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s1utla · 8 days ago

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ROLLED UP ‘N RUINED ! | MARK GRAYSON X AFAB READER

warnings: 18+, nsfw, usage of weed, oral (f receiving), masturbation (m), cunnilingus, unrealistic pussy eating, mark tries weed but it doesn’t affect him, mark is kinda subby, outgoing ‘n carefree reader, friends with benefits kinda. whimpering.

summary: you try to teach your friend how to smoke a blunt—instead, you learn something entirely different. wc: 3.1k

an: minors dni. i’ve only done weed once n i greened out horribly so this may not be the best description of a good high lmfao. also idc idc mark a d1 eater, literally nothing could convince me otherwise. not proofread excuse any mistakes.

“Does weed even do anything to Viltrumites?” You don’t look at him when you ask, your fingers working the paper, the grind of leaf and resin between your fingertips. A familiar ritual, slow and practiced. The room is thick with the scent of it, sweet and burnt, though the air between you is heavier with something else.

Mark shifts on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him. “Not sure,” he says, voice easy, weightless. He waits, sprawled like a cat in the sun, his hands loose at his sides.You stride over to him ignoring the mess on the table—scattered lighters, empty glasses, a book neither of you had finished—and hold the thing out to him. His fingers brush yours when he takes it.

“Well,” you murmur, striking the lighter, its flame leaping up, carving out the planes of his face in gold and shadow. “Let’s find out.”

The flame kisses the tip, a slow burn. He inhales—too fast, too much—and then it hits him all at once. A sharp cough tears out of his chest, then another, his whole body jerking forward like he’s been punched from the inside. You watch, amused, arms crossed as he fights against his own lungs.

A small laugh escapes you, light and sharp. “You’re not supposed to rush,” you chide, reaching for the blunt, plucking it from his fingers before he can protest. “Here, let me show you.” Smooth, practiced, you bring it to your lips, inhale slow, let the smoke curl inside you like a secret before exhaling in a soft, languid breath.

Mark glares, still half-choking, half-annoyed. “You could’ve started with that first,” he mutters, eyes red-rimmed, voice caught between confusion and irritation.

“’S not even my fault,” you scoff, sinking back into the couch. “Didn’t know you were gonna try ‘n inhale the thing like its air.”

Mark opens his mouth, then shuts it again, because—yeah. Fair point. He takes the blunt when you pass it back, more careful this time, dragging slow like he’s mimicking you. The smoke unfurls from his lips in thin ribbons, dissipating into the dim light of the room.

He exhales, waits a beat. “I don’t feel anything,” he says, flat, like he’s waiting for the universe to prove him wrong.

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. He cannot be serious. “No shit,” you mutter. The fact that he doesn’t know how weed works is honestly embarrassing. You would’ve thought Amber—Who’s often at party scenes—might have taught him at some point, but apparently not.

“It’s not gonna work instantly,” you say, settling deeper into the couch. “Well—actually, I don’t even know if it’s gonna work at all, considering you’re basically, like, half alien.” Mark looks at you, head tilting just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then that small, lopsided smirk appears. “You say it like it’s an insult.”

You huff, rolling your eyes, but there’s a twitch at the corner of your lips. “Maybe it is,” you tease, watching the ember glow between his fingers. “Maybe it’s not.”

He takes another drag, the ember burning low, and you shift closer without really thinking about it. Your bare knees brush against his, the fabric of his sweats soft against your skin. It’s a small touch, barely anything, but it feels like something.

Mark glances at you, eyes lidded, curious. You hold his gaze longer than you mean to. You’ve never really looked at him before—not like this. He’s handsome. Not in the obvious way, not in the way that makes people stop and stare, but in a way that sneaks up on you. The way his black hair falls over his forehead, just a couple strays stand out of place. The way the dim light catches the sharp lines of his face.

And he smells good. Even through the thick haze of weed, his scent lingers—earthy, fresh, something clean that sticks in your lungs longer than the smoke does.

“Stop hogging it,” you say, voice edged with faux annoyance. “Just ’cause I’m teaching you doesn’t mean you get to smoke the whole thing yourself.”

Mark chuckles, a low but sweet sound, it settles somewhere deep in your chest. Instead of handing it back, he lifts the blunt to your lips himself, holding it there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitate—just for a second—before leaning in, letting your lips part as you take a slow drag. The heat of the smoke curls in your lungs, thick and heavy, but you’re barely paying attention to that. You’re too aware of the way his fingers hover near your mouth, the way his gaze lingers, watching.

Maybe it’s the weed settling into your bloodstream, slow and syrup-thick, or maybe it’s just plain curiosity—but the thought creeps in before you can stop it.

You know he’s not a virgin. That much is obvious. But has he ever eaten pussy? Like, really eaten it? The kind that isn’t just half-hearted, obligatory foreplay, but something done with intent? With enthusiasm? You’d take him for the type.

The idea lingers, unexpected and distracting. You steal a glance at him—his lips slightly parted, still damp from the last drag, his expression relaxed, almost careless.

“Mark, have you ever eaten pussy?”The words slip out before you even think to stop them.

Mark freezes, eyes wide like you just asked him to solve a math equation with a gun to his head. It’s almost comical—the way his entire body tenses, the way his brain visibly lags trying to process if he really just heard what he thinks he heard.

“What—?” His voice cracks, just a little. “Why—why would you even ask me that?”

You almost lose it right then and there, laughter bubbling up at the sheer horror on his face. Like the thought has never even occurred to him before. Like you’ve just introduced a concept so foreign, so absurd, that his brain is rejecting it outright.

You bite down on your laughter, pressing your lips together to keep it from slipping out. “We’ve been friends for a long time, I’m just curious,” you say, trying to sound casual, like this is a completely normal topic of conversation.

Mark blinks at you, still looking like he’s in the middle of a mental blue screen. He shifts slightly, running a hand through his hair, clearly debating whether he should actually answer or just pretend this never happened.

A few moments of silence pass, thick and heavy between you. Then Mark exhales, sinking back into the couch, his body relaxing again—except for the telltale flush creeping up his ears.

“No,” he admits, voice low, almost begrudging. “I haven’t.”

You hum, nodding like you already knew. Like it makes perfect sense. You pluck the blunt from his fingers, bringing it to your lips with an easy inhale. “See,” you murmur through the smoke, exhaling slowly. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Another beat of silence, the kind that feels like it’s waiting to be broken. And, maybe because you’re high, or maybe because you just can’t help yourself, you push further. “Why not?” You glance at him, head tilting slightly. “You’ve had, what, two girlfriends? And you never ate it?”

Mark groans, tilting his head back against the couch like he wants to sink into it and disappear. “Why are you so invested in this?” You smirk, tapping ash off the blunt. “I’m just saying, statistically, it doesn’t add up.”

“I mean,” he starts, still staring at the ceiling like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room, “I just never really got the chance, I guess.” You blink at him. Never got the chance? How does someone not get the chance? It’s not like his exes would’ve stopped him—if anything, they probably wanted him to. And then you realize.

He’s a superhero. He barely had time to show up to his own girlfriend’s charity drive or whatever that was, let alone explore his sex life. Between saving the world and getting his ass kicked, there was probably never a moment where things could slow down enough for something like that.

You laugh. You don’t even know why you’re laughing, but it bubbles out of you anyway, light and uncontrollable. Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the conversation, or maybe it’s just him.

And then—before your brain can catch up to your mouth—you say it.

“If you ever want to, you could always practice on me.”

The second the words leave your lips, your whole body seizes with horror. Your once relaxed position vanishes as you jolt upright, hands suddenly restless, fumbling over themselves like they can physically rewind time.

“I meant—like, I meant it—” you stammer, face burning, voice pitching slightly higher. “It was supposed to be comforting!”

Mark finally looks at you, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted like his brain just short-circuited. For a long, agonizing second, he doesn’t say anything. And that somehow makes it so much worse.

Your face is on fire. Actually burning. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, settling hot behind your ears. And then you make the mistake of looking at Mark—his face, usually so composed, is tinted pink, eyes slightly wide, lips parted like he’s still buffering.

Neither of you say anything.

The silence is unbearable. Suffocating. The kind that stretches so long it starts to feel like a tangible weight pressing down on you. You shift awkwardly, hands gripping your knees, mind running a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out how to backpedal—how to undo whatever the fuck this is.

Will you ever recover from this? Can you?

You consider just getting up and leaving. Walking out of the room, out of the apartment, out of the entire city if you have to. Maybe start a new life. Change your name. Forget this ever happened.

Mark’s head is spinning. Racing. In a thousand years, he’s never—never—thought about you like that.

Sure, you’re beautiful. That was always obvious. The kind of beauty that turns heads without you even trying. But he’s never let his mind go there before. Not with you.

You were carefree, nonchalant, always teasing but never crossing that line. Never someone he associated with anything lewd. But now? Now you’re sitting there, flustered and squirming all pretty, looking at him with wide, nervous eyes like you just realized what you said. Like you’re feeling the weight of it at the same time he is.

And fuck—now it’s in his head.

Mark jerks his head to the side, eyes locked on anything but you. The wall, the cluttered coffee table, the faint swirl of smoke in the air—anywhere that isn’t your face, because if he looks at you now, he knows something reckless is going to slip out.

Something he won’t be able to take back.

And then, because his brain is already working against him, because the weight of your words is pressing down on him harder than he can ignore, he hears himself say—“Is—Is that something you’d like?” The second it’s out, he wants to die.

Because now? Now the silence between you isn’t just awkward. It’s charged. Hanging heavy in the air, thick and hot, impossible to ignore. He can’t see your face, but he feels your reaction. The way your body shifts. The way your breath hitches, just slightly.

Your mind is a mess. A tangled knot of confusion, nerves, and something else—something warmer, heavier, something pooling low in your stomach.

And maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the fact that Mark looks too good right now, all flushed and fidgety, broad shoulders tense like he’s fighting a war inside his own head. Maybe it’s the tension, thick and humming between you, pressing into your skin like static electricity.

Either way, your body reacts before your brain can catch up—nipples tightening under your shirt, thighs pressing together, heat coiling deep in your core. And at this point? It’s probably too late to walk it back.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

The words slip out, smooth and easy, but your heart is pounding. Mark finally looks at you, eyes dark, searching. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you like he’s waiting for you to take it back. You don’t.

You take a deep breath, then exhale, slow and steady. And for some reason, it’s relieving. Like you just confessed something you didn’t even know you needed to get off your chest.

Your body loosens, the tension in your shoulders easing as you sink back into the couch—only now realizing you had been sitting upright, practically perched on the edge, like your body had been trying to flee before your mind even decided.

Mark moves toward you, his face still flushed, that pretty pink creeping down his neck. He hesitates for a second, shifting awkwardly, then clears his throat—but his voice cracks slightly when he speaks.

“Uh—I’m not sure how this works, so… can you guide me?” He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes for a moment before glancing back at you. “Or, like, tell me if you don’t like it?”

There’s something endearing about it. The way he’s so earnest, so unsure despite everything else he’s capable of. Mark has fought villains, saved lives, survived things most people couldn’t even fathom, but this? This is what makes him nervous. You should be teasing him for it. You want to. But the way he’s looking at you, waiting, wanting to do this right—it makes your heart squeeze a little.

Honestly, you didn’t think he would do it. Despite your frantic panic, you thought after the initial shock that he’d laugh it off, make some awkward joke, maybe shake his head and change the subject. But here he is—kneeling between your legs, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you, his hands hesitating but steady on your thighs.

He drags your shorts off, discarding them aside like shed skin, and there’s your pretty, plush cunt laid bare before him. It’s not his first time glimpsing such a sight, but never this up close. His breath hitches, and he stares. You’re confused—does he not know what to do? Why is he just sitting there, staring? You’re on the verge of speaking when he edges nearer, parting your lips with a slow, deliberate nudge—strings of slick arousal gleaming between them.

You twitch as he eases in, his warm tongue sliding slow and deliberate between your folds, lapping at your pussy with a lazy, filthy drag, savoring every slick drop that clings to you. You’re sweet on his tongue—warm, slick. Maybe it’s too soon to admit, but he already knows he could get addicted to this. Just the taste of you’s got his dick throbbing and hard and his mind all hazy.

You tip your head back into the couch cushion, legs falling wider as he keeps licking at your sloppy pussy like some dog, all messy and eager. He glances up at you, and the sight alone makes him whimper against your slick, swollen pussy. Your head tilted back, lips parted, and glossy, soft little moans spilling from your throat—each one sinking into his skin, making his cock ache.

“You can use your fingers too… if you’d like,” you murmur, intending it as advice, but it comes out more like a command—breathless, needy. He obeys without hesitation, sliding two thick fingers inside you, eager to make you feel good. The way you squeeze around him, warm and wet, makes his breath hitch. He watches, mesmerized, as he pumps them in and out, each withdrawal leaving them glistening with your slick.

“Fuck, ‘s good, you’re doing so good,” you moan, voice breathy and sweet, and Mark swears he could cum in his pants just from that alone. The way you praise him, all soft and desperate, makes his cock throb, aching for relief. He zeroes in on your clit, licking over it before grazing it lightly with his teeth, earning a sharp gasp from you. His thick, calloused fingers follow, circling the sensitive bud with slow, deliberate motions. You’re soaked—coated in his spit, in your own slick—and the weed coursing through your system makes every touch feel twice as intense, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

It’s filthy—the way he’s practically making out with your pussy, sloppy and desperate, like he never wants you to leave his mouth. His tongue flicks and drags, lips sealing around your clit with wet, hungry sucks, and when your hips buck against him, grinding down for more, he just moans into you. His jaw and nose are drenched, slick dripping down his chin, but he doesn’t stop—if anything, he dives in deeper, like he wants to drown in you.

“Tastes so fuckin’ good,” he whines against you, voice muffled by the mess of your pussy. His fingers are still buried deep, pumping into you with a steady, obscene rhythm, while his other hand is stuffed between his legs, rubbing over the aching bulge in his pants. He’s desperate—humping into his own palm like he can’t help himself, like just eating you out is enough to get him off.

“Fuck—” His words are slurred, muffled by the slick between you. “Tastes like you were made for me.”

It’s messy, shameless—the way he devours you, like he never wants to come up for air. His jaw aches, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just pulls you closer, as if he could disappear into you completely. You grind against his face, chasing the sharp coil tightening low in your belly, and he only urges you on, gripping your thighs, moaning as he lets you use him.

Your moans spill into the thick air, breath hitching as your back arches. “‘M—‘m cummin’,” you mewl, voice high, trembling. The pleasure crashes over you in waves, thighs shaking around his head as you unravel, coating his tongue with your release.

Mark doesn’t stop—not yet. He groans against you, drinking in every last drop, licking and sucking like he’s starved, like he wants to commit your taste to memory. His breath is heavy, uneven, and when he finally pulls back, his lips and chin glisten with you.

His own hand moves frantically, pumping his cock through his pants, desperate, chasing the high that’s been building since he first had you on his tongue. The sounds of your pleasure—the broken whimpers, the way you shake, the way you’ve completely let go for him—send him over the edge. With a sharp, shuddering groan, his hips jerk, and he spills hot and thick into his pants, moaning through it, chest rising and falling in time with yours.

For a moment, the only sound between you is your ragged breaths, the faint hum of satisfaction settling between you both.

That night proved two things: first, that weed clearly has no effect on Viltrumites; and second, that Mark, without a doubt, eats pussy like a starved man.

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible x reader #invincible smut #៹ archive !

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galaxyspeaking · 6 months ago

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“Would you show me a friendly face, once more?” (more writing below)

It was with the familiar smell of ashes burning her nostrils that Lady Galadriel came to the realisation that there was no fight left in her.

