#god.... the different versions hit different in good ways

[artist-issues]

YOU DONT LIKE EVER AFTER????? HHHHH WHY

oh thank you for asking

If it didn’t present itself as a Cinderella story, I would be indifferent to it or think it was fine.

But because it straight-up is claiming to be as Cinderella as it can

It opens itself wide for my criticism.

I mean. What about this is Cinderella?

Gross. Get it away from me.

When you understand that to the Real Cinderella, her stepsisters are like the little animals she’s kind to—small, sometimes gross, low to the ground, and unable to give her anything in return, and she knows that—and she’s still kind to them—then watching her punch the stepsister in the face is disgusting.

It’s like how you’d feel if the Disney version screeched and hit Gus-Gus with a broom every time she saw him stealing birdseed from the chickens.

The stepsisters are awful to the point of being inhuman. Cinderella knows that. But she’s gracious enough to realize they don’t have what she has—love, and kindness, nor the strength to act upon those virtues. After all, look at their stepmother. They haven’t been taught any different. And it’s worse to be a selfish creature, twisted in until you can’t see anything but yourself, than it is to be an abused person who still has the strength to respond kindly.

Cinderella knows all that. She has a superpower they don’t have. And she’s based on Christian principals. So she would never—it is the ANTI-CINDERELLA thing to do—return evil for evil. She would never hit back.

But Ever After does nothing except present itself as a bold-faced rewrite where Cinderella punches people in the mouth and sword-fights her way to her own salvation.

Disgusting.

It does it so intentionally. Way before Disney ever made twisted-up-rewrites to their stories, Ever After was doing it to the original Cinderella fairy tale.

It goes, “instead of a fairy tale, have a story framed like ‘this is the historical version of events complete with Leonardo Da Vinci, so you’ll see how the fairy tale got it wrong,’” and then the THINGS it frames the fairy tale as being wrong about are specifically the values and traits that make Cinderella Cinderella.

They go, “kindness, grace, and forgiveness is wrong. Get even. Fight your way out. That’s the real Cinderella.”

And they replaced the Fairy Godmother, a character linked with the idea that God is rewarding Cinderella’s goodness with magical dresses and a Prince, with Leonardo Da Vinci—a man people mistakenly believe was focused on science as opposed to God—and they have him even say some line about Christ walking on water to reinforce the idea that there’s no God stepping in in this movie, just like there’s no reason for Cinderella to rely on anybody but herself to come to her rescue, it’s all science and swordfights.

Gross. Disgusting. Can’t stand that movie. If you like it, it’s not because you like Cinderella.

THIS:

Over THIS passive-aggressive grandiose nothingness:

Every time.

[bardengarde]

Rip BJ Hunnicutt, you are NOT going to do well whenever Galveston gets released by Glen Campbell in 1969 or again by Jimmy Webb in 1972

[iamthetruestrepairman]

my problem is my favourite thing to do is to act more unaware and unsure of things than I am so I have the upper hand in interactions but my least favourite thing is having people think I’m stupid

[killjoy-prince]

Project Diva X's way of getting outfits via rhythm game gacha makes me wanna run it over with a truck

[dollracha]

𐙚 i want it ⋆  h.js  x reader

part one ⋆ part two

pairing: han jisung x inexperienced virgin! fem!reader genre: smut warnings: swearing ⋆ slight corruption kink ⋆ needy han ⋆ slight perv!han ⋆ sorta dubcon ⋆ reader is called “baby” (several times) & “my girl” (once) ⋆ spit kink ⋆ non penetrative sex ⋆ munch jisung ⋆ dialogue heavy wc: 707 synopsis: you both promised to take it slow, but jisung struggles to keep his word, and you certainly don't mind. author's note: been thinking about this for days this is so incredibly self indulgent its not funny. this is not beta read. this is barely proofread. i'm just a whore. the first 870 or so of yall saw a slightly different version than everyone else onward. i made some slight changes that needed to be reworked for clarity. and for those of you interested, part 2 is linked above!

© dollracha do not copy reupload or repost.

“fuck, ‘m sorry, baby.” jisung whines into your neck as he ruts his cock against your wet panties. he’s got one hand wrapped tightly around his cock, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. you’ve both soaked your panties, his precum and the wetness from your pussy make it almost uncomfortably sticky.

“god, ‘m so fuckin’... gross.” he rambles, pulling himself up to spit on his cock. he watches it slide off the side of his tip and down your ass. “making a mess of your poor pussy just to get myself off.”

“hannie…” your moan has him rolling his eyes back. you can’t remember how you ended up beneath him, just that you didn’t want it to stop yet. It wasn’t enough. and yet you were trying to find it in you to tell him to slow down, it’s what you wanted after all. to take it slow, wait until ‘the right time’ for your first time with jisung. that went out the window the moment he started feeling you up today.

“i know… said i'd keep my pretty girl all pure for a little longer.”

but jisung’s cock throbs at the sight of you all defiled. your hair is a mess from when he shoved you down on the bed and had his hands all up in it when he kissed you earlier. your makeup is smudged, mascara messy from the way tears well up in your eyes and spill when his cockhead rubs against your clit just right. your lipstick blurs around your lips from the sloppy kisses you shared. he begged you not to wear a bra this morning when you got dressed, it made your tits even easier for him to access. all he had to do was pull down your little tank top and they were all his. your skirt is pushed up, soft tummy peeking out. and your pussy, so wet for him already and he’s still one layer away. 

“look at you… so nasty f’me.”

“can i take off your panties? please, baby?” jisung stops rutting against your clothed pussy and gives a couple hard taps against your clit. “know it’s dirty, baby. but it’ll feel good, okay?”

all you want at this point is to feel good–screw everything else–so you nod and lift your hips so he can slide your panties off your legs.

You try to shut your legs but jisung is quicker. both of his hands keep your thighs open. “let me see that pretty pussy, don’t hide it from me.” he’s quick to spit on it again, and this time you can’t help the high pitched moan that escapes your lips. 

“did your exes ever spit on it, baby?”

you shake your head, hands coming to cover your flushed face. nobody’s ever touched you like jisung has. you've kissed your exes, dry humped, even came from it too. but jisung's the only one who's touched you so intimately, and a part of him hopes it stays that way.

“like it?” he asks and you don’t respond. is it wrong to say you liked it? it’s gross, you think. it’s so so gross… but is it wrong?

warm saliva hits your pussy again, this time you can feel jisung’s breath on you. 

“do you like it when i spit on your pussy, baby?”

“... yes…” you respond, and finally pry your arms away from your face. jisung’s laying down on the bed, hands pressed against your thighs to keep them open. he can’t decide what's a sweeter sight, your glistening pussy or your wide eyes. for now, his eyes lock with yours.

“fuck…” jisung whispers. his eyes fall back to your pussy with a smile. he licks his lips and lets his head fall against the blankets.

“ji?” you reach for his hand, and as soon as he feels your hand on his he’s grasping it, and raising his head up to kiss your knuckles. 

“i know you wanna take it slow… but please, please can i eat you out, baby? ‘s all i want.”

jisung agreed to take it slow, but he's got you half dressed and soaking your bed. maybe you should be mad, but god, the pleasure jisung was giving you was addicting. you weren’t afraid to give yourself away to him at this point.

“i want it.” you nod, and jisung kisses your hand again.

“gotta give my girl what she wants then, yeah?”

© dollracha do not copy reupload or repost.

[greengoblinswifey]

Temple— Nicholas Chavez x Fem!Reader

summary— they always say “your body is a temple” and boy is nicholas’ body a temple you love to climb and worship.

warnings— PURE SMUT. fingering, hand job, oral(m receiving), unprotected sex, mirror play, spit kink, praise kink, degrading kink, body worship, ass slapping, choking, creampie, daddy kink, breeding kink, cum eating, rough sex, aftercare, fluff.

a/n— ovulating and wrote this based on these pictures because he looks so good, ugh, i NEED him. (not prof read)

You were wandering the aisles of your favorite boutique, surrounded by the chatter of other shoppers. Just as you picked up a cute dress, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You fished it out, expecting a simple text, but what you saw made your breath hitch and your pussy throb.

Nicholas had sent you a picture of himself shirtless, standing in his bathroom with the light cascading down his chiseled abs, his hair slightly damp and tousled and then one with the hat you gifted him on. He looked incredible, his physique had transformed since you first started dating for his new roles, becoming more defined and muscular, and it left you utterly speechless.

You couldn’t help but bite your lip as heat pooled in your core. God, he looks good. You remembered when you first met him, he was charming and sweet, and you loved him just as he was then. But this new version of him? It ignited something deep within you. It was as if every sculpted muscle was begging for your attention, and all you could think about was how much you needed him inside you, pounding you.

The dress you were holding suddenly felt heavier as you clutched it tighter, trying to maintain your composure in the middle of the store. Your thighs clenched instinctively, and you could feel the flush creeping up your cheeks. How was it possible for someone to look that good? You found yourself blushing, desperately trying to focus on the price tags in front of you, but your mind was racing with thoughts of him.

You quickly typed back, your fingers trembling as you tried to keep it casual. “Wow, what are you trying to do to me?” You hit send, your heart racing with anticipation. He was always playful, but this felt different, this felt more personal, more intimate.

As you made your way to the cash register, you could still see him in your mind, his body the definition of perfection. You swiped his card without a second thought, the thrill of using his money adding to your excitement. If only he were here right now. You imagined him behind you, his hands resting on your hips, whispering sweet nothings as you paid.

Your thoughts swirled with desire, longing to feel his warmth against your skin, to wrap your arms around him and pull him in close. His body was a temple, you thought, it was a holy site you craved to explore.

With a final glance at the dress in your hands, you decided to head home, your mind set on what would happen once you got there. You needed him, and you could already envision the fire igniting between you two as soon as you walked through the door.

As you rushed through the front door, adrenaline surged through you. You barely took the time to drop your shopping bags before you heard the unmistakable sound of the shower turning off.

You quietly made your way down the hallway, the steam still lingering in the air, and as you approached the bathroom, you caught a glimpse of him stepping out, droplets of water glistening on his perfectly chiseled body. Nicholas looked like a god, one you craved to worship, his muscles taut and glistening under the dim light, every curve and contour accentuated.

You leaned against the doorframe, mesmerized, your breath catching in your throat. This was everything you’d imagined and more. He dried himself off with a towel, completely unaware of your presence, and for a moment, you relished the view, every single inch of him was a work of art.

