. Part of the reason this passage is so much worse is that there is even less intent behind the author's use of language. Here, she is working overtime to evoke a kind of dramatic-intellectual style borrowed from writers like the Brontë sisters (imo at least - not an expert, that's just the sense I get as a reader). The further these flourishes get from lending purpose to the meaning of the prose, the harder they are to parse.

BUT my other point is: far fewer writers these days set out to emulate Irene Iddesleigh's arch, roundabout, society conscious voice than they do the hallmarks of classic pulp. We're inured to sex and violence, sin and debauchery in fiction today, so extracts like the Conan example feel even more bloated than they did in their time. And that creates a real pitfall for amateur genre writers: the instinct to pay homage to the stylistic choices of the classics can lead them right into Irene Iddesleigh territory.

Too often, the purpose of these overwrought, leering descriptions isn't calculated to thrill the audience, but to establish a piece in the company of older works the writer admires. And that's what leads to truly purple prose in contemporary genre writing, which makes readers scoff and laugh, which makes authors self-conscious and timid, which leads us here to a point where wordy description is inaccurately identified as the problem. It's not. The problem is excess - and when something has purpose, by definition, it's not excessive.

[catscidr]

Ok, crowtorre? 10/10. THE 💣 💣 💣 😭 But omg how would he fair with a cat or wolf hybrid reader..

PLS

NOO he would be such a tease!! he’d be so mean!! im imagining cat hybrid reader (bc im biased lol) but LORD he’d be even more mischievous than usual, to the point where you go out of your way to avoid him at all cost if you get that feeling in your gut that tells u he’s going to be particularly annoying (he’s pissed you off so often you eventually developed a sort of sixth sense related to it. a headache radar, if you will)

(prev crowttore post for context)

cw: crow hybrid!dottore x afab!cat hybrid!reader. established relationship, he’s annoying, pure rambling from yours truly so barely even proof read. second half is nsfw, minors dni, scara mentionned once, rough sx, possessive behaviour, talks of breeding, overstim, smidge of aftercare.

“your reactions are entertaining” he’s told you once, his excuse whenever you shove him away from you. ever since then, you’ve tried to keep your reactions to a minimum. give him nothing more than a glare. but you fail. every single time. it’s not your fault he’s so good at reading people!! curse his big wrinkly brain

it’s not all that bad, though. sometimes he helps, like when you have knots in your shoulders he’ll gladly "preen" you and rid you of the pesky tension building up in your aching muscles with his nimble fingers. sometimes he even takes time to brush your tail for you; but that’s not something he does solely for your benefit. he’ll pluck out the fur that gets caught in the brush, and he'll use it for... something. you never asked, and you don’t really want to know (especially considering what he does to people on a regular basis)

but, at the end of the day, being with dottore is a chore at best. he can be a decent partner, but he, for some reason, makes it his mission to get on your nerves everyday. he’ll poke and prod at your ears and tail, “begging” you in a mocking tone to let him run tests on you. he’ll invade your personal space on purpose until you hiss and swat him away, only for him to grab your wrist and taunt you to “try harder than that”.

even if he doesn't go out of his way to irritate you, sometimes you'll just glance at him and get annoyed. maybe that was just a reflection of how little patience you had around him, though.

at this point you’ve lost count on how may times he’s run your patience to the ground (whether on purpose or not), but if there's one thing he's good at its pleasing you. he's smart (though calculating), dexterous, and observant. surely that means that he'll ditch the teasing and be a good boyfriend for you once you go through your monthly heats!

NO. LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER. WRONG!!!!

you'll be writhing in discomfort in his bed, tail all fluffed up and twitching, swiping at the sheets beneath you as you rut into his pillow. you're smearing slick all over the fabric, a mix of curses and whines slipping past your lips.

he refused to take the day off to take care of you when he saw the state you were in, saying something like "you're an adult, surely you can control your urges" with the same, sickly sweet smile he flashes at you whenever you pout at him. he even made sure to give you a kiss after he left your shared flat to go to his lab, something he never does.

and there you were. watching the clock tick, impatiently waiting for him to come home to replace the stupid toys that couldn't even drag one measly orgasm out of you. not a single one. all you could think about was him, him, him.

you could barely smell him on the pillow anymore, since all you smelled was how horribly horny you were. but as soon as you heard the front door open and the familiar sound of his boots stepping on the worn-out "welcome" mat, you swear you felt even more slick drip out of you (if that was even possible)

the second dottore steps into his room and he's at arms length, you grab onto his sleeve and tug him closer. unfortunately for you, your muscles are considerably weaker than usual and you don't even get to move him even an inch closer to you.

he revels in the whines that leave you and in your discomfort. he's both the best and worst person to take care of your heat; he knows what he's doing, sure, but he also knows exactly what to do to keep you right on the edge. both with actions and words.

"why would I help you with you heat, darling? don't you need a fellow feline hybrid to help you?" he coos, slipping his coat off of his shoulders, making you all but drool at the sight of the harness hugging his firm torso.