If she closed her eyes, she could feel them— the last flickers of a fire long burning finally leaving her body. As she stood there alone, amid the smoke blackening her sight and a tapestry of bodies she could no longer distinguish at her foot, the yearning for the pale waters of the Sea made itself known at last. She welcomed it with great bitterness. So this was her end. The daughter of Finarfin was to set sail home to Valinor. She felt him approach like she always did: a large shadow engulfing soil, corpses and hopes alike, the blade of betrayal still fresh against her skin. She could continue to fight him— she’d done so over and over again, with different faces, different blades, each trying at eroding figments of a once shared kinship to no avail. He would remain Sauron. She would forever be Galadriel. He could not slay her just as she could never rid herself of him in full, and the acceptance of this truth once made her chest cave with grief, right between the puncture points of the crown he’d once pushed against her. “Galadriel,” he greeted her. He considered her curiously. Beneath his helmet, his eyes were glowing embers, nothing like his—witnessing the change in Galadriel, no doubt. She had never given up on an opportunity to deal a blow before, and there he stood before her, tendrils of his armour reaching to her like a black flame, yet she was not moving. He took a cautious step forward. “Are you not going to fight me, today?” She stared blankly at him—through him, through what once was, what could be, what would be. “Would you show me a friendly face, once more?” She asked instead. Tired. She was so tired. As she let her head fall against his shoulder, he stood very still. “I would,” he simply said, southern vowels scraping against his throat, low, barely loud enough for her elf ears to hear. Against all odds, he had granted her her request. Stubble scratched the side of her head as a hand gingerly held the back of her neck, and she allowed herself to feel the solace of his embrace, just this once.

She had started to diminish the day they had met, after all.

#saurondriel #haladriel #trop #rop #galadriel #sauron #halbrand #galaxy draws #galaxy.. writes?#allow me to indulge #come on

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suzdin · 2 months ago

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Home Is Wherever I’m With You

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: After the tragic loss of your father and home, you find yourself at the mercy of a cold, detached stranger who holds your fate in his hands during a violent snowstorm.

Notes: okay fair warning, I started writing this when I was feeling extremely low, and finished it several weeks later when I was doing better, so if it seems disjointed and sloppily thrown together, that’s why! But I swear there’s a happy ending!

Warnings: ANGST!!! I cannot stress the amount of angst. Suicidal thoughts and ideation, especially at the beginning. Alcohol consumption. Main character deaths; all of them. Lots of depression and poor mental health, mostly with Joel. Angsty!Joel, asshole!Joel, soft!Joel, semi-dom!Joel, protective!Joel, masturbation (m), oral (f receiving), face riding, unprotected p in v, creampie, biting/marking, pregnancy heavily hinted at, more angst

Word Count: 7,100+

dividers provided by: @saradika-graphics ❣️

Tags: @ohheypedrito @kateispunk @kellybelly1978 @berryispunk @chronically-ghosted @morallyinept @natdeandar @guelyury @daddy-dins-girl

Joel crouches in front of the old cast iron stove, his knees groaning in protest as he stokes the embers within using an extra scrap of wood.

He doesn’t know why he’s going through the trouble. It isn’t like he’ll be around much longer. Maybe he just wants to feel warmth one last time before he does it. And this time, he won’t miss.

He’ll be cold soon enough anyway.

He gets the fire breathing again, closing the hatch and settling back into the old leather recliner in the corner, worn and cracking with age, much like himself.

He palms the neck on a bottle of bourbon, taking a hefty swig and wiping his lips with the back of his hand, his face crinkling in rumination as he watches the flames dance behind slats of iron.

Sarah. Tess. Tommy. And then Ellie. He had failed each and every one of them; those he claimed to love, who he vowed to keep safe. He had let them down. He had let himself down.

He takes another pull on the bottle and sets it down heavily on the table next to him, replacing it with his Smith & Wesson, heavy digits curling around the grip.

He traces the scar on his temple with the point of his index finger, feeling the faint indentation in the flesh; a constant reminder of yet another failure.

He lowers his hand back to the revolver, finger circling the trigger guard, dark eyes downcast as he attempts to summon the strength to do what he needs to do. Again.

His hand tremors as he lifts the gun and presses the cold barrel to his temple, thumb cocking the hammer back with a hollow metallic clunk that resonates through his skull and soul.

“C’mon, Joel. Get yourself fucking together for once.”

His eyes close, nose scrunched in a deep scowl.

Just do it, Joel. Pull the fucking trigger.

The ball of his index finger curves around the bend of the trigger, twitching with indecision when the back door to the cabin abruptly flies open, temporarily snapping him out of his psychosis.

It’s just the wind. That’s all it is. A gust of wind from the incoming snowstorm.

He doesn’t move from his space on the recliner. The cold won’t matter in a few seconds anyway. He lifts the barrel to his temple again, aligning it just right…

The back door clicks shut. It wasn’t slammed, like the wind would have done had it been the culprit. It very audibly clicked. Like someone or something shut it themselves.

Immediately following the click, he hears the unmistakable scrape of boots on wood, the revolver lowering from offensive to defensive position.

No sooner do you get the door closed that you notice a faint flicker of light from the adjoining room, your heart beginning to thrum like a jackhammer in your chest. From the outside, in your weary state, the dilapidated old cabin looked abandoned as far as you could tell, realizing too late that it isn’t.

But now you’ve stumbled into someone’s den, and they could very well be armed and aiming to shoot. They could even be cannibals for all you know.

You could leave. You could just leave and pretend this never happened. But you haven’t seen any other shelters for miles… and the storm was only going to get worse.

“Who’s there?” a gruff male voice calls out from the other room, breaking through the stifling silence. You go stock still on instinct, your hackles bristled along your spine.

When you’re able to gather your bearings, you respond with your name, your vocal cords numb and strained from the cold.

“I mean no harm. I just need a place to sleep out of the storm. I promise to leave at first light,” you quickly add.

Joel stiffens when he hears a woman’s voice, his finger still circling the trigger guard as it had only moments before when the gun was trained on himself.

“Are you armed?”

“Just a small pistol and a jack knife. And I’m out of ammo,” you call back truthfully.

Everything is quiet for a moment aside from the crackle of flame and the howl of wind that rattles the windows and bends the outer wood. The silence between you and the unseen man feels like it stretches on for ages.

“Approach the door with your hands raised. An’ when I say, slide the gun and knife over to me.”

“Alright,” you reply quietly, approaching the ajar door in front of you, hands already skyward, kicking the door the rest of the way open with the toe of your boot.

You step forward two paces into the room, the scent of alcohol stinging your nostrils, your gaze settling on a haggard looking man in the furthest corner from you. His hair is wild and askew, eyes sunken in like a corpse, recognizing the hopeless glint behind them; no doubt a reflection of your own. A large pistol is clutched in his meaty fist, cocked and aimed.

“Gun first. Then the knife,” Joel says, his brow angled downward in a dark line, shading the even darker set of eyes.

You keep one hand in the air as the other reaches into the band of your jeans, removing the pistol and sliding it to him, stilling as it hits his boot.

He picks it up, discharging the clip to find that it is indeed empty, as you had claimed. He sets it next to the bourbon.

You slide the knife next, an average, run of the mill jack knife with a four inch blade. He inspects it, noticing a few remnants of blood still tarnishing the steel.

“Who’d you kill with this?”

“I used it to skin hares and squirrels.”

His face pinches with confusion, tilting his head at you like a dog hearing an unknown sound for the first time.

“Y’skinned hares and squirrels with a jack knife?” he questions doubtfully.

“It’s all I had,” you explain.

Joel eyes you warily. You’re definitely not dressed or equipped for this kind of weather. The only thing that seems to be keeping you warm is a thin hoodie, a regular set of jeans, and a pair of boots soaked through with snow.

He sighs. He isn’t going to kill himself with you here. He may not be the nicest or most caring man in the world, but he isn’t about to traumatize you. He’ll wait until you leave. You said you’d leave at first light.

In the meantime, he has to deal with someone being in his space, which he doesn’t exactly want to do, especially in his last hours. But he isn’t about sending you to your death, either. You probably have more to live for than he does.

“Here,” he says, kicking an old wicker chair toward you. “Your feet’re soaked. Take off your boots and warm your feet ‘fore you get frostbite.”

You lower your arms and take a cautious step forward, and then another, slowly sinking into the flimsy and rotten chair, bending to unlace and remove your boots.

You try to wiggle your toes but they won’t move, at least not yet. Joel watches with a scrutinizing glare, his hand still on the Smith & Wesson in his lap.

“What’s your name?” you ask him, pushing your boots aside.

“Ain’t important.”

You cast him a look but don’t press, scooting your sore and frozen feet closer to the stove, feeling yourself starting to slowly defrost.

You thank him for letting you stay.

He ignores your gratitude, dark browns drifting over your frame.

“Where’d you come from?” he asks.

“Ain’t important,” you counter, casting him another glance.

He leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, pinning you with a deep scowl.

“I’m the one with the gun,” he chides in a deep timbre, his tone brooking no room for protest. “Guns,” he quickly amends.

Your eyes lock with his momentarily, assessing his conviction before deciding not to test it.

“A settlement near Billings.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

He leans back, his gaze unmoving, letting out a breath through his nose.

“An’ exactly what prompted you to run out into a snowstorm with just a hoodie and no supplies?” he asks.

You flinch as if he’d just backhanded you, averting your gaze. If you were looking, you might notice his face softening, if only just a hair.

“Raiders came into our settlement. My father… he gave me the pistol and distracted them while I snuck under a gap in the fence. I didn’t have time to grab anything else,” you tell him.

“And your dad?” Joel asks delicately.

“Didn’t make it out,” you reply grimly, your body beginning to tremor, a combination of repressed emotion and your muscles beginning to thaw.

Joel falls silent, absorbing your words as truth. He can’t find a reason that you would lie about something like that.

“I’m sorry,” he sympathizes, his voice gentling.

You bring your knees to your chest, your chin resting between them, arms wrapped around your shins.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice hardly above a whisper.

——

Your eyes snap open, realizing you must have drifted off at some point, finding yourself curled into a fetal position directly in front of the dying fire.

A blanket you’re sure wasn’t there before is wrapped around your frame. You’ve no idea where it came from, it’s a bit scratchy and smells funky, but what matters is it’s warm, subconsciously pulling it tighter around your shoulders when you feel a chilled breeze brush over you through the cracks in the wall.

“Mornin’,” Joel hums softly above you.

“Morning,” you echo, shifting as your eyes scan the room, the cabin just as dark and cloaked in shadow as when you arrived. You’re unsure how he knows what time of day it is, but you decide not to question it.

He’s in almost the exact position in the old recliner as the previous evening, his hand unmoving from the revolver still in his lap. You can’t help but wonder if he had any rest at all, not sure if him watching you sleep should be comforting or disconcerting.

You sit up with a stretch, your joints crackling like twigs as you work out the aches of not only having traveled this far on foot, but also sleeping on a hard wooden floor all night.

Better than freezing to death, you decide.

You scoot until your back is flush with the wall, leaning against it as you silently study Joel.

“Thank you for the blanket—“ you begin, but he quickly cuts you off with a hard glare, nudging your dried out boots to you with his foot.

“Boots’re dry. It’s morning. ‘bout time for you to leave,” he says, his voice low and rough.

It dawns on you that it’s still dark because the storm hasn’t lessened at all, banks of snow clogging the windows and doors, blocking out what little available sunlight there is.

Your brow knits together and you cast him a wary glance, bottom lip trembling.

“But it… it’s…”

“The deal was first light, darlin’, and I’ve given you plenty more than that.”

“Please… just… a few more hours? Until the storm dies down some?” you plead, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes, preemptively threatening to freeze your eyelids together.

He’s silent and contemplative for what you feel is longer than necessary, a muscle fluttering in his jaw.

He knows he should send you away, even if it means a certain death. He can’t have you here, swimming in his grief, prolonging the inevitable.

The other option, of course, is to shoot you and then himself, a swift and merciful death that you deserve far more than he does. His fist tightens around the butt of the revolver, an action that does not go unnoticed by you.

“No,” he says plainly.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” you say, your voice cracking with emotion and desperation, shifting to your knees as you shuffle a few inches closer to his chair. He did give you a blanket, so there is a human being in there somewhere. “I can’t—“

“I can barely take care of myself, much less another person. Ain’t nothing you can offer me, nothing to barter with—“

“I’ll let you keep my gun and knife. Please. Just a few more hours…”

His jaw ticks again. Your odds are already low as is, but liberating you of your only means of defense, your only means of perhaps obtaining a meal, if only a meager squirrel or hare, would completely diminish any shred of a chance you have left.

He could give you his one and only jacket. Not that he’s going to need it after you leave, anyway.

“No,” he says again, more sternly than before.

His gaze is unmoving from yours, the slow, steady circling of his pointer finger on the edge of the trigger guard doing little to settle your nerves, the conflict apparent behind his dark eyes.

You know you don’t have much to offer. You’re not great at hunting. You’d exhausted your entire clip on what barely qualifies as a meal, leaving you with very little sustenance once the bullet had almost completely obliterated any viable meat.

You can’t fight or shoot worth a damn, either. Your father had tried to teach you in vain, his frustration with you growing to a fever pitch over the years, but it had never been your forte.

Because you never thought you’d have to live without him.

You can scout. Gather. Keep the cabin up, replace rotting boards and rusting nails, keep it clean and tidy. But not in this weather, and not for a few months yet.

So you default to the last thing you know how to do well. The only thing you know without a shadow of a doubt you’re good at, if any of the men at your settlement had anything to say about it before they perished.

You inch closer, your tired knees scraping against the dirty, splintered wood, hands trembling as you hesitantly reach toward his parted knees.

He anticipates more begging and pleading. Maybe a sob story or two.

What he doesn’t expect is for your hands to grab his belt, the meat of your palm ghosting over his crotch as you fumble to undo the worn rungs of leather.

His cock twitches instinctively and he can’t recall the last time a woman touched him like this. Made him feel anything but dead inside.

He moves with a sudden swiftness that surprises and startles both of you, the hand not currently on the revolver grabbing hold of your wrist like a striking serpent, his grip biting into your delicate bones so roughly you realize how effortless it would be for him to snap your wrist, should he feel so inclined.

He rises to his feet, dragging you with him and giving you a hard, reprimanding shake, teeth bared inches from your face.

It occurs to you seeing him fully upright like this just how tall, how imposing he is; worn, threadbare flannel stretched to its limits across broad shoulders and thick biceps.

“Christ, woman, the hell is wrong with you? What kind of man do you take me for?” he growls, a subtle twang piping up in his voice, his clenched fist releasing your wrist with a minor shove. You stumble backwards, catching yourself on the wall.

His nostrils flare, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, his eyes slipping shut as he tempers his simmering anger… and something else he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“Fuck,” he grunts, eyes slowly opening again, rough digits carding through his graying curls. “If it means that much to you… you stay until the snow stops, an’ not a second later,” he nearly spits in your face. “Got it?”

When you easily nod in agreement, he stalks out of the room with a huff, every heavy footfall vibrating beneath your feet, slamming the door shut between you, leaving you standing there in the middle of the room, alone and unsure what to feel.

—

Joel goes into the now defunct bathroom, the traditional porcelain toilet that was maybe brand new decades ago currently unusable, the water in the tank and plumbing frozen solid, the pipes under the earth most likely cracked and warped.

He drops trow and leans forward with the flat of one palm against the wall, the other hand gripping himself.

He lets out a shaky breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding in, pissing into the cistern he had dug under the cabin two summers ago, a task only made more difficult by the partial erection he now has thanks to your — albeit brief — touch a few moments ago.