But you were done watching. The heat radiating from your core was too strong to ignore, and all rational thoughts slipped away. Without a second thought, you slipped out of your clothes, leaving yourself bare and vulnerable in the dim light.

The chill of the air contrasted sharply with the heat building inside you, but it only fueled your desire further. You stepped into the bathroom, your heart pounding, and when he finally turned to face you, his eyes widened in surprise and hunger.

“Nicholas,” you breathed, your voice thick with need. You stepped closer, the space between you two disappearing as the urgency of the moment enveloped you.

“Hey baby— oh shit.”

His towel dropped to the floor, forgotten, and in that instant, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, raw, exposed, and yearning for each other.

“Oh god, I need you so bad,” you whined, your body pressed against his as you desperately kissed him all over his chest and tipped to meet his cheeks and lips.

Nicholas pulled you close, laughter in his eyes as he felt your warmth enveloping him. “What’s gotten into you, pretty baby?” he teased, a playful grin spreading across his face.

You looked up at him, your heart racing as you felt the heat radiating off his body. “Look at you,” you replied, your voice breathless. “Walking around here looking like this, sending me pictures of you shirtless… God, what do you expect?”

With a mischievous smile, you moved behind him, admiring his tall, muscular frame in the mirror. You couldn’t help but caress his abs, fingers tracing the defined lines, marveling at the way his body felt under your touch. He threw his head back in pleasure, a low groan escaping his lips as your hands explored him.

The atmosphere shifted, the playful banter giving way to something more primal. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his body responded to your every caress. His thick, long cock was painfully hard now , and you could sense the need in him building, mirroring your own.

You wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him gently as you both stared into the mirror. The sight was mesmerizing, his face contorting with pleasure, the way he fell apart under your touch, completely lost in the moment.

As you continued, you watched him unravel, utterly captivated by how hot he was, how perfectly he fit into your desires.

“Look at yourself daddy, I’m making you feel so good, you look so fucking sexy,” you panted, speeding up your movements.

You bit your lip as you felt him jump and throb in your hands, everything he did made you feral. Then, with a shudder and a low moan, you felt the warmth spill onto your hand, a testament to the electric connection between you two.

“Open your eyes,” you demanded. They fluttered open and he watched in the mirror as you sucked his cum from off your fingers before lifting them up to his lips making him taste what was left of himself. He hummed in content, the sound going straight to your pussy but you would deal with that problem soon.

“No,” you said, determination lacing your voice as you looked up at him. “I need to give you more. I want to show you just how much I appreciate you.”

Slowly, you sank to your knees, eyes locked onto his as you let your tongue glide over his chest, savoring the taste of his skin. You trailed your tongue down to his abs, worshipping every ridge and contour. “You’re so beautiful,” you murmured, your voice low and sultry. “So sexy, Daddy.”

His breath hitched at your words, and you could see the effect you had on him, his body responding to your every move. You reached down, wrapping your hand around his cock again, feeling him harden beneath your touch.

“Look at how big you are,” you praised, your voice dripping with admiration. “So perfect in my hands.” You leaned closer, giving him a teasing lick, savoring the taste of him, and your eyes rolled back in pleasure at how good he tasted. “Mm, you taste amazing daddy.”

With that, you took him into your mouth, feeling him fill you completely. The sounds of his pleasure willed you on, and you began to move, sending him to the back of your throat, lost in the rhythm of worshipping him. “You taste so good,” you whispered between breaths, and Nicholas groaned, his hands tangling in your hair, urging you on.

“Just like that, baby,” he praised, his voice thick with desire. “You’re fucking incredible.”

You continued, letting his praises wash over you, and as you felt him hold your head down and cum down your throat, it was like fireworks exploded around you. You savored the moment, knowing you had brought him to this point of ecstasy.

You couldn’t help but smile as you looked up at him, feeling bold. With your fingers, you gathered the rest of his release from his hard cock and brought it to your mouth. You took it in, savoring the taste, and smeared it and your saliva over his chiseled abs. You couldn’t resist the urge to lick it all off, your body shuddering with each stroke of your tongue.

“God, you’re fucking perfect, y’know that?” he said, watching you with a mix of awe and desire. “I appreciate that, baby. But now, it’s my turn to make you feel good.”

He positioned you in front of him, hoisting one of your feet up onto the counter, giving him a better angle. “Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, and you complied eagerly, watching as he spat into your waiting mouth. You swallowed it happily, feeling the rush of satisfaction.

Nicholas trailed his finger down your body, stopping at your soaking wet pussy. As he slipped a finger inside you, you gasped, your body arching toward him instinctively. “Look at yourself in the mirror,” he instructed, his voice thick with lust. “Look how beautiful you are.”

You glanced up, eyes locking with your reflection. The sight of you, flushed and breathless, sent a thrill through you. Nicholas’ finger worked expertly inside you, curling just right, and the pleasure began to build. “That’s it, baby. You’re so beautiful when you come apart like this,” he praised, his gaze never leaving your face as he watched you surrender to the waves of ecstasy. “Let me see you feel good.”

With each movement of his fingers, the pleasure surged higher, and you found yourself lost in the sensation. “Daddy,” your moans filling the room as you finally reached your release, trembling under his touch.

“That’s it, I’ve got you baby, daddy’s got you,” he cooed, rubbing your clit fast as your body jolted and slowly came down from your high.

Nicholas trailed kisses down your neck and across your shoulders, his lips warm against your skin. “Look in the mirror, baby,” he murmured, his breath hot against you. You obeyed, your heart racing as you met your own gaze, feeling every kiss ignite your desire.

With a sudden, playful movement, he bent you over the counter, a sharp smack landing on your ass. “You look so sexy like this,” he teased, watching you wiggle your backside against him. You grinned back at him, biting your lip. “You look like a Greek god,” you shot back, and he smirked, pride flashing in his eyes.

“Oh yeah?” he replied, holding your neck gently but firmly, bringing you back against his chest. You arched into him, feeling his hard cock tease against you as he slipped inside, filling you completely.

He began to pound into you roughly, his grip on your neck ensuring you were locked onto his gaze in the mirror. “Keep those eyes on me,” he commanded, and when you felt the urge to close them, he shook you slightly. “Look at yourself!”

“Daddy, you feel so good,” you gasped, feeling the pleasure building inside you.

“Tell me more,” he urged, his voice thick with desire. “Tell me how fucking hot I am.”

You nodded, breathless, “You’re so hot, so beautiful. I love your body, daddy. I love how you look as you pound into me.”

“Such a dirty slut,” he teased, reveling in the sight of you enjoying every second. He rubbed your clit, sending shocks of pleasure coursing through you. “Look at yourself being fucked.”

With a loud moan, you surrendered to the man behind, your release washing over you as you cried out his name like it was the only word you knew.

Nicholas smirked, a glint in his eye. “I’m not done with you yet,” he declared, hoisting you up effortlessly, arms hooked under your legs. He turned you sideways, positioning you perfectly so you could watch him slam into you.

“Worship me,” he commanded, his voice deep and gravelly making you throb.

You felt a surge of excitement course through you, and you nodded, biting your lip as you gazed into his eyes. “You’re everything, Nicholas. So strong, so perfect,” you whispered, your heart racing at the power he held over you, “you’re so fucking beautiful, your body is a work of art.”

With each thrust, he drove deeper, filling you completely. “That’s it, baby. You know how to treat me right,” he growled, his tone playful yet commanding. “Show me how much you want me.”

You leaned forward, kissing him passionately, your hands roaming over his chiseled chest and arms. “I need you,” you breathed between kisses. “You feel so good. I can’t get enough daddy.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice thick with lust. “I want to see you cum again.”

You gasped as he hit that sweet spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. “Daddy!” you cried out, feeling yourself on the edge once more. “I’m so close!”

“Then let go for me,” he urged, his eyes locked on yours, watching as the ecstasy took over. “Worship your man, baby.”

With one final thrust, you felt the familiar rush of pleasure envelop you as you climaxed, a wave of satisfaction washing over you. “Nicholas!” you cried, and he groaned in response, losing himself in the moment as he held you close, his body trembling with the intensity of it all but still not releasing.

He didn’t let you go. Instead, he laid your body down on the counter just a little, your legs wrapped tightly around him as he pounded into you once more. The world flipped upside down as you caught your reflection in the mirror, his tall frame hovering above you. The sight of him, muscles glistening and face twisted in pleasure, made your head spin.

“Who’s your daddy?” he asked, his voice thick with desire, his hand firm around your neck, exerting just enough pressure to send shivers down your spine.

“You,” you gasped, barely able to catch your breath. “You look like a god, so so h-handsome.”

The feeling of being so close to him made you dizzy, and his relentless thrusts only intensified the sensation. “I’m gonna fill you up and breed you like a bitch,” he growled, and your body responded to his words, craving more.

“Please,” you begged, your voice barely above a whisper as you gasped for air, but the urgency in your tone said everything. “I want it. I want you. I want your cum inside me!”

He smirked, the heat of his breath against your skin sending another wave of pleasure through you. “Since you think I’m so perfect, we’re gonna make the most perfect little babies,” he teased, pounding harder, deeper. You could feel the tension building as he brought you closer to the edge once more.

With a final, powerful thrust, he filled you completely, each pulse of his hot cum sending waves of ecstasy coursing through both of you. You felt him tremble against you as he held your neck tightly, ensuring you were looking at yourselves in the mirror.

As the high faded, exhaustion washed over you. He scooped you up into his arms, your head resting on his shoulder like a baby, ironic, considering what just happened. He brought a towel to clean you up, laying you gently on the bed, his lips trailing soft kisses across your skin.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmured, pride evident in his voice. “You took me so well. I’m so proud of you. You’re so perfect, princess.”

You cuddled into him, tracing circles on his pecs as you kissed his chest, savoring the warmth and safety of his embrace. In that moment, everything felt right, the world outside forgotten as you enjoyed the afterglow of what you had just shared.

[h0lydrag0ns]

Simon 'ghost' Riley headcanons! (Things he loves about you version)

Okay. Imagine you are his girlfriend now.

1. Compliments.

Oh, i know he LOVES your compliments. Calling him a good boy, handsome, strong... It makes something to him. Something... Something good. His cheeks heat up like he's in an oven, and he hides his face in your neck, avoiding a smile.

2. Wearing his hoodies.

Does he see you wearing one of his hoodies? Seeing how it's too big and falls off, revealing your shoulders? Get ready, because he'll take it off you in less than a minute. Along with all the clothes you're wearing, ofc.