"no. no, fuck you, i need you," you whine, a pout tugging at your lips as you take in a deep breath to steady yourself. he just smiles, bending down to your level to cup your face in his soft, feathery hands to speak to you in that condescending tone he always uses this time of the month. "want me to call the balladeer to take care of you? i'm sure he'll be delighted to blow off some steam. and he'll be helping you, too! don't you want that? to have his cat cock drilling into you?"

when you scowl, tail whipping against the bed with dull thumps, he grins. of course he would never hand you off to his coworker, he doesn't trust any of the harbingers around you when you're in heat anyways. dottore knows only he can quench your insatiable thirst, but he adores hearing it from you. hearing you whine and beg for his touch, for his cock gives him an ego boost- makes that primal, possessive part of him coo in delight.

and when he finally touches you, black nails scraping against your sticky, sweaty skin, you swear you almost cum on the spot. it would have been embarrassing if it wasn't for the fact that you had been on edge the entire day. at least he was kind enough to make you cum properly with his fingers one time to rid you of that hunger for just a second, enough for him to get rid of his slacks to free his aching, hard cock from its confines.

seeing you beg for him fed his ego and, in turn, made his blood rush down to his second head, you really can’t blame him.

he manhandles you so easily it makes you throb with need, your first orgasm having faded away already, making you ache for him to pull another one out of you. and he would do so oh so graciously, pulling your ass back with a tug on the base of your tail, admiring the view of you on all fours just for him.

“ahh… i’ll never get tired of seeing you like this, waiting all nice and pretty for me. want me to fuck you nice and good, don’t you? breed you full of my seed?” he coos right into your ear, pulsing erection sliding up and down your wet folds, just barely dipping inside of your hole. you hiss, words failing you as you slip a hand between your legs to guide him inside.

and he lets you, smirking at the sight of his stubborn, headstrong partner reduced to a puddle of carnal need. you feel all nth inches of his hard cock fill you up and you cum hard, crying as you finally get what you had been craving for hours. his length all snug inside of you, letting you cockwarm him until the aftershocks of your climax fade and he can start moving in you, fucking you.

it would only be the beginning though, because he always made it his mission to “beat” your heat, so to speak. make you cum on his cock so much you would be pushing him away, weakly tapping his chest and clawing at his back as you plead for him to pull out.

you’ll be pinned to the bed on your stomach as he thrusts into you; sharp, hard plaps echoing in the bedroom over and over again, the bedsheets soaked with your juices and his seed. you can barely even think of running away, brain reduced to mush as he admires the way your ears seem to be glued down to your head, tail flicking weakly in time with his thrusts.

but when he finally takes pity on your poor sore and used cunt, he’ll rub soothing circles on your back as you purr quietly, satiated. for now. he doesn’t bother leaving the room to get a washcloth because he knows you’ll only claw at his arm, pull a few feathers out as a result, and look at him with those eyes that make him want to take you all over again.

he knows you’re tired though, if it wasn’t already obvious by the way you don’t even bother to untangle yourself from the soiled bedsheet you laid on. and he’ll gladly stay with you, keeping his wing spread out over you to keep you warm until you wake up and pounce on him for even more rounds.

[s4ndg3m]

I wanna know ur wallmark divorce headcannons so bad

okokok. i had to type these all up separately so i could organize my ideas. i have like more in my head but they're hard to put into words so this is what you get

cw for alchoholism and general relationship issues. putting it all under the cut. remember these are just my headcanons and thoughts, nothing concrete.

General issues

Conflicting ideals on future life- Wallter being much more of a city guy, while mark prefers a rural setting.

Communication issues- Instead of talking things out they get accusatory and defensive, which means most talks end up arguments.

Further communication issues- They geniunely cannot understand the other half of the time. Wallter will attempt to be subtle in his communication, dropping hints instead of just flat out saying what he wants. Mark cannot pick up on these. Mark's direct communication sometimes comes across as rude and aggressive to Wallter.

General conflict- They have some shared interests, but there's also a lot of things that are important to them that they don't agree on. Like building materials, however silly that might sound.

Mark's issues

Alcoholism- Bit of A drunkard. He insists it isn't an issue but it is when it interferes with plans he and Wallter already had. "It would be weird if I didn't have a few with the boys after a job well done!"

Short-tempered- Which causes even more arguments over small things. (Def not physically abusive toward Wallter, even when drunk)

Abrasive personality- Mark would be more likely to make jabs or meaner jokes because he thinks everyone can take it. He wouldn't understand why someone would get upset over a joke.

He snores really loud- To the point where Wallter usually can't sleep. It builds tensions between them cus either Wallter is sleep-deprived or they never sleep in the same bed.

Dismissive- Wallter will ask/tell him about something that bothers him or something he wants as a gift for a holiday, but Mark usually won't listen.

Oblivious- Won't pick up on hints that Wallter drops, no matter the context.

Wallter's issues

Grey stuff. Wallter loves it, Mark loathes it. They argue over it.

Petty- Incredibly petty. Will make snide comments at Mark when he's upset about something.

Silent- He doesn't help at all with the communication issue, because he just flat out won't say anything! Until it's a big issue, of course. He might make hints but Mark cannot pick up on them.

Insistent on his own opinions- He will often push Mark to think like he does, instead of accepting their differences. It gets frustrating for Mark when he's constantly having to defend his thoughts.

Pretentious- Would absolutely try and take the moral high ground during arguments. He thinks talking in a level tone and not shouting means he's in the right, when really he's the one instigating most of the arguments.

Jealousy- I think he'd be the jealous type. He'd interrogate Mark about his friends and question his honesty often.

~~

I don't think there was one thing that caused the divorce, but a buildup of tension and frustration over the years of their marriage that was never managed. i think they both wanted it to work, even afterward, but neither of them are willing enough to see their issues and work on them. Even then, they kind of ruined the idea of a life with one another because of how horribly their marriage ended.

anyway these are just my initial thoughts on the two. enjoy!