“Fuck, Joel,” he sighs as he empties his bladder, his cock only growing stiffer in his hand as he imagines how good your lips would have felt wrapped around him, what kind of pretty sounds you would have made for him.

“Fuck,” he grits again, cramming his painfully hard erection into his jeans when he’s done.

—

Hours turn to days, days to weeks, weeks to months — “until the snow melts an’ not a day later” — spring not far around the corner, the sun growing brighter and hotter in the sky with each passing day.

Joel’s suicidal ideations were still an ever present plague on his brain, though he kept that part of himself tucked neatly away, as he did most things that were personal and private. He never spoke of Sarah, Ellie, anyone. Never talked about his life before Outbreak.

In turn, you never talked about yours either, aside from what you’d told him the first night, too frightened that you might scare him away simply by opening up, by trying to stitch together what little relationship you had with one another.

The more time you spent with him, the more of a burden you began to feel. It didn’t matter how much you helped out, even if you kept a respectful distance between you, especially when he seemed extra bristly or in his head that day. He was always skulking about, his face pinched in indignation in what you were certain was unspoken hatred for you and your existence.

It was early morning and you were at the edge of the valley, the spot near the treeline that was choked with underbrush, gathering pathetically small handfuls of wild strawberries and huckleberries that were just beginning to fruit. Definitely not enough to have much impact on your aching bellies, but it could be supplemental to whatever protein Joel could scrounge up, which hadn’t been much as of late.

You wipe a fresh layer of sweat from your brow despite the air still being bitterly cold, collecting what meager pittance of berries you can, sucking in a breath of air as you steeled your nerves to head back to the cabin.

—

Joel’s door is still closed when you return. Not surprising, considering how early you’d gotten up that morning, Joel likely still exhausted and aching from the ineffectual hunting trip the previous day.

You place the berries into a bowl on the counter, your fingers curling into the peeling linoleum as you stare out the window that overlooks the southern end of the valley, sun cresting through the twisted and gnarled branches of still-bare trees.

You’ve been milling around the idea of leaving for weeks now. You’ve come close to doing so several times, knowing it would make Joel happy to not have you on his mind or in his space anymore.

Your hand hovers near the hunting rifle slanted against the wall, ultimately deciding against it as you tuck your pistol and knife into your pants, tossing half of the berries into a bag and shrugging on the jacket Joel had found for you on a hunting trip.

You take a final glance at his door before sucking in another sharp breath, opening and closing the back door for what you assume to be the last time.

—

Joel hears you return only to leave again a few minutes later. He thinks little of it, something you do frequently throughout the day when foraging or inspecting snares.

He wishes he could express his gratitude to you, thank you for how much you help out. How much you’ve improved his life just by being here. It kills him to see how you shrink away every time he enters the room, but he understands why. He hasn’t given you a reason not to.

Once he’s sure you’re out of earshot, he resumes pumping himself, hips bucking into his fist seconds before spurting hot ribbons of come onto his lower abdomen, eyes rolling back in his skull, your name a curse on his tongue as he imagines your mouth working him over in place of his fist.

As much as he’s wanted to touch you, sink himself into you every night, he’s been too afraid. Afraid to even speak to you, afraid of becoming attached only to lose you, like he’s lost all the others.

—

When you don’t return by mid day, he begins to worry.

He tries not to. He tries to tell himself maybe you decided to forage a little longer than usual, or maybe you’re at the river searching for freshwater clams since the weather is slowly beginning to warm.

Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. That something is wrong.

He finds the bowl of fresh berries on the counter, evident that you had been foraging at least part of the day. But it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t good enough for him.

When you don’t return by nightfall, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong.

This isn’t you.

—

Two days pass and you realize just how badly you fucked up.

The berries barely made a dent in your hunger and the only other food you managed to find were a few wild mushrooms that you’re pretty sure weren’t the edible kind, if the half gallon of resulting vomit an hour later was any sort of indication.

You fucked up. You fucked up royally and you miss the cabin. You miss the warm stove and the bed Joel made for you close to the fire. You miss how he always kept you fed and protected, even if you’re certain he hates you.

You miss Joel. You miss his grunts, you miss the way his face pinches when he glowers. You miss what he looks like when he chews, almost like he’s angry at his food somehow. You miss his smell when he comes home covered in grime and sweat from a full day of hunting.

Dusk has fallen on your second day without food or water, your bones feeling like powder and your muscles like jelly. You’re exhausted, head pounding with a combination of fatigue and hunger as you take shelter from the wind in a small outcropping of rocks, wishing he was here with you.

You’ll go back tomorrow, you decide.

—

Joel watches the sun sink behind the horizon of trees, cloaking the surrounding forest in near darkness.

He knows he should stop to rest for the night. Like you, he left in a rush without grabbing much in way of supplies or sustenance, but had been lucky to graze a buck that he was passively tracking while searching for you. He’ll likely find it soon.

He periodically came across fresh deer imprints in the earth, clean tracks slowly changing to drag marks, indicating the buck was either dead or close to death.

But you were constantly at the forefront of his mind. You were his focus. His reason to keep going. His reason for continuing to live.

And when he finds a perfect indentation of your left boot moments before the sun lowers completely from the sky, he knows he can’t afford to stop now.

—

It’s still dark when you wake up, your eyes coming into focus along the faint edges of what you can see, which isn’t much. Some rocks. Some trees.

You shift, rolling to your opposite side to go back to sleep, tucking your hands under your cheek as a makeshift pillow. A breeze blows over you, made stronger by the funnel of rocks, and you shiver, pulling your jacket tighter.

Snap.

Your eyes fly open again, immediately jumping to your haunches as you palm the pistol next to you.

You train your ears toward the source of the sound, somewhere in the trees, listening intently, your mind on shuffle with all the possibilities of what it could be.

It didn’t sound large enough to be a bear. A puma, perhaps, one who didn’t seem to be hunting you, hopefully, due to how loud the sound was.

Infected? A slim possibility. Rare up here, but not unheard of, which left you with the most likely option: it was human.

You attempt to still your breath, your fist white knuckled around the butt of the gun. It’s too dark to see anything, and all you hear is the soft whistle of the wind.

—

Joel registers the sound of you shifting from somewhere up the incline above him, limbs turning to stone as his mind cycles through all the same scenarios as you.

He lost your tracks halfway through the night, finding himself going in circles, so it’s quite possible it’s not you he’s just stumbled upon.

He slowly removes the rifle from his shoulder, lifting it to half mast in case whomever he’s stumbled across is hostile… or infected.

“I’m armed!” he calls out, lifting the rifle to a defensive position with the butt pressed to his shoulder. “I have no beef with you if you have none with me,” he adds.

You swear your heart stops, tears suddenly stinging your eyes with salt.

“J-Joel?” you whimper, almost imperceptible, but it’s just loud enough.

Joel can only react, unthinking, responding on muscle memory alone as he somehow manages to traverse the steep, rocky incline in seconds without eating it.

You jump upright to your feet, despite how weak you are, and before your brain even has a chance to tell your legs to move, you’re struck by a wall of muscle, thick arms coiling around you and pulling you against his chest.

“Thank god, thank god,” Joel sobs into your hair as he drags you down to the ground with him, his voice softer than you can ever remember, the wetness of his tears soaking through your shirt. “I thought I’d lost you…” he whispers, his voice wavering.

He inhales your scent deeply, his hold on you nearly painful, but you don’t mind, your face against his chest as your own tears start to fall.

—

“I’m sorry,” Joel murmurs softly as you’re walking back the following day, glancing over at you, dark brown eyes gently regarding your side profile in the early morning light. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t care. I just…”

“I know,” you respond, pausing to collect your breath and your thoughts. “I know why you did it. I’m sorry I doubted you. I’m sorry I scared you…”

“Hey,” he says, gently cupping your jaw as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze, calloused thumb tracing your jawbone, pausing at your bottom lip. “S’okay.”

Your lips pucker, impervious to stop yourself from planting a small kiss to the pad of his thumb as it brushes your lip.

He lets out a low breath, his hand snaking around to the nape of your neck, fingers lacing through your hair as he tugs you closer, lips crashing against yours in a passionate, heated kiss that flows trembling from him with every fiber of withheld emotion and desire.

—

You arrive at the cabin half a day later, impressed but not surprised by how swiftly Joel was able to navigate both of you back safely.

He even successfully locates the downed buck, stiff with rigor mortis and cold, half chewed by a pack of wolves that scatter with a single rifle shot fired over their heads, the large animal now dragging listlessly behind Joel as you finally break through the barrier of trees encasing the valley where the cabin resides.

Smoke still curls from the chimney, fire long gone but embers undoubtedly still hot, and you find yourself smiling. With relief, with anticipation.

You’re exhausted, famished and dirty. Yet you still assist Joel in stringing up what’s left of the buck to the outside of the cabin until he can properly butcher it, feeling obligated to do so after everything that’s happened, despite his protests.

Once the task is complete, you retire to the warmth and comfort of the cabin, curled against his chest, feeling at home for the first time in months.

His fingers idly trace the bow of your spine, both of you falling into a fast sleep for what feels like days on end.

—

“I was so goddamn stupid,” Joel growls softly as his lips chart a path down your soft inner thighs, finding himself grinding his hips into the mattress for relief. “So goddamn stupid an’ bullheaded, an’ I almost lost you for it.”

Your spine arcs instinctually when his breath ghosts tauntingly close to your soaked folds, your fists finding his graying locks with a tug.

“Joel, stop talking and make it up to me,” you whine, earning a disapproving glance from between your legs, but there’s an undercurrent of playfulness behind his eyes.

“Make it up to you, huh?” he purrs, separating your folds and inhaling your natural scent. “By tastin’ this perfect little pussy?”

“Yes,” you whine again, writhing like a worm cooking under the sun in his grasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Uh uh,” he scolds, moving further away from where you’re desperate for him. “Ask nicely.”

His lip curves almost imperceptibly into a sly smirk, his gaze growing a shade darker.

“Please, Joel,” you amend, still wiggling, almost involuntary at this point, his fingers digging into your hips as he pins you against the bed.

“Please what?”

“Please, I need to feel your mouth on my pussy,” you whimper.

His nostrils flare, smirk growing just enough for you to realize you weren’t just seeing things.

He doesn’t waste another second as he dives in with a low, reverberative growl and begins feasting on you like a man starved, his meaty forearm barred across your hip to hold you in place so he can eat you out properly.

His tongue parts your folds, licking a broad stripe up your seam with a groan as he tastes your essence for the first time, moving back down to your opening to tongue fuck you, the ridge of his nose grinding deliciously against your throbbing clit.

You tug harder against his strands with a moan, helping to guide him where you need him most.

Joel grunts your name into your core, eyes locking with yours over your mound, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart right then and there.

He abruptly pulls his mouth from you, making you whine in protest, another smirk notching the corner of his lips as he rolls onto his back, rigid cock swaying slightly with the motion of his hips.

“Get on my face, baby, I need to get deeper,” he says, grabbing your wrist and gesturing you closer.

You don’t even have to give it another thought, scrambling over him, folded knees planted on either side of his head.

He yanks you down abruptly to his waiting and eager mouth before you’re halfway settled, tongue curling into your wet heat with a deep groan that vibrates straight through you.

His fingers dig into the meat of your ass, directing your movements, grinding you against his face as he continues to feast on you like you’re nothing less of a five star meal.

Your hands furl the edge of the headboard, spine arching, and it doesn’t take much longer in this position to be sent over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you like a bolt of lightning, Joel’s name a sacred prayer on your tongue as everything inside of you completely uncoils.

He keeps you there long enough to let you ride out your high, tongue still laving at your spasming walls until it’s too much for you to handle.

You shift off of him, his facial hair glistening with evidence of your release as he pulls you down into a rough, needy kiss, letting you taste yourself, flipping you over and pinning you beneath him, arms caged around your head as he grinds his hardness against you.

“You have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about you like this,” Joel confesses, nipping at your jaw, then your bottom lip. “How you would feel. How you would taste.” He kisses down to your collarbone, his teeth gently grazing.

“And you have no idea how many times I touched myself thinking about you,” you confess in reply, Joel’s head lifting to meet your eyes at your admission. “I had to bite my lip every night to keep from moaning your name...”

“Fuck…” he growls, settling his pelvis between your thighs, pushing your legs further apart, lifting one to prop against his shoulder.

“You make me feel things I haven’t felt in years,” he rumbles, giving himself a few firm pumps before notching himself at your entrance. “Y’want me to go fast or slow, darlin’?”

A warmth spreads through your chest at the simple act of him asking, knowing it isn’t just mindless sex to him, that he actually cares, if that wasn’t already obvious from how enthusiastically he just ate you out.

“Slow, then hard and fast,” you tell him, earning another deep rumble as he starts to push himself inside of you, fat head stretching your walls.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” he says softly as he steadily gains ground, his hips shuddering with restraint once he bottoms out, sheathing himself fully. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re strangling me,” he grunts. “I don’t know how long I can last...”

The pain of withholding in his voice is palpable.

“Joel, you just made me come super hard,” you tell him. “Don’t hold yourself back just for me.”

His bottom lip juts out and quivers with the thin veil of control he still has, fingertips digging into your hips, crescent moon shapes left behind in your skin.

“Y’sure?” he asks, internal conflict evident in his voice as he rolls his hips half a thrust forward. “‘cause soon as I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back…”

“I’m sure,” you reassure him, letting him hear the conviction in your voice.

He takes in a steadying breath and gently gyrates his hips forward once, twice, his head tilting down to watch the way he disappears inside of you.

It must be the way you’re taking him so well — or maybe it’s the months of not allowing himself to touch you — the thin thread of restraint suddenly fraying after the initial soft, testing thrusts, a barely audible ‘fuck’ escaping his lips seconds before he begins railing into you with everything a man of his age has to give… which is a lot.

Joel’s hand is on your calf, holding your leg flush to his chest, the other on your hip in a bruising hold, watching the way your body sways in rhythm with his motions, teeth bared in concentration.

“Darlin’… I’m… I… where do you want it?” he pants, the question almost sounding pained.

You know you should make him pull out and finish on your stomach. Contraceptives are a rare luxury these days and you’d always made your previous boyfriends pull out. But you can’t stop yourself, the permission spilling from your lips thoughtlessly.

“In… inside…” you whimper in desperation and Joel doesn’t even think to question it.

He collapses on top of you, his hips sputtering and shaking, a deep, guttural snarl sounding from his chest as he spills into you, filling you to the brim with hot jets of spend.

Despite not coming a second time, the sensation of him shooting inside of you still feels good, his warmth filling every crevice it can reach inside of you.

He buries his face against your neck, gingerly taking some of your flesh between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to leave a faint impression.

His hips gradually slow and still, your name a reverent curse on his tongue.

“Christ,” he pants, wrapping you snugly in his burly arms. “Christ, darlin’.”

—

Spring finally reaches the valley, replenishing the land with color and sunlight, allowing you and Joel to wander out further and further every day.

He tells you he wants to find something nicer than the cabin. Somewhere larger, more permanent, even though you’ve told him time and again that you’d prefer to stay.

And you do, for a spell.

That is until you find your body growing more sensitive than usual. Until you find it increasingly difficult to keep some of your meals down, trying to convince Joel it’s nothing, that it’s just a summer cold, when you both know it’s not.

Joel dotes on you, burdens himself over you, knowing exactly what it is without wanting to say it. All the signs are there, almost textbook, unable to keep his memories from drifting back to the days before Sarah was born, how her mother’s symptoms were damn near identical.

He doesn’t dare tell you how scared he is, how much this terrifies him all the the way to his bone marrow, but you know. You see it in his gaze when he looks at you, feel it in his touch when he pulls you against him at night.

—

You’re on a scouting run one warm summer day, Joel hardly more than two feet from you at any given moment, so many unspoken words and feelings still hanging in the air between you.