3. Your touch.

You always have a way of making him forget who he is. The strong lieutenant? No, now he's a jelly when you cuddle him. Can't sleep? You run a hand through his hair, and he's already purring like a cat. But... He'll never admit it. His damn pride won't let him.

4. Your stubbornness.

He says he doesn't like it. But he loves it when you are a COMPLETELY challenge when something doesn't seem right. You put him in his place. Him and everyone else.

5. Your sensitivity

You're not much of a crybaby, but every time you do... He loves it. He likes to hug you, comfort you... One way or another, it doesn't matter.

6. Your laugh.

God help him when you laugh. It’s like music to him. Even if it’s at something dumb or one of your unfunny jokes (especially those), he’ll chuckle under his breath and pretend it’s no big deal. But inside? Butterflies. Chaos. Absolute meltdown.

7. The way you say his name.

“Simon.” That’s it. That’s all it takes. Doesn’t matter how you say it—sweetly, teasing, scolding—it hits different when it’s you. You say “Ghost,” he’s in soldier mode. You say “Simon,” and he’s already halfway to melting.

8. Your weird little habits.

You bite your straw. You talk to animals like they understand. You tap your fingers when you're thinking. He notices all of it. Won’t say anything. But catch him smiling when you’re not looking? Yeah. Busted

9. Your scent.

You leave behind your perfume (or whatever you wear) on his hoodie, and he’s walking around like a lovesick fool. He’ll never admit that he sniffs it. But he does. He does it a lot. Don’t bring it up. He’ll deny everything.

10. The fact that you chose him.

You could’ve had anyone. Someone normal. Someone emotionally available. Instead, you chose the quiet, haunted man with too many ghosts and a mask for a face. And every day, it stuns him a little. You chose him.

And God, he’s so stupidly in love.

Masterlist

[grayandthyme]

Nights In White Satin | Oneshot

div credit dollywons

masterlist

❝ nights in white satin, never reaching the end ❞

pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, NSFW, smut, mentions of violence, death, and gore. mentions events of s2e2/second game, mild angst, confession, mentions of survivor's guilt, extreme guilt, anxiety, maybe some ptsd, yearning, unprotected p in v, mentions of overstimulation, oral sex (f receiving), mature language, grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n. maybe a fix it fic....

synop: what if the events of (game 2, s2e2) happened a little bit differently? what if he survived? what if you got your happy ending. and, what if you showed him what that happiness really felt like?

a/n: im a widow, okay? take a oneshot bc i miss seeing him. also this has been in my drafts for awhile.. so pls ignore if its choppy</3

w/c 10.1k

"Mornin'," he rumbles, voice thick with sleep, rough like gravel under boot. The coffee cup skates across the cool granite, leaving a streak of warmth behind, and the smell—rich, dark, almost divine—hits you like a prayer answered by the gods above. Liquid fuckin sleep.

"Good morning to you too, Miller," you murmur around a yawn, curling two fingers through the handle and pulling the mug close. Heat seeps into your skin, chasing away the chill clinging to your bones.

Your gaze lifts to him—Joel—watching as he drags a hand down his face, wiping away whatever dreams still clung to him. His fingers thump against the counter with a soft, aimless tap, and you catch yourself staring at the rough, calloused pads of them, worn, weathered and real.

"Tired?" His voice is softer this time, threading through the sleepy silence between you.

You nod, sipping carefully at the coffee. Blessed and sorely needed.

"Is Ellie up, or did you let her sleep in?" you ask, stifling another yawn as you tip your head in a lazy nod toward the next patrol filing into the mess hall.

"I let her sleep," he mutters, gaze flicking down to the coffee steaming in his hand. You don’t have to press him—you already know. They’re still tangled up in whatever silent war they started. Fighting, ignoring each other, walking on eggshells… some messy, stubborn version of a father-daughter standoff that's got both of them fraying at the edges.

"Aren’t you a good daddy, eh?" you tease, hiding a smirk behind the rim of your mug. Your eyes cut sideways, waiting—almost daring him—to react.

Right on cue, he lets out a low, gruff hnf, a sound half embarrassment, half warning.

"I wouldn't press you about it anyway, Miller," you say with a soft grin, slipping down from the barstool. The soles of your boots scuff lightly against the floor, the sound too loud in the sleepy hush of the mess hall.

"I'm with Jesse this morning—we’ve got the market patrol," you add, turning as you shrug into your jacket, tugging it into place with a few sharp tugs. Still, your gaze can’t help but drift back to him.

Joel stands there, broad-shouldered and a little crumpled around the edges, like sleep hadn't quite finished with him yet. Your eyes catch on the strands of silver threading through the dark, messy curls at his temples.

Pretty, you think, a little surprised at yourself. Stupidly pretty.

He doesn’t notice the way you’re looking—or maybe he does and just pretends not to. He’s good at that.

"I'm with Dina," Joel says, giving a small nod. His eyes flick sideways, quick, like a habit he can't quite shake. Watching you. Pretending not to. It's subtle, the way he does it—barely there—but you catch it anyway.

"If you’re back in time, we can hit the bar for happy hour~," you tease, voice lilting into a singsong as you nudge a playful jab toward his shoulder, stopping just shy of actually making contact. "Maybe even get you to talk about your little daddy-daughter debacle."

You flash him a grin, wide and shameless, knowing full well how much he hates when you call it that. The word debacle alone is enough to get that tight, uncomfortable pinch around his mouth—the one he tries and fails to hide every time.

He huffs out a breath, more air than sound, and levels you with a look—one that’s supposed to be warning, but doesn’t have much bite behind it. His mouth pulls into a tight line, and for a second, you think he’s going to let it go.

But, of course, Joel Miller never lets anything go easy.

"You’re askin’ for trouble, y'know that?" he mutters, low and gravelly, eyes narrowing just a touch. Not angry. Just… exasperated. The kind of exasperated that sounds a whole lot like fond when it’s him.

You just laugh, light and careless, throwing a wink over your shoulder as you head for the door.

"Been askin' for trouble since the day you met me, old man," you call back, earning a rough, half-hearted hnf that follows you all the way out into the morning chill.

. . .

Patrol was boring. The kind of boring that makes you wish for something stupid to happen, just to feel your blood move a little faster. The roads were dead quiet, muffled under thick, heavy snow. Jesse didn't talk much—just rambled now and then about town repairs, busted generators, and roofs that needed patching. Stuff that drifted past your ears without sticking.

Building wasn’t really your thing, anyway. You stuck to what you were good at—helping out in the greenhouses, lending a hand at the infirmary—anything that didn’t require a hammer and nails. Unfortunately, you were still subjected to freeze your ass off on patrol.

The wind bit at your face until your eyebrows went numb, your eyelashes stiff and clumped with frost. You were about five minutes away from becoming a human popsicle when you finally reached for your walkie.

"Jackson, come in, over," you called, voice crackling through the static.

There was a beat of silence before a faint voice answered, a little too quick, a little too tense. "Jackson copy. Twin Forks, how’s it looking out there?"

You glanced over at Jesse, who just gave a small shrug, his breath clouding in the frozen air. Raising the walkie back to your mouth, you huffed out a sigh.

"Freezin' half to death. Roads are mainly clear. We're headin' back, over" you said, teeth chattering a little around the words.

Static hissed through the speaker again. Longer this time.

Your eyebrows pulled together, unease creeping slow and sharp down your spine. That wasn’t like Jackson. They were usually fast—too fast sometimes, like they were just waiting for any excuse to chatter your ear off.

Before you could say anything, the walkie cracked back to life:

"Twin Forks, copy—have you heard from Dina or Joel? Over."

Your stomach dropped clean through you. Like stepping into thin ice.

You tightened your grip on the walkie, heart already kicking up in your chest.

"No," you said, sharper than you meant to. "Aren’t they supposed to be back already?"

The static answered for them.

And for the first time all morning, the cold wasn’t the thing making your hands shake.

Your eyes flicked up to Jesse. His face was stone—jaw tight, mouth a grim, thin line. You knew he had something with Dina. Whatever messy, tangled thing it was between them, it ran deep enough to light that cold fury in his eyes now.

"I'm following their route," you said, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "You can come with me… or you can go home."

Your teeth caught your bottom lip, biting down hard enough that the sting cut through the churning anxiety in your gut. It felt like your stomach was trying to turn itself inside out, the nerves scraping raw against your ribs.

For a second, Jesse didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, snow catching in his hair, breath huffing out in slow, frosted clouds.

Then he nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.

"Let's go."

You didn’t wait. You just adjusted your pack and started moving, boots crunching hard through the deep snow, following the trail Joel and Dina were supposed to take.

Every step forward made the pit in your stomach twist tighter. Something was wrong. You could feel it, thrumming under your skin like a warning.

You tapped your heel against your horse’s side—once, twice—and the animal surged forward into the snow, kicking up white powder in its wake. Fingers tightening so hard around the reins that the leather bit deep into your palms, leaving angry, stinging red imprints.

"Joel? Dina? Come in. Over," you barked into the walkie, voice clipped and sharp from the cold and the panic creeping higher in your throat.

Static answered. Again. No Joel. No reply.

"Fuck," you hissed under your breath, jamming the radio back onto your pack with a rough snap.

The trail ahead was still. Too still. Snow stretched in every direction, pristine and coated except for a broken trail of hoof prints leading up toward the mountain.

You didn’t need to think. You urged your horse faster, heart hammering in your chest, every muscle wound tight.

It was only a few yards up the slope when you saw it—Dina and Joel’s horse, standing riderless in the snow.

But no Dina. No Joel.

Your eyes snapped to the cabin tucked just ahead. It looked solid—half-renovated, sturdy enough to stand against the winter. Someone had been here, maybe still was.

"Jesse—front door," you ordered, voice low but firm. "Make sure no one goes in or out."

Your gaze cut to him, sharp and urgent. He nodded, pulling his gun free from his belt as he circled wide, boots crunching over the frozen ground.

"I’ll take the side door," you added, already slipping from your horse, landing hard in the snow. "Look around."

You hesitated, just for a second—just long enough to catch his eye—and the words slipped out, rougher, quieter:

"And… be safe."

The look you gave him said the rest. You were already wired tight with anxiety, your nerves scraped raw. One wrong move, and this whole thing could turn sideways fast.

Jesse gave you a tight nod, disappearing toward the front, and you turned toward the side of the cabin, heart hammering loud enough you swore it echoed in your ears.

Hand on your weapon, you moved in.

he bile clawed up your throat, threatening to spill out. Your whole body felt like it had caught fire—nerves sparking, brain short-circuiting, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes.