He reaches for your arm to steady you when your feet slide on a patch of loose rocks, his palm instinctively moving to protect your stomach. You’re almost sure he wasn’t even aware he did it.

“Joel,” you say, placing your hand over his. “I’m alright.”

His brow furrows, silence speaking louder than any words he could say.

He’s reverted into his headspace again, more quiet these last few days than he has been. And it worries you. You hate that he bottles everything up, but you know that confrontation could make him shut down even more.

You begin walking again, his hand absently resting on the small of your back, and you continue down the path in stagnant silence.

Suddenly, Joel stops, eyes squinting to confirm what he’s seeing is real.

A neighborhood.

—

The neighborhood would have been considered a new development before the world went to shit, most of the lots bare and choked with two decades worth of weeds, some houses half built and some finished but likely vacant at the time.

There are only a few that look to have been potentially occupied before everything, three larger homes next to one another in a cul-de-sac at the end of unmanaged, cracked pavement.

There’s not much of interest in the first few homes you inspect, watching the way Joel silently scrutinizes everything as a potential future dwelling, not a single corner left unchecked, his latent instincts as a contractor still well ingrained in him despite the expanse of time.

By mid day, you’re both sweating profusely, Joel moreso than you since he isn’t letting you do much, forcing you to put food and water in your body, brooking no argument when he gives you his ration as well.

He knows you should head back soon before you’re out too late, but there’s still one house left to search and he doesn’t want to make the trip a second time if it isn’t worth the trouble.

The largest house, a two story spruce green craftsman with gray trim, his heart aching with nostalgia at how much it reminds him of his former home in Austin.

You start the same route as with the other houses; from the top, room by room, working your way down, your anxiety growing the lower the sun dips in the sky, knowing you only have a couple hours at best before it’s too late to leave.

The main floors scoured, you follow Joel to the basement, your hands on his shoulders for stability as you slowly work your way down the creaking stairs, your eyes adjusting to the shadows the deeper you travel.

When you’ve reached the bottom, Joel pulls out his flashlight, hitting it against his palm a few times before it flickers to life, the thin beam of light reflecting off the freshly disturbed dust.

You cover your nose and mouth with your shirt to keep out some of the flying particles, watching as Joel stumbles upon a stack of neatly piled and labeled storage totes in the furthest corner from the stairs, adrenaline beginning to course through him like a drug as he reads the faded sharpie scrawled on the sides.

“‘Canned goods and preserves’,” Joel says quietly, his voice higher in pitch than usual, more hopeful. There’s at least four totes labeled canned goods that you can see, possibly more, dates ranging from anywhere from late 2000 to summer of 2003.

He moves slightly to the right, his body tremoring as he examines the next set of totes.

Multiple totes labeled MREs, dated around the same range as the canned goods. He rips the top off of a few of them open to confirm that his eyes aren’t deceiving him, that this isn’t a cruel dream, nearly doubling over when he sees just how real it is.

“Joel?” you ask, concerned, stepping nearer to him when you see him trembling and clutching his chest. “Baby ..?”

He suddenly turns and throws his arms around you, and it dawns on you that he’s crying, he’s crying and trembling, eyes full of happy tears.

“A fucking prepper. A fucking prepper just saved our lives,” he whimpers into your hair, squeezing you against him, and all he can think in that moment is thank fuck for those crazy assholes. Thank fuck for people like Bill.

—

In the weeks that follow, you and Joel clean and repair the house — Joel doing most of the work, per his insistence — but it’s in surprisingly good shape despite its age and lack of upkeep, and even with just the two of you, it doesn’t take as long as you’d expected.

You can’t help but miss the cabin, the natural beauty of the valley. But Joel was right to move you. It’s safer here, more insulated from weather, more space to grow. And perhaps, one day, the cabin can be someone else’s salvation, as it had been for you.

Another night falls on one of the final lingering days of summer, barely able to see the shine of Joel’s eyes in the dim light as he climbs over you, parting your legs with his knee, rumbling low in his chest as he peppers kisses and bites down the column of your neck.

#pedro pascal #fanfic #joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us hbo #angst with a happy ending #smut

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ruewrote · 6 months ago

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𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑤.

PAIRING: josh washington x fem!reader WARNINGS: suggestive, no use of y/n GENRE: best friends to lovers SONG INSPIRATION: DIE FOR ME by chase atlantic WORD COUNT: 1.4k REQUESTED: yes NOTE: got a little carried away . . .

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the cabin was quiet. the flickering flames in the fireplace cast small shadows across the room as the last embers of the night begin to fade into darkness. you were stretched out on your bed, the warmth of the fire still lingering in the air, even as the chill from the mountain outside crept through the windows.

everyone else had long gone to their rooms. the day had been packed with hiking, teasing jokes, and way too much food, now the others were all passed out, getting some much needed rest for whatever was going to come tomorrow. you should have been tired too, but here you were laid in your bed wide awake, staring at the wall beside you.

the soft creak of your door opening broke the stillness. you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“hey,” josh’s familiar voice whispered from behind you. he was always the last one up too, unable to sleep when it got too quiet.

“hey,” you answered, glancing over your shoulder to see him standing in the doorway, his hair disheveled, looking sleepy and tousled. he had that half grin on his face that made you feel warm inside.

“can’t sleep again?” you teased, already knowing the answer.

josh shrugged, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor, making his way to you. “nah, i tried. it’s freezing in my room, and, y’know, it’s weird without you there.”

this had been a thing between the two of you for as long as you could remember. whenever you were on trips with the group, josh would find his way to your room after everyone else had gone to bed.

it started as something simple as after late night movie marathons or study sessions that turned into sleepovers, but over the years. it just became your thing. sleeping alone felt strange now, especially for josh. he always needed you close.

“come on then,” you mumbled, lifting the corner of the blanket without a second thought. there was no need for words. he was already climbing under the covers with you, fitting his body against yours.

he slipped his arms around you, pulling you back against his chest, the warmth of his body immediately chasing away the chill from the mountain air. his breath was soft against your neck, and you felt him relax instantly, his head resting on the pillow just behind yours.

this was normal. it had always been normal. the two of you had shared beds, couches, even floors when crashing at friends’ places after parties. josh had always been touchy, needing to feel you, as if that contact helped him settle. you never questioned it. after all, you felt the same.

his presence was grounding, the one constant you needed in your life.

his hand found its way to your waist, his fingers casually slipping under the hem of your shirt, resting against your bare skin like it was the most natural thing. it sent a shiver up your spine, but not because you were cold.

you were used to this, he always did it. he always wanted that skin to skin contact, as if the barrier of clothing was too much separation between you. and you let him, because it didn’t feel strange. it just felt like josh.

“you’re warm,” he murmured sleepily, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your lower back. he said it every time, but the way his voice softened whenever he said it always made your heart flutter.

you hummed in response, pressing back into him just slightly, the lines of your bodies fitting perfectly together under the thick blanket. his fingers continued their slow, lazy path across your skin, drawing shapes you couldn’t quite decipher but made you relax into him even more.

the room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the dying fire and the soft sounds of josh’s breathing behind you. this was your rhythm. an intimacy that had never been questioned.

josh had always been more than just your best friend, but you’d never dared to label it as anything else. the touches, the closeness, it was just how the two of you operated. you were comfortable, safe with each other.

but tonight, something felt… different.

maybe it was the calm of the cabin, or the way the mountain’s isolation made everything feel sharper, more intense. or maybe it was just the fact that your heartbeat picked up whenever his fingers slipped a little higher, his hand resting now against your ribs, dangerously close to the swell of your chest.

you wondered if he noticed the way your breathing hitched when he moved, the way your body tensed ever so slightly.

“josh…” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet of the room.

“hmm?” his response was a soft hum, his lips brushing the back of your neck now, almost absentmindedly.

for a second, you considered pulling away, setting up those boundaries that were supposed to exist between best friends. but the truth was, you didn’t want to. you never had.

the truth of it settled deep in your chest, an acknowledgment of something you’d both danced around for years.

instead, you turned your head just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. his face was so close, eyes half lidded in the dim light, his lips parted slightly in that relaxed way that made him look vulnerable.

your heart did that little stutter it always did when he was this close, and suddenly, the unspoken feelings that had always been lurking just beneath the surface felt impossible to ignore.

“josh,” you said again, this time turning fully in his arms to face him.

he blinked, eyes clearer now as he studied your face. his hand didn’t move from where it was resting on your skin, but his expression shifted, like he could feel the shift in the air too. “yeah?”

the weight of the moment hung between you, the closeness suddenly more intense than it had ever been. you opened your mouth to say something. anything, but the words died on your lips as josh’s gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

you weren’t imagining it. the way his hand moved a little more deliberately now, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, skimming just beneath your shirt. the way his body pressed a little closer to yours, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own.

this was no longer just about comfort. something had changed.

“i–” you started to speak, but before you could say anything more, josh’s hand slid a little higher, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast so lightly you almost thought you imagined it. but you didn’t. the look in his eyes, now more awake and intense, confirmed that.

his breath hitched, the same way yours had, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the shared rhythm of your breathing, matching and uneven at the same time.

“we… we’ve always been like this,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, as if he was trying to remind himself of what this had always been. “right?”

you nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady. “yeah. always.”

but it wasn’t always like this. not with the way his lips hovered just inches from yours now, the way his hand slipped further under your shirt like he was testing a boundary you weren’t sure existed anymore.

“maybe…” he whispered, his forehead now resting against yours, his voice so soft it was barely more than a breath, “maybe we’ve been fooling ourselves.”

his words hung between you, heavy and raw. and just like that, the unspoken tension between you, years of shared beds, lingering touches, and blurred boundaries, came crashing to the surface.

you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t. because deep down, you’d known it too. this was never just about needing to be close. it had always been more. you just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

“josh,” you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest as his hand slid up to your shoulder, his fingers gently tilting your chin so you were looking directly at him.

and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, his lips brushed against yours. soft, tentative at first, a question hanging in the space between. when you didn’t pull away, he kissed you again, deeper this time, the heat between you building until the air felt thick with everything you’d kept hidden for so long.

you didn’t know where this was going to lead, but in that moment, with josh’s hands on your skin and his lips on yours, you knew one thing for sure.

there was no going back to the way things were.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

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gtgbabie0 · 3 months ago

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Can I make a request for Ambessa with wife!reader and reader is a few months postpartum and she’s insecure about her figure. Ambessa decides to comfort her and show her how special she really is.

⋆⁺ ✮⋆⁺ Ambessa Medarda x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: {The birth of your child left you with many doubts and your wife proves them all wrong} CW: talks of childbirth, body image issues, themes of postpartum depression, bathing together. AN: I got so carried away with this. oml.

The birthing bed was your battlefield as the wife to a fearsome warlord— a fate that had surprisingly brought you more happiness than you had originally anticipated, that was until your waters broke and the contractions started. Then you were cursing Ambessa’s name.

You were prepared for this, your handmaidens spent day and night explaining to you the pain and showing you hand-drawn pictures— your mother had even told you of her own experiences. It was all pointless because you quickly learned that no word or picture could ever even begin to describe the pain of childbirth.

It didn’t get much easier from there. The battle continued even after the birth of a healthy baby boy and girl—oh how grateful your wife was—twins, a strong boy and girl to carry on her name… a miracle. You only wished you could share her joy, but you couldn’t. There was an odd disconnect that had managed to wedge itself between you, your children, and Ambessa.

Your skin didn’t feel your own, hell, your whole life didn’t feel like yours— almost as if you had taken the place of some stranger, a different woman that was not you. That woman was more suited to be a mother, a wife. It was a sickening feeling, one that often left you immobilised in bed.

You didn’t want to face the mirrors, hold your babies, or have your wife look at you, much less touch you—hence why you slept with a pillow stuffed between you both, not wanting to risk it… despite how much you deeply yearned for it, and oh how you really did yearn for her comforting touch.

It was the reason your maid brings you your nightly tea with just enough crushed poppy flowers to knock you out— you preferred to sleep before your wife got back from her duties, although you told your maids differently.

“Leave it on the table.” The words leave you with a sigh, not looking over to her from your place on the sofa— a deep red velvet colour, soft to the touch, your wife only accepts perfection.

“Lady Medarda, surely a simple ginger tea would be better for you?— The pain shouldn’t be lasting this long.” bless her, she sounded so concerned. Of course, your excuse of birthing pains could only last so long, five whole months had passed since— the warmth of summer slowly dwindling away, replaced by a sharp chill that autumn brought.

You shake your head, bringing your fingertips to your temple with a pitiful glint in your eyes, ready to put on a show— then the bedroom door opens and your handmaiden is bowing to Ambessa, whose eyes are fixed onto you, stepping off to the side politely.

“You’re back early.” The words fly from your lips faster than you could even process them and far more harshly than intended, however, the quiver in your voice gives you away. Your false bravado was not lost on Ambessa, that mask you wore did not fool her.

“Leave us.” Her words are sharp, stern and has the maid scurrying off— dress clutched in her hands. You could already hear the gossip she was sure to spread with the other servants.

A sigh escapes you as your eyes flicker over to the flames in the fireplace, watching the embers dance wildly within the hearth— Ambessa’s heavy, golden spear hanging above, displayed proudly, every nick and indent tells a different story. You let your mind wander in hopes she'll drop it.

“Do I need to send for a doctor?” She doesn't. Your wife was a smart woman, she knew you like the back of her hand and could read all your inner thoughts, until recently— now getting a single word out of you was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Instead, she was left with this distance you had managed to put between yourself and her. Ambessa felt it, she just didn’t know how exactly to approach it and it was driving her crazy.

She was a practical woman, fixing her problems with strength, not emotions, this was not her strong suit. But she also did not know defeat.

“No, I am fine.” The lie didn’t sound convincing in the slightest, not even in your own ears— the words make you wince and from the sound of her scoff she didn’t believe you either.

You hated to be the cause of her concern, gods only know how busy the woman already was. Ambessa watches you, studying your movements with slightly narrowed eyes as you tug your shawl over your shoulders— grasping the soft fabric as if it were some sort of protective shield, a lifeline, that you wished desperately to disappear into.

“This is not fine, lie to your handmaidens all you want but do not lie to me.” Her tone is much softer than you deserve, you can’t help but cower away with a look of shame in your eyes— it only triples when she kneels down in front of you, her big, battle-worn hands resting over your knees.

The Ambessa Medarda, a feared warrior, kneeling before you like you were some sort of deity worth praying to… no it didn’t feel right.

The words die on your tongue, getting stuck in the back of your throat tightly— a whimper is the only thing you can let out, such a weak sound, strained with this insecurity that had been eating away at you for months.

“I do not know what it is— just an ache I cannot rid myself of, no matter what I do.” you breathe, dropping your head slightly as your gaze falls to her hands, the way her thumb rubs the inside of your knee. “I bring shame upon this family— upon you.”

Ambessa tuts at your words, pinching your chin between her index finger and thumb. “Shame?— look at me,” your eyes find her own hesitantly. “You are my greatest treasure… my proudest accomplishment.”

“I can’t be— I’m not fit for motherhood, to be your wife. I am weak.”

She bristles, “No flower, you are the furthest thing from weak. Motherhood is no easy feat, but we strengthen each other… you have me. Forever.” her eyes never once straying from your own.

You have only ever heard such loving sincerity from her a handful of times, on the day she asked you to marry her and the first time she had taken your maidenhead— your wedding night, and now. It’s a stern tone that is draped in earnest, so heavy with love, leaving no space for arguments.

Ambessa wouldn’t hear another word of it, of you speaking poorly of yourself— she had taken someone’s tongue after they foolishly insulted you, that wasn’t for nothing, that was out of devotion.