You rounded the corner of the basement, sweeping it methodically, breathing shallow, every inch of you tight with dread. Clear. Clear. Clear.

Until the stairs came into view.

You climbed them slow, careful, each step deliberate, barely daring to breathe. The wood creaked under your boots, but only slightly—only enough to make your heart jump into your throat.

Then— "Ha—ha—HA—"

The ragged gasping hit you like a blow to the chest. Violent. Desperate. A woman’s voice, cracked and breaking from the strain of it.

You froze, finger curling tight around your trigger, inching closer to the source.

Through the narrow sliver of the cracked door, you saw it.

Blood. Everywhere.

The metallic scent hit you hard, thick and suffocating.

And then— The mess of salt and pepper curls. Familiar. Burned into your mind from only this morning, when you were smiling over your coffee and teasing him about happy hour. When you wished you had told him that since the day you met him, he had meant everything to you.

Joel.

Blood soaked the floorboards beneath him, pooling like something alive, something hungry. Gushing. And he wasn’t moving.

Your body moved before your brain had time to catch up. You slammed your shoulder into the door with a force you didn’t even know you had, sending it crashing backward with a groan of splintering wood.

The room was a blur—chaos and blood and panic. The familiar weight of a body on the ground, unmoving. Your eyes barely caught it before you were reacting, fingers tightening around your weapon. The shot was instinct, clean and precise, straight to the face. The sound of the gunshot rang in your ears as one of the women dropped like a ragdoll, her body crumpling.

But then— The wind was knocked out of you.

The second she hit the floor, another figure lunged, grabbing you by the shoulders, slamming you back against the wall with bone-crushing force.

You gasped for air, panic flooding in as your body screamed to move, to do anything but be pinned here. There was a man on you, wild eyes flashing with terror and fury. You fought back, muscles burning, your hand darting to the nearest thing—anything to give you an edge. It landed on a glass bottle, slick and cold in your grasp.

Without thinking, you swung it, the bottle crashing against his skull with a sickening crack. He staggered back, momentarily dazed, giving you just enough space to slip away, your chest heaving as you fought against the rage, the fear, the overwhelming anxiety that turned your blood to fire.

Your eyes blurred—tears, or maybe just the smoke of too much anger, too much chaos. Every breath felt like a fist in your ribs.

You barely recognized yourself in that moment.

The fury inside you was pure, uncontrollable—fueled by terror, by the sight of him, by the fact that he was here, and he shouldn’t be.

And it was all too much.

You spun around, gun already raised, your finger pulling the trigger without a single hesitation. The man who had been on you moments ago crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud, his body twitching once, twice, thrice, before stilling.

Your eyes snapped to the remaining two. One was kneeling over Joel, her braided hair swinging wildly with each frantic movement, fingers locked tight around a golf club. The other was above Dina’s body, her face stained with tears as she hovered over the fallen woman. You couldn’t tell if Dina was still breathing. The sight of it made everything inside you twist in fury.

The world around you narrowed—there was no room for hesitation, no time to think.

Angry. So fucking angry. Calculated. Bloodthirsty.

You took a step forward, the weight of the rage feeding you, making everything feel sharp and clear. With one fluid motion, you threw your empty gun to the floor. The clatter echoed in the room, loud and final.

The braided woman took a sharp breath, and before you could even blink, she swung the club at you, a brutal arc aimed right for your face. You felt the crack against the bridge of your nose, the force enough to send you stumbling back, but you didn’t flinch. You welcomed it—felt it fuel the fury already pumping through your veins.

You wanted to feel this.

You didn't give her a second to recover. You lunged, body crashing into hers with everything you had. It was all strength—no technique—just pure violence. She hit the ground hard beneath you, gasping for breath, but you didn’t stop.

Your hand found her side, fingers brushing over the knife strapped to her waist. In one brutal move, you ripped it from her and lifted it high.

The first slash was messy, a deep gash across her throat. She choked, but you didn’t stop. Not until the blade bit down again and again, each thrust deeper, each second an eternity of rage, until her body stopped moving entirely.

You pulled the knife from her throat, your breath coming in ragged gasps, chest heaving as the adrenaline coursed through you, a sick buzz that made everything feel… distant. Empty.

The silence in the room was suffocating now.

You hadn’t even realized it, but Jesse had already moved in, subdued the woman who had been hovering over Dina, and now he was holding the girl in his arms, checking her pulse. Through the ringing in your ears, his voice cut through—low, steady, but with a note of relief.

"She's alive."

The knife slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor with a sickening finality. But you didn’t even look at it. Your body was already in motion, adrenaline still coursing through you, pulling you toward the only thing that mattered now.

You stumbled over to Joel, heart hammering in your chest, each beat pounding like a war drum. You leaned over him, your breath shaky as you hovered above his bloodied form.

"Hey, hey, hey…" The words came out soft, almost like a prayer, your fingers hovering above his battered skin. Every inch of you wanted to touch him, to make sure he was still breathing—still there—but you were terrified. Terrified that if you did, if you moved too quickly, you might break him with a single touch.

His face was bruised and battered, blood streaked down his jaw and neck. His breathing was shallow, ragged—but it was still there. He was still here.

Your hand trembled, fingers hovering just above him, a fragile hesitation before you finally let them settle on his chest, feeling the weak rise and fall beneath your palm.

"Joel," you whispered, voice cracking, soft but desperate. "Joel, stay with me. Cmon, don’t do this.”

. . .

It had been two weeks since the incident, but time felt warped—like it had both stopped and dragged on at once. You hadn’t left this chair. Maybe just to go to the bathroom, but even then, you barely registered it, too numb, too drained.

The room had become your world. The pale walls, the soft beeping of the machines keeping a rhythm to your broken thoughts. Every other sound faded into the background, until it was just you and the memories that haunted you.

At some point, Tommy had barged in and threatened to force-feed you if you didn’t eat something, anything, before dragging you out of the infirmary for a few minutes of air. You barely remembered it—just that he was there, urging you to move, to care, but you hadn’t felt it.

And then Maria had made you change. She wasn’t gentle about it, but you were too far gone to fight back. She made you strip the bloodstained clothes off your body—clothes that clung to you like a second skin of guilt—and put on something fresh. Something clean. Something that didn't smell like the blood of the man you nearly lost.

Joel was in stable condition now, his heart still beating, his lungs still taking in air. He still hadn't woken up.

His face was burned into your consciousness. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it. The bruising. The blood. The scar on his temple you always teased him about, now covered with black and blue. The deep, unsettling weight of it all settled in your chest, each time harder to breathe through.

You couldn’t escape it.

His face. The desperate, silent plea you could never erase.

Ellie had visited numerous times. She never asked what you were thinking, never pressed you to speak, but she didn’t have to. She knew you well enough to see the anger, and sadness swirling beneath your skin, the tension in your every move.

She knew this wasn’t just exhaustion or grief—it was guilt. Deep, suffocating guilt. Whether it was survivor's guilt or something more, Ellie saw it, knew it. And she also knew, without a doubt, that you cared for him. The way your eyes lingered on his sleeping form. The way your hands would twitch, wanting to touch him, but afraid to.

But you didn’t act on it. You couldn't.

It was too much. The weight of your own feelings, the weight of what had happened, the fear that maybe you didn’t deserve to feel this way. Not after everything. Not after the bloodshed. Not after the fact that you were still here, breathing, while he was lying unconscious, fighting for every breath.

Would it be better to die? The thought had plagued you more than once. To die with him, to end it all and erase the possibility of this endless ache that gnawed at your insides. To take away even the chance of missing him, the chance of waking up and still feeling this pain in your chest.

What if he died and you never got the chance to say you loved him. How each and every longing stare meant something more than 'I'm afraid to let you in.' Please don't leave without letting me love you.

You wondered if it would be simpler, if the universe would just let you follow him into the dark. Maybe it would stop this gnawing emptiness. Maybe it would stop the endless loop of what-ifs, of imagining him waking up and letting your hands roam against his skin—lips and tongue trailing against every scar, every inch pain he's ever received. kissing it better.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.

But, you couldn’t escape it. The raw, bitter truth that you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t leave him. And somehow, even if it felt like a punishment, you had to keep going. Had to keep breathing for him, even when every part of you wanted to shut down and fade into nothing.

. . .

You could barely function the morning it happened. Your body felt like it was made of lead, eyes swollen from exhaustion, hands shaking as they pressed against your temple in an effort to stay upright in the hospital chair you hadn't left in days.

The rustling of sheets cut through the exhaustion. Your eyes shot open, heart hammering against your chest, panic. For a split second, the room seemed to warp—was it another dream? Another cruel twist of your mind playing tricks on you?

You blinked, trying to focus through the haze of fatigue, and then you saw it. A pair of soft, tired mocha eyes meeting yours—slow and heavy, yet unmistakably aware. It wasn’t a hallucination. He was here.

“Joel…” The name slipped from your lips, barely a whisper, trembling and unsteady, as if you weren’t sure if it was real either.

He blinked once, his gaze flickering around the room like he was still piecing things together, his breath shallow but deliberate. The faintest glimmer of recognition passed through his expression, a slight furrow in his brow as if the fog in his head hadn’t completely lifted yet.

But the sight of him—alive, awake, breathing—was enough to make the world stop spinning for a moment.

You held your breath, every muscle in your body frozen. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. You didn’t want to blink, didn’t want to miss a single second.

Before you could finish your thoughts, before you could form some grand gesture, before your body could even drop to its knees in relief or allow yourself the catharsis of crying… the door to the room opened.

The flood of people—Tommy, Ellie, Maria, and a few others—poured in. Their voices were muffled, distant, like static in your ears as the room seemed to close in on you. You felt their eyes, their relief, their joy. But all you could feel was the suffocating weight of guilt pressing down on your chest. It crawled beneath your skin, an infection that wrapped itself around your throat, choking the air from your lungs.

He’s alive. You wanted to scream it, to be happy, to feel like you had the right to feel something other than shame. But it was like the joy couldn’t reach you.

Instead, it only deepened the ache. The guilt. You had almost lost him. You had almost killed him. What if you didn't make it in time? You should have gotten there sooner. Look at him. Do you see those bruises? Do you see his face? This is your fault. Your fault.

You didn’t want to face anyone. Not yet. Not now.

You turned, before anyone could speak, before they could reach you. The world seemed too loud, too bright. The room felt like it was spinning out of control, like every inch of space was filled with a thousand questions you didn’t want to answer. You left.