So all you can do is apologise— “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” but even that she doesn’t want to hear, her lips pressing a soothing kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“No more apologies, no more distance. You have me.” She promises, words whispered against your cheek before she pulls back to admire you with a soft yet firm stare. “Understood?”

“Yes, I understand.” You whisper, leaning into her hand as soon as her rough palm meets your cheek— your chest tightens and your eyes prickle with tears, it had been far too long since you felt her tender touch. With a hum of acknowledgement, she leans forward, still kneeling before you, her hand curving across your jaw to cup the back of your head— her lips meeting your own in a slow kiss, the rough pad of her thumb brushing your tears away.

“Shh my heart, I’m right here.” She soothes, lips brushing along your jaw when you melt further into her— trembling hands resting upon her broad shoulders which she cages within her own big ones as she pulls back to admire you. “I’ll have a bath prepared for us.”

Her words make you tense, something uncomfortable churning within your stomach at the thought. “No, my body has changed— it’s—”

“—It is just as perfect as the night I first had you.”

“No, it’s different.”

“Sweetling, you have brought life into this world. It’s a beautiful change.” She murmurs against your knuckles with an almost reverent gleam in her eyes, one that almost breaks down the defences that you have built up around your fragile heart, almost.

Ambessa can sense your unease, the hesitation— the way you can’t seem to meet her eyes and it destroys her, how had she failed to protect you from this? She brings your palm to rest over her heart, her eyes searching your own. “Trust me with this, let me worship you.” there's a soft question hidden beneath her tone, behind the firmness of what sounds like a demand.

“Just— Just a bath,” you whisper, glossy eyes and strained voice and she nods in response— cupping your face ever so gently as she repeats “Just a bath.” in agreement.

You trust her enough to guide you to your shared bathroom, enough to let her peel your nightgown off with careful hands, fingertips grazing across your body ever so slightly. The comforting scent of rose and honey wisps around you, carrying memories of nights you’ve shared like this and the prospect of being close to her seems a little less daunting as the familiarity warms your heart and the hot water envelops your body.

Ambessa's form engulfs your own as she sits behind you, strong thighs caging either side of you. It was protective, how her hands rub across your shoulders soothingly and the soft whispers of sweet nothings that leave her lips, muffled into the nape of your neck. She wishes to rid you of any self-doubt that had wormed itself into your mind.

Bubbles splay across your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around your knees that you’ve tucked beneath your chin in an attempt to make yourself smaller. “Flower?— relax into me,” her voice breaks you out of your thoughts as she slowly guides you back against her chest, wrapping an arm around your abdomen whilst the other moves to cup your cheek.

The candlelight flickers against your face as you tip your head backwards to look up at her, her thumb wiping away a stray tear that had escaped you. “Forgive me for not noticing your pain sooner,” She whispers, dropping a kiss to your forehead and then another to the tip of your nose.

The warm water laps at your bodies slightly as you move to curl up further into her, wanting to disappear in her embrace. “Just don’t let go,” and with that her arms tighten around your body, leaning to rest her forehead against your own.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. Your place in my heart is yours, no one can take that from you.” You sigh at your words, letting out a teary giggle as she peppers kisses over your face. For the first time in a while, you felt whole, full, in a way you thought you would never feel again, for the time being at least… you savoured every second of it.

Her fingertips trace over the stretch marks left by your pregnancy, letting her lips trail over the dewy skin of your shoulders whispering soft “I love yous,” against you as she washes your hair— smirking at the way you let your guard down for her, how your eyes flutter close and the way sigh and hum in delight as she massages your scalp.

The water felt cleansing in a way, as it trickles down your head and along your back, washing away the months of aches that weighed on top of you. “How does that feel?” She asks, lips brushing along your jaw.

“Good, much better.” The relief in your tone brought immeasurable amounts of satisfaction to her that she couldn’t help but chuckle, happiness blooming through her chest as she replies with a soft. “That’s what I like to hear, my sweet.”

Ambessa vows to herself in that very moment to spend the night and every other night paying homage to the curves and dips of your body, to each stretch mark that maps over your skin until you feel nothing but love— she would put your pieces back together again no matter how jagged the edges were.

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the-unidentified-author · 2 months ago

Text

Use Your Words | Cregan Stark | House of the Dragon

Cregan Stark x Female Wife Reader

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW}, smut, minors DNI, established relationship, Cunnilingus, fingering, consensual!, hes a big man, one orgasm after another, Cregan on his knees, a little bit of roughness, mention of Alcohol, frustrated reader, Biting? ...

Summary: You're the wife of Cregan Stark and he helps ease a little frustration you're feeling.

A/N: Thank you to that RAT BASTARD (in a loving caring way) on here who wrote about Cregan tying up his hair before he eats out his wife, I have been able to think of literally nothing else. This Fic is entirely inspired by your lil post. Now I can’t remember your user name but I demand you reveal yourself (jk only if you want to girly pop)!

Word Count: 3,336

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

You let out a deep sigh and threw your quill down, sinking back into the worn leather of your chair, feeling every creak it made under your movements. Your eyes, tired and strained, you rubbed them gently, trying to massage away the pain caused by the long hours spent squinting at parchment. The candle next to you flickered with a final dance, its wax dribbling into a small puddle, threatening to extinguish itself as the shadows began to creep in. You were far from done with the daunting task of addressing invitations to the seemingly endless names on Cregan's list. The night had already drawn in, and you wanted nothing more than to sleep, but there was still so much to do.

The room was dim, the fire in the hearth now a mere glow, its embers laboriously clinging to life, whispered memories of flames, silently begging for another log to reignite their fervour. The faint, jubilant cheers of men resonated through the stone corridors from Cregan's bustling feast; it was a symphony of boisterous laughter and clinking tankards, hints of celebration murmured among the echoes. They had finally conquered the hunt, returning triumphantly with deer, the spoils of their tireless adventures in the wilderness.

Cregan, always the visionary, had decreed a grand feast to herald the upcoming weekend, with promises—rumbling like the laughter from below—that it would be the day he returned home with the great winter stag, that had eluded him on the last three hunts. The very thought made you clench your teeth, a mix of envy and longing to be part of such adventures, yet tethered to this desk with duties that seemed to multiply by the minute. Still, you leaned forward, picking up the quill once more, determined to drown out the sounds of the celebrations and finish your task before you retired to bed.

The sound of footsteps echoed up the corridor towards you, their pace loud and hurried, a sharp contrast to the slow crackle of the dying fire. Heavy boots against stone, each step seemed to vibrate through the walls, accompanying the ghostly flicker of firelight. You placed your hands flat on the desk, feeling the rough grain beneath your fingers, and stood up with a sense of anticipation. You steeled yourself, ready to unleash your pent-up frustrations on whatever unfortunate soul dared interrupt you.

With a loud crash, the door swung open in one swift motion, slamming against the stone wall with a resounding thud that echoed through the chamber. It threatened to rebound and strike the intruder, but a strong-arm shot out, stopping its swing by placing his hand flat against the ancient wood. A large hand, calloused from years of swinging weapons and weathering the elements, steadied the ancient wood against the wall.

The figure that filled the doorway was unmistakably your husband, Cregan Stark. His presence seemed to command the room, as if even the shadows bowed to his entrance. The dying light of the fire danced across his broad shoulders and rugged features, highlighting the strength and vigour that made him a leader among men—a hunter triumphant. His eyes, bright with the thrill of victory, found yours, sparking a familiar blend of emotions that simmered beneath your practiced composure.

"Wife!" he bellowed, a great smile spreading across his face as he laid eyes on you. "I have found you at last." He seemed a little drunk, something else that irritated you. Here you were slaving away, and he was doing nothing but partying and celebrating.

His presence was like a gust of wind forcing its way into your sanctuary, stirring the air with energy and purpose. Despite the warmth that spread through you at seeing him—a warmth that radiated from the heart, unwelcome at this time, yet familiar. You fought to keep a semblance of calm on your face, reminding yourself that he was the reason you had such a mountainous number of tasks to do.

"Cregan," you replied, rolling your eyes and slumping back down into the chair.

He strolled into the room with an effortless ease, a man at home in his surroundings, but noticeably absent from his usual assortment of garments. His cloak and sword, which typically adorned his broad back, were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he wore only his boots, trousers, and a casual shirt. The strings that normally fastened the top were loose, offering a tantalising glimpse of his strong chest beneath. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms crisscrossed with veins, you tried to stop yourself from staring.

In one hand, he carried a tankard of ale, droplets of condensation working their way down its sides. As he surveyed the room, his eyes landed on the dwindling fire. With natural grace, he stooped to pick up a piece of wood, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he tossed the large log with ease onto the embers. The fire responded with a sizzle and a new burst of warmth, casting flickering shadows that played across his stupidly beautiful features. He turned to you, his face still twisted into a smile. Then he moved towards you, stepping around the desk and leaning backwards against it.

"How are you, wife?" He asked, taking a swig from his drink. "Why are you not enjoying the festivities below?"

You scowled at him, "Well, someone has to plan your feast." you argued, anger boiling up at of you. Not so much at him, but more so at the amount of work he seemingly didn’t realise he had given you.

"Ah that can wait, you should come with me." he reasoned, his hand moving to your shoulder and trailing, carefully down your arm until he held your hand in his.

"No it can’t, if you want the Lords to arrive on time, then I need to send the letters by tomorrow at the latest.” you snapped, pulling your hand from his.

His eyebrows creased into a frown as he looked down at you.

"Come on now, I will help you with them in the morning," he reasoned, placing his tankard on the desk next to him and standing.

You moved to resist his advances, turning your head as he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to create some distance between the two of you by standing and moving away from him, but a firm hand reached out, pulling you back towards him with an unyielding grip. Your back was pressed against his strong chest, the heat of his body permeating through the layers of fabric that separated your skin from his.

As Cregan's arms circled you, enveloping you in a warm embrace, you couldn't help but feel his strength and the weight of his muscular frame. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching softly against your sensitive skin. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and you tried to resist the way it made you feel, a mix of unwanted arousal and lingering resentment.

You wouldn't admit it, even to yourself, but feeling him against you did water down the rage you were feeling towards him. Yet, you were adamant that he wouldn't get off with stressing you out so completely so easily. Even as his arms tightened around you, his grip firm and unrelenting, you could feel the tension in his body, the subtle shifts in his stance that betrayed his need. He wanted you, there was no denying that, and you were adamant he would have to work for it.

"You're not going to get out of this, that easily," you spat out, the anger bubbling up within you, threatening to spill over like a pot boiling over on the fire. "You dumped this grand idea of a feast on me out of nowhere and then ran out the door on a hunt with your friends, leaving me to flesh out all the details and make this into something that people will actually enjoy."

The stress of the day and the long hours you had put into planning all rushed out, a torrent of words that were fuelled by frustration and resentment. You could feel the tension in your body, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

The room seemed to grow smaller around you, the air thick with the weight of your unspoken grievances. Your eyes flashed with a mixture of hurt and defiance, challenging him to deny leaving you to do everything while he enjoyed himself.

Despite your anger, there was a part of you that couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of longing for him, for the closeness and intimacy that his presence always seemed to bring into your life. But at the same time, you were determined not to let him off the hook so easily.

"I'm sorry." he said, his big storm grey eyes seeming sincere with a hint of something else in them.

He stepped closer and this time you didn’t stop him, as he gently cupped your face in his hands. His lips met yours in a tender kiss, soft and reassuring, like a whisper of promises yet to be fulfilled. You let out a small sigh, the sound a mixture of surrender and relief, as if the weight of your burdens was momentarily lifted. He pulled away, and the moment seemed to linger, as he looked down at you.

"I accept your apology." you whispered, all the hostility you had been feeling moments ago ebbing away.

"Oh wife," he smiled, a devilish glint finding its way into his eyes. "I haven't finished apologising yet."

You frowned, a mixture of surprise and perhaps a hint of anticipation, as he stepped closer. His hands felt like warm, steadying anchors on your waist, grounding you.

And in one swift movement, he picked you up, effortlessly lifting you as if you weighed nothing whatsoever. Your heart skipped a beat as he settled you down onto the desk, the cool, smooth surface a stark contrast to the heat that was rapidly building between you.

He began to kiss at your jaw, his lips hungry and insistent as they moved down your neck. Each touch of his lips was like a bolt of lightning, sending jolts of electricity coursing through your veins.

His hands, too, were alive with a feverish intensity as they tugged at your clothing. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, he stepped back, leaving you feeling slightly breathless and more than a little disoriented.

He smiled at you then pulled the leather tie from his wrists and brushed his hair back out of his face, pulling his shoulder-length hair back, tying it up out of his face. As he brushed his hair back out of his face, you couldn't help but marvel at the sight of him. His shoulder-length hair, now tied up and out of his face, emphasised the rugged, masculine beauty of his features. It was a stark contrast to the more polished, refined elegance of the world outside this intimate cocoon.

And yet, even as he stood there, his hair pulled back and away from his face, there was a sense of wildness that still seemed to cling to him. It was as if, even in this moment of tender intimacy, he refused to be tamed or domesticated, choosing instead to remain forever untamed and free. Cregan Stark, The Wolf of The North.

You looked at him, your eyes reflecting the confusion that you were feeling in that moment. It was a look that seemed to intrigue and amuse him, a spark of mischief shining in his eyes as he took in your expression.

His lips met yours once more, this time in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, the sensation one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. As he pulled away, you couldn't help but feel the intensity that was fast becoming unbearable between the two of you.

His hands, which had been momentarily still, now returned to your dress. With fast movements, he pulled it up over your knees, revealing the smooth, expanse of your thighs beneath. He then bundled the fabric up at your waist, and then kissed you again, one hand keeping your dress up and the other moving to your hair to guide your head as he kissed you.

But then, even as you revealed in the sensation, you felt his hand dip beneath your shirt, his fingers tracing along your inner thigh. The sensation was like a bolt of lightning, sending jolts of electricity coursing through your veins.

He was teasing you, you realised, playing a game of tantalising anticipation. Each touch of his fingers was like a promise, a hint of the pleasures that were yet to come. Then he pulled away from you, and his hand moved to your chest, to guide you back. You leant backwards, steadying yourself against the desk with your arms. Then slowly he dropped to his knees, pushing your skirts out of the way. You felt a soft kiss on the inside of your knee, and then another a little further along. Then his teeth nipped slightly at the supple skin of your inner thigh, and you moved your legs to press them together at the sensation, but his strong arms kept your legs firmly apart as he kissed closer and closer.

"Cregan, please, enough of this." you whispered, still trying to cling to the anger that had almost dissipated entirely.

"Please what?" he asked as the kisses moved closer to your pussy, his hot breath also seeming intent on teasing you.

"Stop." you whispered, still trying to argue with him. The word sounded pathetic and as if to emphasise just how pathetic your plea sounded, he licked your cunt. One sweeping movement from the entrance of your pussy right to the clit, drawing a moan from your lips.

Then he pulled away, you looked down at him, angry again, but this time that he had actually stopped.

"Cregan," you whined again, tilting your head back, not happy with how much teasing you seemed to please him. And irritated that he had actually stopped.

"Come on now wife, use your words." he whispered, placing a kiss on your inner knee but not moving to continue.

"Cregan just fucking eat me." you pleased, the words coming out quickly, tinged with anger.

He grinned, he seemed to take great pleasure in the knowledge that he had won you over, that despite your initial resistance, he had managed to break through your anger in the best way he knew how.

And then, as if to seal the deal, he delved back under your skirts.

One quick lick, and then he flattened his tongue as it started to move in a way that made it obvious he was apologetic. Each movement of his tongue seemed only to have one goal, and that was to bring you to release as fast as he could. Cregan was not the sort of man that lost. You clenched your teeth and tried to hold out, trying not to let him have this win so easily. But he was your husband, and he knew your body better than he knew his own. You balled your fists on the table trying to pull yourself back from the edge, but he sent you falling over it. You came hard, screaming his name as you tilted your head back.