You couldn’t breathe in that room, surrounded by their relief, their comfort. You couldn’t breathe with him alive, with everything still hanging in the balance. You couldn’t face them. Not now.

It had been four days since he woke up. Four days since the flood of guilt and relief had crashed over you, and you hadn’t spoken to anyone since. You hadn’t answered your door when they knocked.

The world felt suffocating, and you didn’t feel like you deserved to face it. You didn’t want to face the world. You shouldn’t. The anxiety gnawed at you, relentless. It kept you up at night, pacing in the small space of your mind, suffocating you with every breath. And tonight, it was no different.

You found yourself standing outside his door in the infirmary, fingers trembling as you reached out. The wood was cool beneath your touch, but your hand felt as if it might tremble right through it. You had to do this. You had to.

A soft breath escaped you as you gathered whatever courage you could, your hand hovering just inches from knocking. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, a steady, painful rhythm that echoed in your ears.

Knock Knock Knock

What if he’s angry? What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if it’s too late for us?

The thoughts swirled, but you pushed them down, your knuckles gently tapping against the door. The sound seemed to reverberate through your body, like an announcement that you were about to face everything you had been running from.

"Come in."

The voice was rough, deep, and it hit you like a wave—like honey to your brain, smooth and warm, yet leaving you trembling in its wake. The same voice you had sinned thinking about. "Thatsa' good girl." … "It's like you were made for me." … "Take me so good." Late at night when your thoughts spiraled, when guilt and longing tangled into something too complicated to sort through.

The same voice that had sent chills down your spine and made your heart race even when you tried to ignore it. The same voice that had teased you about liking sugar in your morning coffee, a soft joke that always lingered just a little too long.

Your breath caught in your throat. That voice. You could still remember every word, every inflection, like the memory of him had been etched into you long before this.

You let out a shaky breath, pushing the door open slowly. You didn't dare let your footsteps be loud, like maybe if you made yourself small enough, you could avoid the flood of emotions threatening to pour over the edge.

You shut the door softly behind you, the sound of it clicking shut making everything feel too real. Too right.

Your gaze flickered to him.

Joel was sitting up in the bed, propped up by pillows, his figure still worn but somehow more solid than you'd seen him in days. His expression was tired, but his eyes—they locked onto yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart skip. His hair, though still messy, had the same dark, unruly curls you remembered. But the bruises were fading now, the bloodstains mostly gone, leaving just the raw remnants of the pain he'd been through.

He didn’t speak at first, but his gaze said everything.

You’re here.

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn't come. They got stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled in the fear, the guilt, the ache.

"Hey, Miller…" Your voice came out soft, creaky, and far too small. Awkward. You felt like a stranger in your own body, unsure of how to act, unsure of how to bridge the chasm of silence that had stretched between the two of you for so long.

Joel's gaze softened slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was tired—physically, mentally, emotionally. His face still held the remnants of pain, the tiredness that seemed to etch deeper into his features every day. He had a rough, unshaven jawline, the dark stubble more pronounced now, and his eyes looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks either. You weren’t the only one haunted by everything that had happened.

You felt a flush of heat rise up your neck, self-conscious of how you must look—dark circles under your eyes, skin pale and flushed from lack of sleep, your clothes barely hanging on your frame from the stress and nightmares that had claimed your nights.

It felt like everything about you was falling apart. You didn’t want to show him this side of you. The broken, tired version of yourself that you were trying so hard to bury beneath the weight of it all.

Joel's voice was rough when he finally spoke. "You look like hell."

The words were blunt, honest—but there was no cruelty behind them. Just a quiet, tired acknowledgment.

Your chest tightened. You don’t even know the half of it.

"I—" You swallowed thickly, but the words stuck. The shame, the anxiety, the feeling of being so lost in your own head, it all bubbled up, suffocating. "I didn't—"

The guilt was there again, squeezing at your lungs, choking the air out of you. You hadn’t been there for him. Not in the way you needed to. And now, everything between you felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You swallow. Deep. Visibly. The lump in your throat is thick, hard to push down, but you try. You have to say something.

"You're one to talk." Your words are meant to be a jest, a poor attempt to deflect, to mask the fragile state you’re in. But the moment the words leave your lips, you know it’s hollow. You feel it in the way your voice cracks, in the way your shoulders tremble with the weight of everything unsaid.

The tears start to fall, slowly at first, as if your body couldn't hold them back any longer. You feel them trickle down your cheeks, hot and stinging, leaving tracks where they slip beneath your eyes. It’s like the dam inside of you has broken.

"C'mere, Darlin'." His voice is low, a soft sigh that seems to carry all the weight of everything unspoken between you.

Before you can even respond, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, gentle but firm enough that you can’t pull away, not even if you wanted to. The touch isn’t demanding; it’s an invitation. A silent plea for connection, for comfort, for whatever fractured piece of yourself you were too afraid to offer.

His pull is soft, like he’s letting you decide whether or not to lean in. And you do. Slowly, you lean over the bed, drawn toward him like a magnet, feeling the warmth of his body. It’s the closest thing to safety you’ve known in days.

The moment you’re within reach, his arms are around you, pulling you in, and you can’t stop the sob that escapes you. His hands are in your hair, fingers splaying against the back of your head, holding you to him like he’s afraid you might break into pieces if he lets go.

It’s a hug. No words, no explanations. Just him and you, and the space between you that was never meant to be there.

Your arms sink into his body, like you were carved for each other, like you were always meant to find this moment. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart. It’s solid. It's real. It’s the reassurance you didn’t know you needed.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself break. His presence steadies you.

"I thought I lost you." You hiccup, the words coming out ragged, broken. The tears just keep falling, unstoppable now. The weight of everything hits you harder than you expected, each sob shaking you to your core.

"I thought I didn't make it on time—" You inhale sharply, the breath hitching painfully in your chest as your heart races. The air feels too thin, too cold. "I thought, I thought—" The words don’t come out in a way that makes sense, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to explain.

Joel doesn’t speak at first, but his arms tighten around you just enough to ground you. To remind you that you’re still here. That he’s still here. But when you whisper the words that have been haunting you, your voice soft, shaking, the weight of it lingers in the space between you:

"What if you died?"

It’s like you’ve just said the one thing you’ve been avoiding for days. The truth. The thought that has been crushing you silently, quietly, as you tried to keep it together. The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Joel's breath stills for a moment, and you can feel the subtle shift in his chest, like he’s absorbing what you’ve just said. He doesn’t pull away, though. He doesn’t let you go.

After a long pause, his voice comes, deep and steady, like he's trying to find the right words to anchor you. "I’m here, Darlin'. I’m here. And I’m not goin’ anywhere."

You tremble against him, a few more tears slipping free. His words feel like a lifeline. Like the space you’ve been treading on has finally found solid ground.

It felt like hours passed, the tears still coming in waves, but slowly they began to quiet. You didn’t even know how long you’d been there, in his arms, the two of you sorting through the guilt, the fear, the helplessness.

The silence between you now wasn’t suffocating—it was calm, soothing.

Somehow, though, you found yourself on the infirmary bed, tucked next to him. His presence was warm, steady, and his chest rose and fell with a deep, even breath that kept you grounded.

You had never thought you’d end up like this—lying next to him, with the scent of sterile bandages in the air, the soft hum of the room around you, and the quiet weight of his hand in yours. But here you were.

The pad of your finger traced along a deep purple scar against his forearm the one you couldn’t help but notice when you first sat down beside him. It was a stark reminder of how close you came to losing him.

Your touch was gentle, almost reverent, like you were afraid that if you pressed too hard, the moment might shatter. His skin was rough under your fingertips, but it was warm, real, and alive. Each scar, each mark on him felt like a story, a part of him that you couldn’t change. It made you ache. It made you feel sick.

Joel’s voice broke the silence, quiet but with a hint of warmth that made your chest tighten. "You don’t gotta do that, y'know." He said, his voice softer than usual, but there was an understanding in it.

"I know," you whispered, your voice a little strained, but calm, for the first time in what felt like forever. "I just… need to know you're okay."

"I'm here. Can't get rid of me." His voice is steady, but the weight of it carries something more—something unspoken. Joel’s eyes drift over your face, tracing each line, each imperfection. He doesn’t say anything about how you look, though the words are there, heavy in the air. You look like hell—tired, broken—but to him, you’re still the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever seen.

The intensity of his gaze makes your chest tighten. For a second, it feels like everything stops. The world outside the infirmary fades away. His eyes are searching you—like he’s trying to figure something out, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s the same thing you’ve been trying to figure out, too.

Your breath hitches slightly, but you hold his gaze, even though you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. It's like time slows down. An eternity of silence stretches between you, and in that silence, everything seems to hang.

You don’t want to ruin this. Not this moment. Not whatever this is.

The thought of naming it—of putting a label on it—feels overwhelming. Is it friendship? Coexistence? Just two people trying to make it through this hell together? Or is it something more? You can’t tell, but you’re afraid that if you try to define it, if you try to make sense of it, you might destroy what little of it you have left.

“You’ve got a way of making everything feel… complicated,” you finally whisper. You wish you could say more, but you don’t know how.

He chuckles softly, and you can hear the tiredness in his voice. “Yeah, I’ve got that effect on people.” His hand shifts, his fingers lightly brushing the side of your face, almost tentative, but the warmth of it fills the space between you. "I don’t have all the answers. But you’ve got me, Darlin'. That’s more than I can offer right now."

Your eyes close for a brief moment, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s a kind of comfort in them, in the uncertainty. In the fact that neither of you has it all figured out.

Fuck it.

Like a string that snaps, your brain rewires the moment you make eye contact again. It’s sudden, electric—You don’t think about it. You don’t think about the consequences, the mess, or the fact that this might break whatever fragile balance you’ve managed to keep. You just act.

Your hands slip up, fingers trembling ever so slightly, but the moment they make contact with his dark curls, something inside you stills. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. His eyes are steady on yours, but there’s something raw in them now. Something that tells you he’s as desperate for this connection as you are.

Inches away, you breathe in his scent, that familiar mix of dust and earth, the roughness of the world outside, but underneath it—there’s him.

A presence that’s always been there, always just out of reach. But now, now it’s close enough to touch.

Your lips part, but it's only an invitation. You don't say anything. Don’t have to. Everything that needs to be said is written in the way your bodies lean toward each other, drawn together like magnets.

His breath hitches, and before you can even think about it, he’s closing the distance between you. His lips find yours with a desperation that takes your breath away, and the world outside falls away entirely.