He didn’t give you a moment to recollect yourself, instead he moved his tongue over your clip, as one of his fingers gently pressed inside you, curling up towards your bellybutton.

"Cregan" you gasped, rolling your hips to the motion of his finger, your hands returning to the desk the paper at your side bunching up into your fist as you tried to get purchase on something to ground you.

He didn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, he removed his finger and replaced it with two that sent such a wave of pleasure coursing through you that for a moment, you could swear that you could see stars on the back of your eyelids. His fingers stroked up against something inside you made it feel as though every nerve ending in your body had been set on fire. Those two fingers in conjunction with his tongue fanning the flames, pushing you to the edge of another release again. You gripped the edge of the desk, your hips bucking involuntarily as you surrendered to the intense pleasure coursing through you. Even as your climax hit, the intensity of his mouth and fingers never wavered, continuing to guide you through this earth-shattering experience.

"Fuck," was the only word you could push through your lips as he still didn’t relent as he ate your pussy.

In fact, the word seemed to spur him on, as though hearing you spout profanities amused him. Perhaps it was the fact you were usually so reserved and well-spoken, that when he broke down those walls and exposed your inner animal, it turned him on more than anything else.

You were racing towards another peak again, and this time he seemed determined to push you there as fast as he could, as though he himself were becoming impatient. You knew that he got impossibly turned on when he went down on you, unable to go more than a few rounds before he had to feel himself inside you. This was the longest he had managed, and you wondered if he was torturing himself as much as he was attempting to torture you. You squeezed your eyes shut and screamed his name as he brought you to the edge for what felt like the hundredth time. You attempted to squeeze your shaking legs shut, Finally, he emerged from between your thighs, the scent of your arousal clinging to him like a trophy. He placed both his hands on the desk, leaning towards you. Immediately, you leaned forward, your hands moving instinctively to his broad, muscular chest. He kissed you deeply, his lips warm and inviting against yours. Then, he tucked his head into the crook of your neck, allowing you to hold him for a moment, your heart still racing from the intensity of your shared experience. As you both came down from your high, you took comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal.

Once your breathing steadied, and you felt ready to speak, you gently pulled away from him. It was then that the sharp scent of ale suddenly assaulted your nostrils, causing you to wrinkle your nose slightly in surprise.

"Gods, Cregan, I'm sorry I knocked over your drink." you said, righting the tankard, now empty.

He shrugged. "There are better things to drink back in our room," he whispered, his voice low and intimate, sending shivers down your spine.

He moved his hands to your waist, pulling you closer to him, his body a beacon of warmth and comfort. His scent, a mix of woodsmoke, leather, and the crisp scent of the outdoors, enveloped you, a familiar embrace that you couldn't resist.

"How about we return there and have a drink," he suggested with a smile, "before we continue our evening entertainment." His eyes twinkled with mischief, hinting at the pleasures that awaited you both. He leaned down, placing a tender kiss on your forehead.

"Continue?" you asked, looking up at him with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation. The firelight danced across his features, lending an almost ethereal glow to his already handsome face. "I think you have more than apologised Cregan," you responded, a hint of amusement in your voice.

"Yes, I have apologised," he murmured, his voice rich and deep, "but now I need to thank you for working so tirelessly." He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, a gesture that sent a new wave of desire coursing through your veins.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

#cregan fanfiction #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #cregan smut #hotd cregan #cregan x reader #cregan x you #hotd #hotd fanfic

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misaerabl · 24 days ago

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Fallen Grace

CW: wc… 5.4k - fallen angel reader x caitlyn kiramman, plot with some smut, caitlyn eating you out, religion (obviously), hurt/comfort, based on this request SUMMARY: Fallen from grace, you are found broken and bleeding in Caitlyn’s garden. She takes you in, tending to your wounds with reverence, even as you reject her mortal kindness. You long for heaven—for the gates that have shut you out—but Caitlyn is relentless. She shows you the beauty of the world below, the softness of human hands, and the warmth of a love that does not demand divinity. Slowly, you let her in. And when she worships you—not as an angel, but as a woman—you find yourself reaching not for the sky, but for her. In the end, heaven no longer feels so far away.

𝕴. The Descent

The night is brittle with frost, and the gardens of Caitlyn Kiramman’s estate slumber beneath a veil of moonlight. The roses, once proud and sharp with scent, bow to the cold, their petals sagging beneath the weight of frozen dew. The wind slips through the iron railings, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the hedges, but it is soured by something heavier—something bitter.

Beyond the manicured rows and trimmed laurels, in the northern patch where wildflowers disobey the gardener’s hand, something stirs. The brush is damp with mist, thorned branches heavy with rain. The ground, muddied by the day’s storm, clings to something that shouldn’t be there.

A body—ashen, bloodied, and trembling—lies crumpled in the grass. Wings, torn at the edges, barely cling to the figure’s back. Feathers, once ethereal and whole, spill loosely into the dirt. Pale gold stained with rain and iron. Some catch in the brambles, others float in the waterlogged soil. The ground drinks the blood in shallow rivulets, red seeping through the weeds.

You are still. Your breath barely ghosts through parted lips. The remnants of grace flicker faintly, a halo’s dying ember, quickly fading to nothing. The earth is unkind to you—it holds you down, its weight foreign and cruel. The flowers bend beneath your ruin.

Caitlyn finds you there, a slumped figure in the moon-drenched overgrowth. Her boots scuff the edge of the stone path as she draws near, her lantern’s glow catching on broken feathers. She pauses, breath halting in her throat, eyes narrowing at the sight.

For a heartbeat, she thinks you are already dead. But then you shudder—a broken gasp—barely more than a breath.

She drops to her knees, hands unthinking, ungloved. Her fingers press into the dirt as she reaches for you. She brushes strands of rain-soaked hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple by mistake. You flinch faintly beneath her touch, but you are too weak to recoil.

Her hands press against torn flesh, and she feels it—the heat of blood thick on her palms, seeping through her fingers. Her throat tightens. She does not pull away. Instead, she moves quickly. Her arms slip beneath your broken form. She is trembling as she lifts you, as though afraid you might fracture further in her hold.

You weigh almost nothing. A celestial ruin, cradled by mortal hands.

Her boots sink slightly in the sodden earth as she carries you toward the house. The lantern swings at her side, its flame barely holding against the wind. She does not stop to wipe the blood from her hands. She does not pause when her breath catches. She holds you closer, desperate and steady.

The night is heavy with iron and roses. The ground where you fell is quiet again, nothing but damp earth and broken feathers left behind. And you, trembling and wingless, are carried into the dark.

𝕴𝕴. The Cage of Mercy

You wake beneath silk sheets, cool and unfamiliar against your skin. The fabric clings slightly to the fever-slick sheen still clinging to your body. The bed is wide and soft, too soft, as though meant to hold someone fragile. Pillows of down frame your head, and the faint scent of lavender water drifts from a porcelain basin on the nightstand.

You shift, but your body protests. Dull aches bloom beneath your ribs and along the plane of your back. Bandages cross your chest in careful lines, soft and taut, but you feel no reverence for them. No gratitude. They feel foreign—holy remnants wrapped around something no longer sacred.

You push yourself up with trembling arms, but the weight on your back drags you down. Your wings—stiff, broken, and molting—lie heavy and useless against the mattress. Their edges are frayed, the feathers matted and torn, dull where they once gleamed. You attempt to move them, and a sharp pain lances through your shoulder blades, the muscles spasming. They twitch weakly, pathetic in their ruin.

You grit your teeth. You do not cry. Instead, you rise.

The sheets slip from your frame as you stagger from the bed, breathless and aching. Your legs threaten to buckle beneath you, joints stiff from too many still hours. You reach out, catching the edge of a carved mahogany table, your knuckles white around the wood. Your bare feet press into the polished floor, slick with the sheen of cold sweat, but you do not stop.

Your eyes catch the window. The curtains—thin and gossamer—stir faintly in the morning breeze, the fabric limned with pale gold light. You move toward it, shoulders tight with defiance.

Your knees hit the sill before you realize they’ve buckled. Your hands press to the glass—damp from your trembling palms—as you stare upward. Toward the sky.

The clouds drift slow and indifferent. There is no hand reaching down for you. No warm light. Only the cold sun and the dull ache in your bones.

Your lips part, and you begin to pray.

Your voice is cracked and raw, barely more than a whisper. You murmur psalms Caitlyn has never heard, verses in tongues no mortal tongue could shape. Your voice frays against the edges of the words, quiet and fractured. You clutch your trembling hands together, knuckles white with devotion, fingers curling tight in desperate reverence.

“Sanctus. Sanctus. Domine Deus Sabaoth…” Your voice falters. You breathe and try again. “Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua…”

You chant, broken and breathless, waiting for heaven’s reply. But no light answers you. The sky remains pale and still.

A soft sound stirs from the doorway. You don’t turn.

Caitlyn stands there, silent in the morning light. She leans against the frame, her arms loosely crossed, but there is no steel in her stance. Only a quiet, folding tenderness. Her eyes soften when they fall on you—on your trembling hands and your lips moving soundlessly against the windowpane.

You don’t see how she lingers. How she holds her breath every time your voice wavers. How she exhales slowly when you do not fall apart.

You do not see her carry the weight for you. But you feel it. And you refuse it.

She steps forward after a moment, voice careful. “Come back to bed,” she says softly. “You’re still weak.”

You flinch slightly at the sound, as though the mortal words disturb the fragile thread holding your prayers together. You do not look at her.

Your voice rasps against the glass. “Leave me.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer, footsteps light against the polished floor. She sets a tray on the table beside you—a modest meal of broth and bread. It smells warm, faintly savory. She brought it to be kind. To care.

You do not touch it.

Her voice is gentler this time, but firmer. “You should eat.”

You stare through her. You press your palms harder against the window, fingers trembling faintly.

When you do not respond, she steps closer still, her fingers skimming the edge of your ruined wing. You tense at the touch, your breath hitching, the sensation both familiar and deeply, terribly wrong. She means it to be gentle, but you recoil as though burned. You twist away from her, arms closing over your chest.

Your voice is a low rasp, cracked from disuse. “Don’t.”

Her hands drop to her sides immediately. She doesn’t reach for you again.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is heavy, stretching too long, filled with the thin space between you. You breathe heavily, staring down at your shaking hands.

Caitlyn exhales softly. She turns back toward the table, removing the lid from the small pot of salve beside the tray. The scent of mint and chamomile drifts faintly from it. She dips her fingers in, rubbing the ointment between her hands, warming it.

“Your wounds…” she says, carefully measured, “…they’ll heal faster if you let me help.”

You do not move. You do not answer. You fix your eyes on the sky, on the fragments of light filtering through the glass, and you try to imagine it is heaven looking back.

She kneels beside you. Her voice, when it comes again, is softer. “Please.”

You turn your face away.

You do not thank her. You do not accept her salves. You do not touch the food she brings you.

She speaks of the city—the warmth of summer markets, the idle laughter of children playing by the fountain, the scent of spiced bread in the lower quarters. She tries to conjure life in her voice, to breathe warmth into it. She tells you about the festival that will arrive soon, the colors that will drape the streets. She smiles softly, trying to make you imagine it, to see it through her eyes.

You stare through her. Your eyes remain on heaven, indifferent to the hands that save you.

And still, she stays.

𝕴𝕴𝕴.Soft Chains, Soft Hands

Days stretch into weeks. Time becomes a dull and heavy thing—measured only by the slow mending of your mortal flesh and the steady, inevitable wilting of the divine in you.

Your body recovers. Your limbs strengthen, and the bruises fade from your skin. But your wings—once celestial, once a thing of glory—dull from silk to dust. The feathers, once radiant and fine, shed in brittle clumps. They fall in uneven patches, leaving bare spaces along your spine. You no longer feel the tug of the sky when the wind drifts through the open windows. Gravity has claimed you fully.

You no longer speak Caitlyn’s name. You do not even look at her when she enters the room. You only call for your Father, for the gates, for the light.

When you wake, you whisper prayers to a heaven that does not answer. When you sleep, you see it slipping further away.

You become a relic of your own punishment. Trying to claw your way back to paradise with trembling hands.

But Caitlyn—relentless in her devotion—stays. She does not move like a martyr, nor a fool, but with a tenderness so steady it threatens to break you.

She brings you clothes softer than the robes of your choir, carefully folded and left at the edge of your bed. She brushes the ends of your matted hair, fingers slow and patient, working through the knots with infinite care. She never pulls too hard. When her fingertips catch against a tangle, she stops, smooths it out, and continues with quiet reverence.

She kneels beside you when your legs buckle from the pain of phantom flight. When the ache beneath your shoulder blades becomes too much—when your ruined wings spasm uselessly, still searching for the currents they’ll never find again—she is there.

She offers her arms without hesitation. And you do not reject them. You let yourself lean into her touch, trembling but stubborn, without a word.

She never asks why you do not speak. She never asks why you flinch when she presses warm cloths to your back, or why you turn your face away when she calls you by name. She simply stays.

And in the quiet moments, you begin to break.

One night, you dream of fire.

It does not begin with flame. It begins with wind. With the sudden and terrible absence of light—the cold snuffing out of warmth and grace. You see the sky rupture, clouds folding inward. The stars retreat as your wings fold downward in unholy descent.

You dream of the fall. Of gravity claiming you in a sickening pull. Of the divine spilling from your veins in molten ribbons. Of your feathers blackening mid-flight, blistered by some unseen judgment. Of sin blistering your skin as you plummet. Your own screams tear through your throat like ash.

You strike the earth with shattering force, your grace torn from you. You hit the ground in a broken heap, lightless. And then— Nothing.

You wake violently, gasping for air, the sheets tangled around your legs. Sweat clings to your skin, a thin sheen of cold across your neck. Your hands claw at the blanket, seeking purchase against something, anything—

But you cannot breathe. The fire is still in your throat. You swear you can taste the ash.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright.”

You startle at the voice. Hands—warm and steady—close over your arms.

You do not recognize them at first. You are still in the fire, still in the ruin. You thrash against the hold, your chest tight and heaving, the phantom of gravity still clutching at your lungs.

“Shh, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

Her voice cuts through the haze, low and trembling but steady, and you come back to the room by fragments—the silk sheets damp with sweat, the moonlight trembling against the window, the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.

And her hands. Her hands, anchoring you.

“Breathe,” Caitlyn says softly. “Just breathe.”

Her thumbs stroke slow, tender circles along the inside of your wrists. Her voice—rough from sleep—carries the faintest tremor. You feel the ghost of it on your skin.

You shudder in her hold. Your hands, still shaking, curl weakly into the fabric of her nightshirt. You feel the tremor in your fingers even as you grip her, even as you press your forehead into her collarbone.

You feel her breath catch sharply when you do. But she does not pull away.

“Did you dream of it?” she asks quietly.

You do not answer. Your throat is too raw, too tight, to speak. But she doesn’t need you to.

She shifts slightly, pulling you further against her. You feel the strength in her arms, the solid press of her palm against the back of your head. She holds you as though you might fly apart, fingers curled into the fabric of your sleep shirt, gentle but unyielding.

Her breath ghosts over your temple, uneven and warm. “You’re here,” she murmurs softly. “You’re alright.”

You are not alright. You are anything but. But she repeats the words like a prayer, low and steady, as though willing them into truth.

Her fingers stroke softly along the sharp ridges of your shoulder blades, where your ruined wings twitch faintly beneath her touch. She is careful. Reverent. The weight of her hand warm against the place where your divinity once rested.

And though you will not admit it, you lean into her. Your hands remain fisted in the fabric of her shirt, knuckles white and trembling. Your forehead stays pressed against her throat, your lips parted, pulling shallow, uneven breaths.

You feel the warmth of her arms encircling you completely, the faint press of her lips at your temple—so light, you might have imagined it.

You breathe against her skin. And you do not pull away.

For the first time since the fall, you do not dream of fire. And she does not let you go.

𝕴𝖁. She, Your Eden

Caitlyn begins bringing you out into the gardens—the very place where you fell. The place where the earth first cradled your broken body, where the grass still remembers your blood.

You resist at first, your legs still weak from disuse, your steps faltering as though your body does not recognize gravity’s grip. She stands beside you, patient, always within reach but never touching.

The morning air clings cool to your skin. The scent of damp earth rises beneath your feet. You walk side by side, though you never brush against her. Your hands remain clasped behind your back, fingers lightly interlaced, as if in silent prayer. As if holding your holiness like a barrier between you.

You always keep one step ahead. And Caitlyn lets you.

But her eyes linger. She watches you. Always.

She watches the way you tilt your face toward the sun, as though waiting for it to split open the clouds and carry you back to grace. The way your eyes flutter closed, desperate for warmth that no longer recognizes you.

She watches your lips form prayers that never rise. She watches your knuckles tighten when you clutch at your own hands, as though trying to hold yourself together. She watches you fall apart.

She speaks of life. Of mortality. Of things that bloom in the dirt and not in the clouds.

“Look,” she says softly one morning, gesturing toward a cluster of wild roses growing unruly along the garden wall. Their petals are pale gold, blushing faintly at the edges, heavy with dew. Some have begun to wilt at the tips. Bruised by the cold. Imperfect.

“They’ll be gone by next week,” Caitlyn muses, crouching beside them, brushing her fingertips over a drooping stem. She glances at you over her shoulder, lips pulling into a faint, almost mischievous smile. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You look at her, disbelieving. “It’s dying.”

Her smile does not falter. She plucks the bloom from its branch and holds it out to you. Her voice is quiet, steady. “And still beautiful.”

You do not take the flower. You turn from her, from the roses, from the dying beauty she speaks of, and walk away.

She does not stop you. But when she finds you the next morning—hunched by the fountain, your fingers trembling over your beads of prayer—she kneels beside you without a word. She does not speak of flowers that wilt or the beauty of decay.

She only presses a shawl around your trembling shoulders, her fingers warm against your skin. And you let her.

When she realizes the garden cannot reach you, she tries the city. You refuse the first time she asks. And the second. And the third.

But she is stubborn. And when she stands before you that morning, her eyes suddenly soft but unbearably earnest, her voice quiet but breaking faintly at the edges—you cannot deny her.

“Please,” she says softly. There is no command in her voice. No persuasion. Only a quiet, fractured plea.

And so, you follow.

The city is a tangle of warmth and dust. Stone and iron. Smoke and spice.

It is nothing like heaven. And yet, she keeps showing it to you. As though it might be.

She takes you to the market first. You walk beside her, your posture rigid, unsure. The crowd swells around you, voices low and rough, unrefined. Mortal laughter clatters against stone walls, uncontained and imperfect.

You do not understand the appeal of it. But Caitlyn does.

She stops by a fruit stand. The merchant hands her a sliver of honeyed pear on the edge of a dull knife. She turns, holding it out to you, eyes glinting with unrestrained delight.

“Try it,” she says simply, her voice lighter now, teasing at the edges.

You stare at the sliver of fruit, brow faintly drawn. “I don’t need it.”

Her smile tilts, coy and knowing. “No. But you might want it.”

You glance at her. The sun catches in her hair, turns it to dark silk, makes the blue in her eyes burn a little brighter. And against your better judgment, you take it. You place the sliver of pear against your tongue, slow and uncertain, and the taste—syrupy sweet, clinging to the roof of your mouth—shocks you with its richness.

Her eyes flicker with satisfaction. But she says nothing. She only hands you another.

You do not refuse.

In the following days, she shows you more of the city. She lets you walk behind her at first, always allowing you the space you demand, though her hand lingers close enough to catch yours.

She buys you books filled with mortal poetry—thin volumes with gilded edges and worn spines. She leaves them by your bedside. You tell yourself you will not touch them.

But you do. You read them before you sleep. You read about broken hearts and fleeting beauty and stars that live and die in the same breath. You read about a world meant to end and bloom again in the ashes.

And when she finds you on the veranda one evening, book still open on your lap, you scowl at her. She only smiles. The slightest tilt of her head. Like she knew you would.

One evening, the wind is sharp with the promise of rain. You shiver slightly when it drags its cold fingers along your skin. You do not complain. You would not dare.

And yet, without a word, Caitlyn unwinds the scarf from her own neck and drapes it around your shoulders. Her knuckles brush against your collarbone, slow and deliberate, before they retreat.

The scarf is warm with her scent. You clutch it closer without meaning to. And you despise yourself for it.

You watch her as she glances away, her eyes settling on the rows of lanterns swaying softly in the evening breeze. You do not see the smile she hides.

You still pray. Still beg for the gates. Still clutch at your beads with trembling hands.

But she cannot bear it. Cannot bear the way you gaze at the sky with longing eyes, waiting for the light that will not come.

She watches you ache for a heaven that has already closed its gates. And so, she decides.

If you will not stay for the world, She will become your reason.

She will make herself your Eden. And she will be merciless in her devotion.

𝖁.Soft Damnation

That night, you break.

It happens without warning. The sky offers no omen—only emptiness. Ink-black and void of answers.

The stars are sharp, pale shards scattered across the heavens, and yet they do not hear you. No light answers when you beg. No voice calls your name.

So you fall. Again.

You collapse to your knees in the dirt where Caitlyn once found you. Where you first became something unholy. The cold earth clings to your skin, biting against your bones. But you do not rise. You only bow lower.

You press your trembling hands together, knuckles white with desperation. Your voice rasps against the stillness, cracking with every breath.

“Domine, adiuva me.” Lord, help me.

But the words feel like ash on your tongue. Dry and dead. Familiar and useless.

You clutch at your beads, fingers unsteady, the rosary trembling in your grip. You pray again, louder this time. “Domine, ne derelinquas me.” Lord, do not forsake me.

But there is no answer. There never is.

You feel your throat tighten. Your eyes burn with the betrayal of salt. And you shatter. Into something less than divine. Something broken. Something mortal.

She finds you like that.

Caitlyn’s breath catches in her throat when she sees you—the fierce, unyielding creature who once spoke of salvation with such reverence—now trembling in the dirt, splintered by absence.

“Hey,” she calls softly, her voice barely a whisper. But you do not lift your head. You do not answer.

You only press your forehead deeper into the soil, as though the earth might swallow you whole. As though you wish it would.

“Please.” Her voice is closer now, low and unsteady. The smallest fracture in her tone makes your spine stiffen.

You feel her hands on your arms—gentle at first, uncertain. Fingers hesitant against your skin. But when you refuse to rise, when you resist her, she grows bolder.

“Stop—” You twist away from her, your nails biting into your palms. But she is stronger. Her arms circle around you, unyielding. And this time, she holds you.

“Stay,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. She buries her face against your neck, her breath uneven, trembling. “Stay. Please.”

Her lips are too close. Her words too human. Too pleading.

You feel her desperation in the way her arms tighten around you, anchoring you to her. You feel her voice quake against your skin.

And you break. Utterly. Completely.

First in sobs, sharp and breathless. Then in silence, your body trembling in her arms. And finally—finally—in her mouth.

You do not know who moves first. Only that your lips find hers, seeking with the violence of sorrow. A collision of trembling mouths and sharp breaths.

Her lips—warm, mortal—burn against your trembling mouth. You taste the salt of your own grief on her tongue. And she tastes the sorrow on yours.

Your hands, still shaking, rise to her face, fingertips unsure. But she holds them there—keeps them against her cheeks with her own trembling hands. Grounding you.

She murmurs against your lips—desperate, reverent, wild. “Stay with me.” The words press against your mouth like a vow. Like a plea.

And you answer her in the only language you have left. In the only prayer you have left.

You pull her closer. Your hands tangle in her hair, wild with grief and need. Your fingers twist into the strands at the nape of her neck, desperate to keep her near, to feel the weight of her. To know she is real.

You kiss her with the fury of a lost soul seeking light. And she answers you. With no hesitation. No grace. Only need.

That night, Caitlyn worships you. But not with reverence. Not with delicate prayers. But with hands that devour. With lips that consume.

She carries you into her room, your limbs weak and unsteady. And when your knees buckle, she catches you. Her arms steady around you, her breath at your ear.

“I have you,” she whispers. A promise, low and feral.

She lays you down on the bed, her hands trembling as she undresses you. You let her. You do not resist when her mouth finds your throat. When her lips trace the hollow beneath your jaw.

She leaves her mark on you—soft and fleeting at first. But then harder. Fiercer. Like she wants to brand herself into you.

“You’re mine,” she rasps against your skin, her voice raw with need. A confession. A claim.

You do not protest. You do not stop her when her teeth scrape softly against your collarbone, when she bites down just hard enough to make you gasp. You do not stop her when she kisses her way down your stomach, slow and deliberate. Her mouth reverent but merciless. A prayer in every press of her lips.

Her hands trace the curve of your hips, shaking with restraint, afraid you might still disappear. But you don’t. You stay. You stay with her.

You cry out softly when her lips trace the inside of your thigh, when her mouth finds the heat between your legs. You bury your hands in her hair, trembling as you pull her closer. Her breath is hot and heavy against you, and you arch into her mouth, into her devotion.

She leaves no part of you untouched. No part of you unworshipped.

Her lips press prayers into your skin—desperate, broken prayers. Her mouth speaks the only gospel she believes in now: You.

And when she rises over you, when she sinks into you with shaking hands and a trembling mouth, your back arches off the sheets, wings limp and breathless. Your nails score soft marks down her back, and she gasps at the sting.

“Say my name,” she pleads against your lips, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. Her eyes—dark and raw—search yours, aching. “Please, say it.”

And you do. For the first time, you speak it without shame. Without resistance.

“Caitlyn.” A whisper, trembling and reverent. The first prayer you speak without heaven in mind.

And she swallows it. Takes it into her mouth like sacrament. Like she could live on the sound of it.

That night, you do not reach for God. You reach for her. And she holds you like she is the only salvation you will ever need.

𝖁𝕴. The Flightless Dawn

The morning is golden. And cruel.

The sun breaks in through the window, spilling light across your skin like a slow and deliberate confession. It exposes everything. The shallow curve of your back. The faint, bruised blooms where her mouth had lingered too long. The tender scrape of her nails down your spine.

You sit by the window, draped in nothing but the linen sheet, your knees drawn loosely to your chest. The fabric clings to your damp skin, still cloyed with the scent of her. Your hair is tangled from her hands, wild and unkempt, and you hate that you no longer know if the heaviness in your chest is from grief— or from the weight of her gaze.

Your fingers tremble faintly as you trace your own shoulder, feeling the faint indent where her lips had pressed too softly, too reverently. The memories cling like damp cloth. Too close. Too heavy.

You should be praying. You should be weeping for the sky, for the grace of it, for the gates you once called home. But you only sit there. Flightless. Silent.

You press your forehead to the windowpane, its chill biting at your skin. But the cold does nothing to cleanse you. It only makes you ache.

You hear her footsteps before you see her. Soft against the wooden floorboards. Slow. Careful.

As though she is afraid she will break whatever fragile peace exists between you.

Caitlyn enters quietly, her hair damp from the bath, clinging in darker strands at her temples. She has already dressed, loose-fitting pants and a thin button-down shirt that clings in places still damp. But she carries none of her usual formality, none of her sharpness. No holster at her hip. No stiff posture. Just her.

She does not speak. Not at first.

She only crosses the room, barefoot and silent, her eyes never leaving you. And when she reaches you, she kneels beside you, slow and deliberate.

Her fingers find your bare shoulder—hesitant at first. Testing. Like she expects you to flinch.

You do not.

She exhales softly, her hand warm and steady against your skin. Her forehead comes to rest against your temple. And she stays there. Breathing you in. No words. Only silence.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You only breathe into each other. Soft and slow. Like two souls trying not to wake the storm.

And then her voice—low, raw from the night before—breaks the stillness. Fragile and unsure.

“Are you alright?”

The question is a whisper, meant only for you. But it carries more weight than it should. More fear. More longing.

You do not answer right away. Your throat tightens. Your hands flex faintly against your knees. But you feel her fingers trace along your shoulder—slow, soothing—and you lean into the touch before you realize it.

You feel her breath hitch.

“Hey…” she murmurs softly, shifting slightly, her other hand coming to your jaw, gently coaxing you to face her. Her thumb brushes over your cheekbone, reverent, seeking. “Look at me.”

And you do.

Your eyes meet hers, and something in your chest buckles. Because there is no demand in her gaze. No expectation. Only tenderness.

Only her.

You hate the way your eyes burn at the edges. The way the ache in your throat rises like a swell. But Caitlyn does not look away. She does not flinch from the fragility in your gaze. She only leans in.

Her lips brush softly against your forehead, lingering longer than they should. She does not press for more. She only holds you there, unmoving, like she might somehow steal away the weight you carry if she just stays close enough.

“I’m here,” she whispers against your skin. Soft. Certain. Steady. “I’m right here.”

You exhale softly—ragged, broken—and you press your cheek against her palm, eyes fluttering closed.

You do not speak of the night before. You do not say her name. You do not weep for the sky.

You only let her hold you.

She shifts, carefully, pulling you into her lap. Her arms wrap around you with a gentleness that is almost painful. You bury your face in the curve of her neck, and she tightens her arms around you, one hand threading slowly through your hair.

You do not fight her. You do not resist when she places her lips softly against your temple. When she murmurs words into your skin—too quiet to be prayers, too raw to be anything but love.

“I’ve got you…” “You’re safe…” “I’m not letting go.”

And you believe her. For once, you let yourself believe her.

The sun slips higher, spilling golden warmth across the room. You feel it stroke your bare back, warm and insistent. The light brushes your skin like a fading echo of the divine. But you no longer flinch from it.

The sky is endless. But you do not weep for it anymore.

You let yourself lean into her, your hands weak but clinging softly to the fabric of her shirt. You let her press her lips against your hair. Let her cradle you. Let her carry you.

For now, this is your heaven. And you do not turn away from it.

#caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn x reader #lesbian #arcane #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn fanfic #caitlyn league of legends #caitlyn arcane #caitlun kiramman fanfic #caitlyn kiramman smut #caitlyn smut #arcane league of legends #arcane fan fiction #arcane smut #caitlyn #league of legends caitlyn

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writesvani · 26 days ago

Text

Dear Me | 01

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): nostalgia, lost friendships, unrequited love, emotional pain, longing, drifting apart, past relationships, smoking (cigarettes), self-destructive habits, regret, emotional detachment, loneliness, unresolved feelings, reminiscing about the past, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— next chapter

wc: 3k // date: 18th of March 2025

CHAPTER ONE; Me VS. Me happy reading my gummies...

AN: okay so first of all, THIS FIC IS MY BABY. my pride and joy. my magnum opus. my chef’s kiss MWAH. i have birthed it with my own two hands (don’t question the anatomy of that sentence, just roll with it). i have been so deep in writing characters that make you go hmm. questionable. concerning. ma’am, do you need therapy? that i just CRAVED writing someone to actually root for. and thus, this fic was born. and i love it. i love it so much.

writing this was an emotional rollercoaster. like, HELLO?? nostalgia just drop-kicked me in the chest. it is actually insane how little we remember of our own lives, like??? the fact that our past selves could be out there scheming, writing weird emails to our future selves, and we’d have NO IDEA?? terrifying and also very on brand.

anyway, i cannot WAIT for you guys to see the other chapters. i am so giddy about this fic you don’t even understand. i feel like a mad scientist cackling in the middle of the night. ugh. okay that’s all.

and yes, i listened to A LOT of Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo and Billie Eilish writing this. 🩷

LOVE YOU, BYE!