It's nothing like you imagined. It’s messy, raw, and full of that intensity that neither of you can contain.

His free hand slips effortlessly against your thigh, lifting your leg and guiding it over his waist. It’s instinctual, animalistic, the movement seamless. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. He kisses you like a man starved, teeth scraping lightly at your bottom lip, as if claiming you in a way words never could.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the rush of heat, the feeling of him—his strength, his need, his warmth, the way his body presses against yours.

Then, as if sensing the balance of control slipping away, you pull back just enough to whisper, your voice rough, "This was—"

He inhales, as if the pull away from you visibly made him chill.

"This was a mistake. I'm sorry." You mumble, slipping back from his hands cascaded gently into your hair. His eyes dull, as if they really calculate what's really happening here.

"I don't want to mess anything up — make it weird…" You hesitate before taking another step back. Feet brushing against the ground of the hospital, boots making a small scraping noise as they lift from the floor. "I'm glad you're awake. I'm glad you're alive." You practically spew, "But this— Us? This can't happen."

Joel doesn't move. Not right away. His hands remain suspended in the air where you'd just been, as if the weight of your absence took a moment to register. Slowly, they fall to his lap, fingers curling inward like he's holding something fragile that just shattered in his palms.

His brows pull together, the light in his eyes dimming but not extinguished. He nods once—slow, like he's swallowing something bitter—but doesn’t speak right away. The silence between you is thick, suffocating. The kind that says everything without a single word.

Then, his voice breaks through, rough and low. “You ain’t messin’ anything up.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case you don’t come back. “But I get it. Hell, I probably shouldn’t’ve—”

He stops himself, jaw clenching. You can see the hurt there, just beneath the surface. Not anger. Just a quiet ache he doesn’t know what to do with.

“You don’t owe me nothin’. Not after what you did for me. For Dina.” His voice cracks slightly, but he clears it, steadying himself. “If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.”

You turn to go. You don’t want to, but standing in this room any longer feels like peeling skin off a wound that’s still fresh. Like clawing your skin open, nails rough, sharp. You grip the door handle like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. The cold metallic of the handle searing into your hot sweaty palms.

But before you pull it open, you hear him again—softer this time, almost like he's talking to himself.

“I was glad it was you. When I woke up… I was glad it was you sittin’ there.”

Your chest tightens, fingers trembling around the handle. The sound of your boots echo as you leave, but his words follow you long after the door clicks shut.

. . .

It was two days later. Two days of hiding from the town. Hiding from the man whose ghost now walked on flesh and bone legs, breathing and real, and everywhere, even your head. Since Joel had been released from the infirmary, you hadn’t so much as walked past the diner. Not the greenhouse. Not even the training range.

He was free now. Free to walk Jackson’s frosted streets. Carrying the weight of that night, that kiss, that almost. Whatever almost was.

Flyers for the winter social had started popping up, taped to doors with half-used duct tape, and coffee stained paper.

Pulling one off your door with more force than necessary, crumpling it before it could flutter too long. The word celebrate stared at you like an accusation.

Celebrate what? Survival? Guilt?

You hadn’t even gone into town yet. Too afraid of seeing him again. Of his eyes. Of that voice, gravelly and soft, saying your name like it meant something.

But, I guess it did mean something. 'If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.'

'I won't push it.'

Fuck, Joel—You don't have to push anything. If you asked me to lay down on the ground and die, I'd surely succumb.

Your jacket felt too heavy as you shrugged it on. Maybe you’d walk. Maybe not toward town, but just out. Just far enough to quiet the thoughts screaming through your skull. Just long enough to convince yourself he hadn’t meant anything by it.

But then—three soft knocks on the door.

You froze, hand on the knob. Breath held. Like if you didn’t move, whoever it was would give up and go.

But they didn’t.

“Darlin’…?” The voice was muffled, but unmistakable. A drawl like smoke and honey, carrying your nickname like it was a prayer and a curse all at once.

Joel.

You don’t open the door. Can’t. Your fingers ghost over the handle like it might bite, like turning it would unravel something you’ve spent days trying to sew back together.

“Yeah?” you call, voice thinner than you’d like, strained from disuse and guilt and whatever mess you and Joel had brewed up in the dark of that infirmary room.

A pause. You can almost hear him shift his weight on the porch. One boot against the old wood, creaking just slightly. He’s nervous. Or maybe annoyed. It’s always hard to tell with him.

“I ain’t here to fight,” he finally says. His tone is gentler than expected. Tired. “Just… wanted to talk.”

You lean your forehead against the wood. Cold. Solid. Safe. “About what?” you ask, not unkindly, but not welcoming either. Somewhere in the middle. A purgatory of almost.

Another pause.

“’Bout that night,” he says, like it hurts to even admit it out loud. “About… what you said..”

You squeeze your eyes shut, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your chest.

You don’t want to open the door. But God, you want to hear what he has to say.

"I am uh— very sick. very ill." You lie, a fake cough following the announcement. "Cough, Cough, Haack."

There’s a pause. Long enough to make you think—maybe—he bought it.

“That so?” Joel says, flat. Almost amused.

You can practically hear the eyebrow he’s raising.

“’Cause I saw you at the stables this morning, arguing with Tommy ‘bout the feed schedule. Didn’t look real near deathbed to me.”

"That—was a hallucination," you say quickly. "Fever dreams. Very common with… plague. And, you're still recovering." Your face burns. Shit.

A muffled chuckle—soft, rough, and goddamn sweet.

“I’ll wait,” he says simply, like he's got all the time in the world. “Out here. Cold’s good for the immune system, and recovery.”

You bite your lip. Damn him. Damn that gravel-sweet voice and that infuriating patience. Damn that sexy ass fucking voice.

Because you know—you know—you’re going to open the door. Maybe not now. Maybe not in the next ten seconds. But eventually.

Your fingers wrap around the handle, pressing it down and pulling toward you. The wooden door creaks open, revealing the screen door. A thin barrier between you.

He looks… good. Brown jacket, blue jeans, a belt, and new boots, the remnants of blood no longer. His eyes were still dark, and tired, but there was an air of relief to them, like he had relaxed long enough to feel somewhat a semblance of peace.

The cold air rushes in, bites at your skin like karma. He’s watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that’s somewhere between stern and soft. Somewhere between don’t push me and please, push me just a little.

“Hey,” he says, simple. Low.

You swallow hard. Your throat’s suddenly dry, like the lie about being sick took too much out of you. Fuck, maybe you were ill.

“Hey,” you echo. Quieter.

He shifts, thumbs hooking against his belt. It’s a casual stance, but you can see the tension sitting behind it. You know him well enough to read the signs. He’s rehearsed something. That jaw twitch? That's anxiety settling into his gut. That tiny nod to himself? That’s a man about to dive headfirst into something he’s not sure he knows how to swim through.

“I ain’t here to mess things up,” he starts, voice steady, “or push somethin’ you don’t want. But I been thinkin’, and…” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re not the only one who’s scared, y’know.”

That hits harder than you expect.

“I wake up every day grateful I get to be scared,” he adds, quieter. “Grateful you pulled me outta there. Grateful I get to even have this conversation.”

Your fingers twitch around the edge of the doorframe. The weight of it all, the what-ifs, the blood, the almost—they come rushing back.

He steps a little closer, boots scraping softly against the porch wood.

“So I figured… if you're done bein’ on your deathbed," his mouth tugs in a half-smile, “maybe you’d let me take you to that winter social at tipsys…”

You stand there. Mouth hung agape open like some fucking fool. I'm sorry? He said what? What the fuck did he just say to you?

"You.. uh.." You stutter, fingers curling against the door frame, "You… don't hate me?"

Joel’s brow furrows—just slightly. Not in frustration, but in that Joel Miller kind of way. The one where he's thinking? The one where he's registering how to fix this. The kind where concern looks like confusion and softness hides behind the grit.

“Hate you?” he repeats, like the words physically repulse him. “Darlin’, I don’t think I could hate you if I tried.”

He steps a little closer again, enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts across the screen.

“You saved my life. You nearly lost your damn mind doin’ it. I saw it. Hell, I felt it.”

His hand lifts, hovers at the screen like he wants to touch you through it but won’t risk the boundary unless you give the signal.

“I hated that you ran. I hated that I woke up and you weren’t there. But hate you?” He shakes his head, the weight of it settling like snowfall. “I could never.”

The silence that follows is sharp and thick, clinging to the air between you.

“You still think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice rough. Not angry. Just naked. “'Cause I’ve been tryin’ not to want you every damn day since I met you. And I’m losin’ that fight.”

Your pulse is thunder in your ears.

Oh fuck…

Your gaze drops—floor, boots, anywhere but his eyes. Then slowly lifts again, like your body’s trying to catch up to your heart.

Your brain? Gone. Empty. Nothing but static between your ears.

Your hand moves on its own, fingers brushing the cold metal of the screen door latch. One soft twist.

Click.

The lock gives.

You glance up, startled by your own movement, eyes locking with his like you just said something out loud without speaking.

Because you did.

That sound—that soft, quiet click—wasn't just a noise. It was a confession.

You wanted him. Still do.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, waiting for him to make the first move. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, a nervous habit you can’t shake. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and for a moment, you wonder if it’s just you feeling this, or if he’s as sick with it as you are.

The seconds stretch on, too long. Too quiet.

Then, without warning, he steps forward, closing the distance between you. His hand reaches up, brushing the edge of the screen door, before he grips the frame with the same steady, sure hands that had been so tender earlier.

His gaze doesn’t leave yours. “You sure about this?” he asks, low and rough, voice dragging across your skin like a touch.

It’s a question, but you both know it’s not. It’s him waiting for you, giving you space to breathe, even as every inch of him is drawn to you.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, and it pulls at you like gravity, drawing you closer despite every rational thought telling you to back away. He’s patient, but there’s that edge beneath his calm—something hungry, something wild, that’s been buried too long.

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, betraying the storm crashing in your chest.

He gives a half-smile, a flicker of something dangerous. “Good,” he mutters, then leans in, just close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your lips, but not close enough to touch.

The tension is suffocating. The world outside doesn’t exist. Not anymore.

And then he speaks again, voice almost a whisper, lips brushing against your ear.

“Because you ain't runnin' away this time.”

With one quick motion he's in the house, hands slipping against the hooks of your jeans. His boot knocks against the wooden door, closing it. A sway of air as it slams.

His mouth is already against yours, hand moving up to splay against the middle of your back—leading you, leading you straight back against your kitchen countertop only a few feet away. Mouth falling from your lips, he moves into the nape of your neck, a quick and deep inhale—"Fuck, darlin,'"

"You don't know," A small nibble against the tender skin, "… what you do to me."

The air is thick, heavy with anticipation. His body presses against yours, firm. You gasp, it's the warmth of his breath skimming across your neck, his lips brushing against the delicate curve of your shoulder. Facial hair leaving a tickling sensation in wake.

His fingers tighten around you, pulling you even closer, and it’s as if your bodies have a language of their own—unspoken, raw.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me either, Joel,” you breathe, your own hands trembling as they find their way to his chest. His shirt soft against your fingertips, pulls at you like it’s just one more obstacle you need to get past. Nails scraping at the buttons of the flannel. You feel like a caged animal.

“I think I got an idea.” His chuckle is low, dark.

His hand slips between your legs, hand splayed across the material of your jeans with a subtle press. "Can practically feel it."

His lips find yours again, hungry this time, teeth grazing against your bottom lip. His free hand presses against the small of your back and the other your thigh, hesitating to lift you.

His voice drops, barely a whisper against your lips. “You sure you want this, darlin’?” It’s the same question from earlier, but now, it’s not doubt—it’s something softer, something more urgent. A plead. A fucking prayer. Like if you said no, he'd get on his knees and beg.

His eyes lock with yours, his thumb brushing the side of your jaw as he waits for you to answer.

It only takes seconds for you to dive into another kiss, urgency flooding your body like fire. Your fingers tremble as they work at the buttons of his flannel, fumbling slightly with each one.

His lips are on yours again, a hungry, desperate rhythm that matches the frantic pace of your heart. His hands move to your waist, gripping you tight. The flannel falls open, the fabric grazing your hand, and fingertips finding refuge against tanned scarred skin. It's a sin to hide a body this fucking pretty under clothing.

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath ragged, eyes dark with something raw, something dangerous. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The hunger in his gaze says it all. Without a word, he shifts you, his hand firm against the curve of your back, pulling you up just enough to sit you on the edge of the counter. The movement is quick, efficient, and the cool granite meets your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his body, pressed against you.

Your breath hitches as his hands slide under your shirt, rough against your skin, pulling you even closer. His lips hover just above your ear, his voice gravelly, rough. “You kiss like you patrol.”

He's purposeful with each movement. Every drag of his finger causing a fire in it's path. Hands gently coming to the hem of your jeans, and then with a small pop, the button is undone. A slow, and soft shimmying down until all he can stare at is his glistening prize.

"Greedy… Unhinged..." He continues, lowering down to his knees— his hands slipping down your thighs, to your ankles, and then hooking your legs above his shoulders, "Clumsily, maybe…"

Within seconds his mouth is against you. It's hot, wet, animalistic as if the man is starved. Clumsy. Messy. Tongue grazing over every sensitive fold— and your very swollen clit. He flattens his tongue against you,—then as quick as he can extinguish the pleasure, he nibbles against you. Profanities dripping from your mouth, his name followers like a prayer of forgiveness.

"Needy fuckin girl, y'taste so good."

The response to his words. Your free hand shoots out to the top of his head, fingers interlacing with salt and pepper curls. Wanting can't even describe your state of mind right now. It's more like yearning, fucking craving.

Forearm burning from strength it takes to hold yourself up on the countertop, needing to see him on his knees for yourself.

You curl your fingers, a soft tug of his hair earns that deep guttural growl from his throat.

"mmh, easy, girl," His breath fans across your pussy, sending shivers shooting up your spine.

You try to look away—try to break this sight, but you're pretty sure if you blinked hard enough you'd wake up from this dream. He dips lower, his mouth pulling you closer to the edge, grounding you to him like you were the only thing that ever mattered.

His lips release from your cunt with a pop, tongue curling against the spit line that follows. His eyes settle against your own— dark, and frantic.

The release of the sensation causes you to shiver, the overstimulation already coiling in your core. Twitching, a small huff to every breath you release.

"That all it takes to get you shakin' like a leaf?" He chuckles—soft.

The tension in the air thickens as you lean down, close enough to make your heart race, yet he doesn’t rush it. His hand still holds your thighs spread apart, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

"I want you." The words flow easily. Easily because your brain is pathetically melted inside of your skull.

He practically purrs, another deep growl from his throat, "Yeah?"

"Then take it… 'ts all yours," He tilts his head with his words, eyes dancing over every single feature you have. He stares at you like his brain maps out every mole, and scar. You needily grab at the remnants of his unbuttoned flannel, pulling it up towards you. He smiles, smiles. Excitedly standing back up, and leaning into your touch.

You don't hesitate. You pull him back in, mouths clashing, breaths hot and broken. His hands roam your thighs, your hips, possessive like he’s memorizing you, branding you. You feel the scratch of his callouses against your skin, grounding you, making you dizzy all at once.

One hand tilts your chin up, the other slides up your back, holding you steady while his mouth traces a trail from your lips to your jaw, then lower, pressing kisses down your throat, your collarbone.

You tilt your head back to give him more space, a soft, desperate noise escaping your throat. His name slips from your lips without thinking—"Joel."

That sound alone seems to snap something inside him. Saying his name like that. Like you need him. Like you fucking crave him. It practically got him drunk on sin.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and molten. His hands grip your waist firmly, thumbs stroking slow circles against your sides. “Gonna take care of you, darlin’. Gonna give you everything you been needin’… just like you deserve.”

The jingle of his belt catches your attention, as if your brain can process anymore. His fingers softly unthreading the leather from the metal, and with a clank—it's slipping to the floor.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice rough, thumb brushing tender over your hipbone.

You nod, too breathless to speak.

That's all he needs. The pads of his fingers undoing the button of his jeans, a soft slide down and the sight nearly makes you keel over. You've met god. How could someone hide such a perfect cock? The size of him itself steals the air from your lungs.

"Please," You breathe, "Please Joel."

"You look so damn pretty like this," he says, half in awe, half in something darker, heavier.

"Layin' below me, fucked out on your kitchen counter."

Without a delay he inches in, the tip of his cock pressing against your needy, and swollen entrance. The angle is perfect, a slow and greedy intrusion that causes your nails to scrape at the granite of the countertop.

"Fuck—" He exhales, a restrained whine from his throat, "You were made f'r me…"

Joel inhales as he plunges himself fully. Without a second thought, he pulls back out, before sliding back in. It's like a game for him, eyes downward on the motion. Watching the back and forth of his cock as he dives in and out of you.

His pace quickens, the musical rhythmic of the thrusting becoming faster, and faster. He's hitting spots you didn't even know you had. Spots that nobody has ever reached. You can barely hear, ears ringing, vision blurred by inklings of tears.

You don't realize your howling his name until he speaks.

"Gotta… Quiet down there, darlin'…”He chuckles, deep and gravelly as he holds back a strained noise. Hips snapping back and forth, the wet squelches of your pussy like music to his ears, "… don't want the neighbors thinkin' you got coyotes."

Every thrust is a further hit to your core, releasing a sound that vaguely resembles a wheeze rather than a moan. Each muscle in your thighs threatening to give out, as you open your legs wider and wider for his ravaging.

Joel likes to drag it out, pulling his cock all the way out, leaving only the tip—grinding there for a moment until his own body twitches, and then slamming back in as hard as possible. Hands vice gripped around your thighs, bringing you to and from him like a pocket pussy.

“Sweet girl, oh fuck.. fuck..”

Sloppy around him, already drenching the area between you two - wet squishing noises as he drags back the mixture of pre and slick, just to bury it back inside of you.

"Gonna paint your fuckin' insides at this rate…" He exhales, shakily. He's fucking into you like a wild animal. At the end of the day, that's what he is. Bloodthirsty, a killer, known for his haunting and inhuman actions.

“Fuck, please.. right there, oh fuck, Joel—" You cry out, hips clumsily and weakly fumbling against your meeting point, trying to bury him deeper inside of yourself.

Bottom lip taken between his teeth, glossy eyed staring down at the sight of his cock sliding in and out. "Can feel you squeezn', know how close you are…"

Back and forth— milking cries from your sweet lips. Continually riding the way you clamp down on him desperately, leaning into your orgasm.

"J-Joel— Oh my g.." The words can't even release from your throat, before your head tilts back and a series of gargled profanities and pet-names drool out.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that… take it just like that…" his words are pure fucking filth.

It's not long after you that his hips start to snap messily, losing his train of thought at every deep bury into your overstimulated pussy. Head tipping down—he clamps his eyes shut, riding the high of your squirming.

He cums. It paints your insides with boiling heat, both of you stringing out whines and grunts. The snapping motion continues, as he ruts the cum deeper and deeper inside of you. He's purposefully dragging out his own relief. Doesn't want it to end. Fuck, he never wants it to end.

"Fuckin' hell…" Joel murmurs softly, slipping out with a slow release. The tension eases in your gut, and you feel every muscle in your body screaming at you. You let out a noise between a sigh and a whimper, the feeling sends a shiver up and down your body. Goosebumps in the wake of his hot breath.

“Yeah.. you ain't gettin' away from me again…"

. . .

[anotherlongstoryshort]

Things about the Wisdom Saga that have plagued me all damn day

Legendary

Whether intentional or not, Miguel's Telemachus really sounds like a younger version of Jorge's Odysseus. And that hurts.

"If I fight those monsters, is it you I'll find?" The layers. Could he go out and hunt for his father? Could he find his 'legendary' strength within himself? Or will Odysseus be the 'monster' he finds?

"Somebody help me, come and give me the strength" And his call is answered T_T

20 years.

Antinous fully interrupts this bop. Rude.

Ayron sounds legitimately scary and Telemachus taking a stand is so O.O

Little Wolf

I wanna fight this guy. Love that Athena agrees. (The beat of the song and sharp bursts of vocals really emulate blows.)

The quaver on "I don't know how".

Athena is immediately charmed by Telemachus' enthusiasm. She sounds so fond.

The fact she sees heart in him as an advantage when it was Odysseus choosing heart over mind that drove them apart. Guh.

Did she tell him to bite Antinous? XD

"Oh, maybe I pushed you a bit too hard." The change in her perspective is already so apparent - she wouldn't have admitted a mistake or miscalculation to Odysseus.

We'll Be Fine

"I had a friend before..." A FRIEND? FRIEND?!?!

An admission that she didn't fully appreciate what Odysseus was going through, that she feels guilty for having "missed it all".

It's unclear to begin with if she's come to Telemachus for Odysseus, or to try and replace him. Both are equally heart-breaking.