Memories are like bruises. They cling to you, pressing into your skin, carving themselves deep until they feel permanent. They settle in, making a home in you—for an unknown amount of time. But slowly, they fade. Day by day, they grow lighter, less sharp, until finally—nothing remains. And it’s as if they were never there at all.

By the time a human gently touches the edge of eighty, they will have lived nearly thirty thousand days. Yet, the ones they truly remember—the ones that weave their strings into the soul’s net—are only a few hundred, perhaps a few thousand.

We are born. We grow. We build connections. And yet, most of them dissolve with time. The light dims. The ties loosen. The voices fade into echoes. But sometimes, even when everything else is lost, the love we once shared lingers. A flame—small as the ember of a dying cigarette—still flickers, waiting, hoping to ignite once more.

Sometimes, the flame never reignites. The memory remains, vivid yet stagnant, sinking deep into the depths of our being but refusing to bloom again.

Other times, love and memory return like a hurricane—familiar knocks pounding at the door, relentless, inescapable.

And in your case—it comes right back, sitting pretty in your inbox. Letter after letter of who you used to be years ago, wrapping around you like a mother’s embrace. And you don’t want to let go.

Checking your email after work is a daily, unskippable ritual—like the scent of morning coffee, the kind that melts down your throat, the kind that holds you in its warmth. Like tying your shoes, a habit that clings to you ever since you first learned how to do it on your own.

Today is no different. You come home, drop your bags onto the first clean surface you can find, and eat the leftovers from the meal you made for your client. Thank God she lets you take them home.

Even though cooking is your passion—even though you live for the alchemy of flavors, for the way warmth blooms in someone’s chest at the first bite—working as a private chef is exhausting. Every single day, new dishes, new expectations, new demands. You love it. You really do. And you’re grateful that your passion pays the bills. But the last thing you want to do when you get home is cook.

Because who in their right mind brings their work home, right?

So you eat the leftovers.

You throw yourself onto your beige couch—the one your mom got you for a suspiciously low price when you bought your apartment.

You stretch like a lazy cat basking in the sunlight, tilting your head until your neck cracks just enough to be satisfying. A deep yawn escapes your lips as you open your laptop.

Specks of dust scatter across the keyboard, forming unrecognizable patterns. You trace a finger through them, leaving a clear trail behind.

Hm.

You’ll wipe it later. Right now, you're too tired.

It’s time to check your emails.

Nothing unusual—job offers scattered here and there, a local bookstore announcing a sale (you’ll definitely order something later), and an overpriced ceramic china set practically handed to you on a golden plate. You toy with the hem of your shirt, debating.

You’ll probably never use it, but it’d be great for special occasions—family gatherings, maybe? You can already picture the jealous grimaces of your distant aunts, their forced smiles twisting at the edges.

Yeah, it’s worth the money.

And then.

Then.

An email.

From you.

Not in your sent folder. Not a draft you forgot about. Right there, sitting patiently in your inbox, mocking you to your face—an email from yourself.

To you.

Your eyebrows knit together as you chew your bottom lip.

What the hell?

Your eyes squint lightly, adjusting to the glow of the screen as it lulls the darkness of your bedroom into sleep. Your breath comes out in gentle puffs.

Then, a chill runs down your spine.

Your palms suddenly feel damp—sweat pooling, clinging. You wipe them hastily on your shirt.

It can’t be. Can it?

You were sure—100% sure—it was a scam.

The sketchy service you paid for when you stole your mom’s credit card at fourteen (earning yourself a lengthy monologue about delinquent behavior) was a scam. It had to be.

But right there, on the screen, words are waiting for you.

Scattered across the desktop, glowing in the dim light. Staring back.

So you read.

"Dear Me,”

You blink.

"By the time you're reading this, you're 28. Jesus Christ, if you're even still alive, you're so old. How does being a granny feel? LOL. Just kidding. I know you're in your prime (or at least I hope so).

So, I don’t know if this is even going to work. A part of me is sure this is a scam, but hey—gotta stay optimistic, right?"

A small smirk tugs at your lips.

Optimistic, huh? Always was, always will be. Or at least, you try to be.

You take a slow sip of the green tea you made after dinner, letting it glide smoothly down your throat. Lately, it has felt as if you're rediscovering life—unraveling its meaning all over again.

And from the words of little you, it seems like nothing has changed.

A quiet chuckle escapes as you keep reading, a small smile still lingering on your face.

"Anyways, how are we, girl?

There are so many things I want to ask you, but I know I won’t get the answers until I become you. Still, I have to ask, okay? Please be patient with me.

First of all—are we a chef? Please tell me we are.

Ever since we went to Italy with Mom and Dad last summer, we’ve been obsessed with food. You remember that kind grandpa who taught us the perfect Bolognese recipe? You know, the one we completely wrecked the kitchen trying to recreate at home? Seriously, Mom was so mad at us—she’s such a drama queen, I swear.

But I’ll keep trying for you. I don’t want to let my future self down."

A soft chuckle slips from your lips as you let the memories bloom—that summer in Italy, when everything changed.

The moment you realized: this is it. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

You remember it all.

Your hands, stained deep red from the fresh tomatoes you and that kind grandpa had picked at the local market. The rich scent of the sauce bubbling on the stove. The way he spoke about Italian food as if it were as vital as nuclear physics—and to you, it was. It is. It always will be.

You remember the countless times you destroyed your kitchen, basking in the mess, determined to get it right. You remember failing. Again. And again.

And then—finally—succeeding.

Your heart swells, beating against the quiet of the room.

You did it.

You tried. And tried. And tried.

And in the end—you made the Bolognese perfectly.

After that, you gave your dream the life it always deserved.

"But if you realized you wanted to do something else with your life, that’s okay—I forgive you.

As long as we’re doing something we truly love, I approve."

Typical you. Always reassuring yourself.

Your heart clenches at the thought of your younger self, sitting at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright with excitement. So full of life. So alive. So imperfectly perfect—even though she never thought she was.

"So, tomorrow is the first day of high school, and I—or you, or we, whatever—I’M SO EXCITED OMG!!!"

You can practically hear the urgency behind the words, feel the restless energy of a girl who thought this was the most important night of her life.

"It’s time to meet new people and make new friendships and I can’t wait. I’m literally writing this because I can’t sleep #soexcited."

High school.

You don’t think about your first day much. Of all the roads you’ve traveled, all the moments that shaped you, this has never been one you revisited.

But seeing it now—her, you, how much it meant to her—

It hits.

A wave of nostalgia crashes over you, cold and sharp, like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head.

"And of course, the AWESOMEST fact in the universe: Jungkook is going to the same school as me (I mean us. This shit is very confusing, okay?).

Oh wait—he just sent me a text on FB. He can’t sleep either. RIP.

We’re taking all the same classes, which means WE’RE GONNA BE DESK MATES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???”

You swallow hard.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about him.

Because not thinking about Jeon Jungkook is impossible.

A ghost of him lingers in you—always there, just beneath the surface.

But it is simply as it is.

He was your best friend. He isn’t anymore.

Life happened. It pulled you apart. So you shouldn’t dwell on it.

But you see her—your younger self, in the back of your mind.

A huge grin stretched across her face, fingers flying over the keyboard as she texts Jungkook about the first day of high school.

Her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

Unspoken words pressing against her ribs.

And suddenly, the memory surges back—sharp, vivid, uninvited.

The way she loved him.

The way she was in love with him.

A reminder you didn’t need. A reminder you don’t want.

“And by the way, since so many years have passed—I gotta ask.

Are we maybe married to Kook? Dating him?

Did we confess?

Did he… like us back?”

You inhale sharply, fingertips drifting to your lips—a bad habit, a nervous tell.

“I don’t know how I imagine that story turning out.”

“Did he reject us?”

A pause.

“If he did, how did we survive that?”

You exhale. Slowly. Deeply.

“I can’t imagine that embarrassment. Ugh.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“But there’s a small flicker of hope inside of me that maybe… he confessed or maybe he likes us back, I don’t know”

A flicker.

Something you never snuffed out completely, no matter how much time passed.

“I guess, a small part of me thinks there’s a chance for Jungkook and us.”

“…But I’m not sure.”

Your fingers press harder against your lips, picking even harder, edges of your teeth pulling at the skin inside of your mouth.She sounds so young.

So immature and mature all at once—the messy contradiction of early adulthood.

But mostly?

She sounds hopeful.

Hopeful in a way you no longer are.

She really thought there would be a time for the two of you. Jungkook and you.

And maybe there was.

Maybe, in a parallel universe.

But not this one.

This one is real. This one is raw.

And you survived.

She thought she would perish without him.

But you’re still here.

Standing. Breathing. Living.

And for that, you’re proud of yourself.

Proud for growing out of it.

Proud for learning how to exist without depending on anyone else.

For being whole on your own.

And yet—your jaw clenches. Your throat tightens.

Because maybe, just maybe, a small part of you didn’t survive.

The part that was hopelessly, utterly, and completely in love with the boy you used to call your best friend.

Some wounds are better left untouched.

But this?

Reading this feels masochistic and beautiful at the same time.

It compels you.

You have to remember more.

You sigh.

But you still have to continue torturing yourself, so you drag your eyes back to the words.

“Even if nothing happened with Kook, even if you fell out of love with him—which I find impossible, because CMON, there’s no love if it isn’t written in Jungkook cursive. But if you did fall out of love by some miracle, I know that you guys are still bestest friends in the whole universe.”

Your fingers tense around the edge of your laptop.

Bestest friends in the whole universe.

You inhale sharply, but it does nothing to steady you.

“I know he’s still a part of our story.”

A hollow feeling burrows itself into your chest.

“Tell me, what does he do for a living? Is he a drummer, like he always dreamed of being?”

Your breath stutters.

Drummer.

A dream that stayed exactly what it was.

A dream.

“He told me last night he’s gonna ink himself in a year or two—AND do A BROW PIERCING.”

A pause.

Your lips twitch.

“His mom is gonna tweak out, like HELLO! But he’s gonna be so hot I simply can’t even debate on this—I have to support him.”

A quiet chuckle leaves you before you can stop it.

“He’s so wild in his own dreams, I always feel the need to chase after him.”

Your throat tightens.

Because once, you did.

Once, there was a time you couldn’t imagine a day without him.

And now?

You press a palm to your forehead, massaging the dull ache forming at your temples. Your heart hammers painfully, and suddenly, you're craving nicotine like it's the only thing tethering you to the present.

Jungkook.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips—dry, pale, bitten raw.

A memory flickers.

Jungkook, terrified at the tattoo parlor.

Your fingers intertwined with his, grounding him.

You—blushing furiously—as the tattoo artist pulled his shirt up, exposing the smooth skin of his ribs.

You were seventeen then, sneaking into some shady tattoo shop where minors passed as adults. No IDs. Just cash and a little recklessness.

But you wrote this at fourteen.

Fourteen-year-old you didn’t know yet.

She didn’t know that Jungkook would get his ethereal skin inked, his brow pierced. Well she didn’t know for sure. But Jungkook hoped to do so and young her, young you believed in him.

She didn’t know that some dreams don’t survive the weight of reality.

Because Jungkook never became a drummer.

The boy who once swore he’d live off the sound of drumsticks against cymbals had to chase something bigger.

A career.

A paycheck.

A better life.

And in that chase—your friendship, the thing younger you was so sure would last forever—

It got carried away.

Somewhere far.

With him.

You bring a cigarette to your lips and take a slow, deliberate drag. The smoke curls around you like a ghost—familiar, haunting, inescapable. It carves itself deep into your lungs, settles in your bones like something meant to stay.

“UGH, mom is yelling at me to go to sleep.”

You exhale, watching the smoke dissipate.

“I’ll be back soon tho, I know you already miss younger you, haha.”

A dry chuckle catches in your throat.

Do you?

Do you really?

“I’m gonna be sending you one email a week for a year through this service, so I’M TOTALLY gonna remind you of our first year of high school.”

Your fingers tighten around the cigarette.

A year.

She’s going to be here for a year.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll steal Dad’s credit card next time so I can pay for another year.”

A scoff pulls at your lips.

Typical.

“I’m unpredictable like that.”

The corner of your mouth twitches.

Yeah, she was.

“For now, I love you.”

A pause. You take a deep breath.

“Past You, Me, or Us (IM NOT SURE).”

Your teeth clench.

You take another pull of nicotine. The taste is bitter, but you let it linger anyway.

You forgot about this.

About her.

About the fact that the emails will keep coming—one after another, a relentless flood of memories you didn’t ask for.

And now?

Now, it all crashes down on you.

A tidal wave of long-buried memories of fourteen-year-old you, giddy and unfiltered, pouring her thoughts into emails, fingers flying over the keyboard like they couldn’t keep up with her excitement.

She had no idea.

No idea what was coming.

No idea who she and Jungkook would become.

How aparat they would be.

A low groan rumbles from your chest.

Why did you do this to yourself?

You hover over the keyboard.

Your stomach twists.

Your mind screams at you to block the emails. To delete them. To wipe them out before they reopen wounds you’ve spent years ignoring.

But your fingers never move.

Because it feels wrong.

Because deleting them feels like deleting her.

And even if you don’t recognize some parts of her anymore, she was still you.

To erase her would be to erase everything you used to be.

And that?

That would be the real betrayal.

You shut the laptop with a scoff.

The sound echoes through the empty apartment, lingering in the silence. Your feet move on their own, carrying you to the shower. You don’t think. You just go.

By the time you step inside, the water is already scorching hot. You let it burn. Let it sear into your skin, as if heat alone can strip away the weight of forgotten memories.

But it doesn’t.

It clings to you, sticks to your bones like something too deep to scrub away.

Because it’s not dirt.

It’s the truth.

And it won’t leave—not even when you wrap yourself in fresh clothes and sink into the soft cushions of your bed.

Your fingers move on instinct, pulling out your phone, scrolling through Instagram stories. You’re not really looking for anything. But then you see it.

He posted something.

Your breath catches.

It’s the sky.

A sunset.

Splatters of red and orange melt together, the sun shyly emigrating between earth and sky.

You stare.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you click on his profile. Something unnameable courses through your veins.

Is it nostalgia?

The longing for a friendship that no longer exists?

Is it simply missing him?

Your best friend?

Your chest tightens.

You tap on the chat option.

And there it is.

A string of messages.

Nothing devastating.

Just… usual.

A cycle of: "Happy Birthday, I love you so much," and "Thank youu, love you too." A chain of story reactions. That’s all that’s left of you two.

Your grip on the phone tightens.

Is this really it?

Is this what you’ve become?

Two people who once built a universe together, now reduced to annual birthday wishes and the occasional double tap?

It’s mocking you.

Because Jungkook and you—you were never just usual.

You were everything.

The chaos and the calm.

The storm and the warmth of sunlight on a rainy day.

The scent of rain, the comfort of old books, the hush of midnight talks.

You were everything.

And now?

Now you’re nothing.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

A part of you—the reckless part—wants to send something. Wants to test the waters, see if there’s still something left to salvage. But then reality crashes down, heavy and suffocating.

You curse yourself under your breath.

Rekindling something out of the blue—who does that?

Not now.

Maybe another time.

Or maybe…

Maybe this is simply how it’s supposed to be.

Locked away.

Tucked inside your heart.

Safe from the ache of all the what could have beens.

Yeah.

It’s better this way.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97

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