"I don't know who your friend is, I don't know what he's like" UNKNOWINGLY ECHOING HIS OWN THOUGHTS IN 'LEGENDARY'. NO IT'S FINE I'M FINE.

"The best day of my life because I got in a fight and I didn't die! :D" Telemachus, child, please.

"We'll be fine" using the same run as "this is my goodbye" T_T

Him immediately offering up friendship to Athena, like Odysseus once did, must hit her so hard. "You're a good kid." Yes he is - because he's more like his dad than he knows.

Love in Paradise

"Old friend..." FRRRRRIIIIEEEENNNNNDDDDD!!!!!

10 years.

The memory fragments sounding so fraught and chaotic together, hitting harder because they're hitting Athena all at once. She missed a lot.

"She's my wife." "Anyways..." Calypso, girl, please.

Love that they're singing completely different melodies through the first half of this song for two reasons: because Odysseus is revisiting previous motifs, once more trying to hold onto the man he was, and also because it shows Calypso is not willing to compromise on what she wants.

"Last I checked goddesses can't die." We'll come back to this later.

Then Odysseus realises he is truly trapped and he sings along to Calypso's melody in muted horror.

POLITIES OUT HERE STILL HAUNTING THE NARRATIVE.

Just the words "open arms" are enough to confront Odysseus (again) with all he's lost. All he hears are screams.

And the one he screams out for is Athena.

"He needs my help." NO KIDDING GO GET YOUR BOY.

God Games

"Father, God, King..." There's a lot to unpack in that fun family dynamic.

"To untie apprehensions that were placed on that Greek?" Zeus is like, nobody likes that guy, why do you care?

The gods being called out like X Factor finalists is everything.

So there's a great contrast against the previous song - unlike Calypso, Athena is matching each of her singing partners with their tone and beat as she convinces them. She isn't winning by 'imposing her will', she's meeting them where they are.

Rational arguments work until Aphrodite, where Athena says "please" for the first time. She softens to appeal to Aphrodite, which is why Ares has to step in.

The way she says his name XD

Ares' lines sound like as much of a fighting chant as 'Little Wolf' did, which makes it all the better that the mention of Telemachus is what gets her to 'fight back'.

"His son's my friend!" YES HE IS. And Athena of all people declaring "a broken heart can mend" is fascinating. Can't help but wonder if she's talking about herself coming around to forgiving Odysseus.

"Never once has he cheated on his wife." Handwaving the source material is worth it for this line ALONE.

Zeus is so pressed by everyone openly knowing he cheats on Hera. Stop doing it then my dude.

Ares sounding genuinely concerned for Athena is doing things to me. Goddesses can't die, huh?

Her time motif flitting in and out like a weak heartbeat.

The soft piano of 'Warrior of the Mind', touching on a whisper of 'Legendary', then rising to a triumphant crescendo as Athena regains herself. I will be forever haunted by visions of Odysseus and Telemachus helping her to her feet.

And then, finally, she faces her own father and begs. Because Odysseus and Telemachus deserve a chance to be father and child.

The parallel, by the way, of Athena entering this saga to help an outnumbered Telemachus, and now closing it with him/Odysseus unknowingly helping her win her own battle too. JORGE HOW DARE YOU T_T

[rosierin]

a hair toning intervention | atsumu, osamu, suna

synopsis; osamu comes home with brown hair and atsumu feels personally attacked.

his solution? changing his hair too, duh.

a/n; this was super fun to write bahahaha

i've seen a few versions of this historical miya event in other fics before and thought i'd do my own version hehe. hope it made ya smile as much as i did!!!

also, this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

(Y/n) was midway through opening a bag of crisps when the front door swung open.

She looked up—only to freeze completely.

Her lips parted. The crisp never made it to her mouth.

Beside her, Suna and Atsumu both gasped in unison, equal parts stunned and horrified.

Osamu strolled in casually, tossing his keys onto the counter like nothing was different.

But something was different.

Very different.

(Y/n) blinked. “Wait. What.”

Atsumu, gawking, stared at his twin like he’d grown a second head.

Suna, frowning, tilted his head. “There’s something… wrong with this picture.”

Osamu raised a brow. “What?”

(Y/n) stared. Then she turned to Suna. Then to Atsumu. Then back to Osamu. As if making sure they all saw the same thing.

Then she pointed at him. “Your hair!”

She couldn’t believe her eyes.

The silver was gone.

Not just dyed over—completely gone! Chopped off, neatly styled, the strands a deep, natural brown that she had never actually seen on him before.

She gaped. “Osamu—you’re a brunette again?!”

Osamu blinked, like he had forgotten to mention it. “Oh. Yeah.”

“OH. YEAH??” Atsumu finally snapped out of his daze, gesturing wildly. “SINCE WHEN??”

Osamu shrugged. “Since this mornin’.”

Suna let out a low whistle, staring at him like he was some kind of glitch in the matrix. “You look like a different person."

(Y/n) grinned, stepping closer, eyes shining.

“No way,” she breathed. “This is so weird—but in a good way! It’s your natural colour, right??”

Osamu nodded, feeling a little shy.

She studied him properly, still trying to process the change. It completely altered the way he looked—not in a bad way, just… different. Warmer. Softer, somehow.

She clasped her hands together, practically bouncing on her feet. “You look so handsome! It suits you so much!”

Atsumu physically recoiled at her outburst.

“No, it don’t! It’s like he’s a teenager again! I hate it!”

(Y/n) immediately whipped her head toward him. Glared.

“You shut your mouth,” she scolded. “He looks great.”

Osamu blinked at her. His lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the sudden wave of enthusiasm.

“Uh. Thanks," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

(Y/n) beamed.

Atsumu groaned. “Ya can’t be encouragin’ this! He looks like some responsible adult now, it’s unnatural!”

“Maybe ‘cause I am a responsible adult.”

“No, yer Osamu, you ain’t supposed to change!”

Osamu rolled his eyes. “Yer bein’ dramatic.”

(Y/n) nodded in agreement. “I agree with Osamu."

“Yuck,” Atsumu muttered. “Feels wrong hearin’ those words together.”

Osamu smirked. “Get used to it, blondie.”

That’s when it happened.

Atsumu froze.

The gears in his head started turning.

And then, a sudden, creeping realization dawned on him.

He was now the only twin with dyed hair.

The only one with unnatural colour.

Osamu was now the twin with the “normal” hair.

His face fell.

(Y/n) saw the exact moment the identity crisis hit him.

Atsumu looked at Osamu. Then at himself in the mirror. Then back at Osamu.

"Well, now I have to do somethin’ to mine."

Suna groaned. (Y/n) sighed. Osamu smirked.

And just like that—Atsumu’s hair crisis began.

The next day, Atsumu dragged (y/n) aside like he had breaking news.

Serious. Grave. The end-of-the-world kind of serious.

“Alright.” He exhaled. “I’ve thought about it.”

(Y/n), halfway through sipping her morning tea, already regretted being here. “Oh no.”

Atsumu ignored her.

“I’m changin’ my hair.”

(Y/n) closed her eyes briefly. Then sighed, muttering, “God, give me strength.”

At that exact moment, Suna and Osamu strolled into the room—mid-conversation, chuckling about something irrelevant.

“Oi, you two,” Atsumu called, waving them over like a man with a mission. “We’re talkin’ hair.”

Suna paused, glanced at Osamu, then back at Atsumu.

“…No thanks.”

Osamu snorted. “Yeah, I’m good. Haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.”

Atsumu ignored them too.

“I’m thinkin’… platinum. Ya’know— white.”

Suna let out a long, suffering sigh.

Osamu rubbed his face. “….No.”

(Y/n), already knowing where this was going, rested her chin in her palm. “Here we go. Tell us more, Lady Gaga.”

Atsumu continued undeterred.

“Or!—pastel pink.”

Suna, without missing a beat: “You’d look like a rejected K-pop star.”

Atsumu frowned.

Osamu smirked. “Yer gonna look like an anime protagonist.”

Atsumu scowled harder.

(Y/n) sipped her drink, silently agreeing with both assessments.

Atsumu, ever determined, pressed on. “What about black?”

Suna arched a brow. “You think you can handle the responsibility of dark hair?”

Atsumu hesitated. “What the hell does that mean?”

Osamu smirked. “It means ya talk too much to pull off the mysterious bad boy look.”

Suna nodded. “Yeah, you’re too loud. Feels illegal.”

Atsumu scowled.

(Y/n) tilted her head. “You don’t have to change your hair, you know. Blonde suits you.”

Suna’s smirk widened. “Plus, you know what they say about blondes…”

Osamu snorted. (Y/n) bit back a laugh.

Atsumu immediately tensed. “I’M NOT DUMB.”

A beat.

Looks were exchanged.

Nothing was said, and yet everything was said at the same time.

Atsumu’s eye twitched. “You guys are NO HELP. Gimme actual suggestions instead of bein’ mean!”

(Y/n), having had enough of this nonsense, finally spoke up.

“…Why don’t you just tone it?”

Atsumu blinked. “What?”

“Toner,” she repeated. “It keeps your blonde, but it takes out all the brassiness so it looks cleaner.”

Atsumu stared. As if she had just started speaking another language.

“…What the hell is toner?”

Suna’s mouth twitched. Osamu looked away.

A second later—

The two of them BURST into laughter.

Giggling. Giggling like schoolgirls.

Osamu actually had to hold onto the counter. Suna covered his face, shoulders shaking.

(Y/n) exhaled. “Oh my god.”

“What’s so funny?!” Atsumu demanded.

Osamu, composing himself, barely managed, “there's no way."

Suna wiped a tear. “You’ve been blonde for YEARS and you’ve never used a toner?”

Atsumu crossed his arms. “No, ‘cause I didn’t know it was a thing!”

“Oh, we know.”

(Y/n) decided to take pity on him. For now.

“Listen,” she started, talking slow like she was explaining something to a child, “you know how your hair sometimes looks a little… yellow?”

Atsumu’s eyes narrowed. “What do ya mean, a little yellow?”

“She means it looks like piss," Suna helpfully added.

Atsumu whipped around. “Excuse me??”

Osamu, still grinning, leaned against the counter. “He’s got a point.”

(Y/n) bit back a laugh. “The toner will fix that.”

Atsumu scoffed. “My hair ain’t piss-yellow.”

Suna, deadpan: “It is.”

Osamu, nodding: “Yeah.”

(Y/n), “Yeah, a little bit.”

Atsumu gawked at the utter shade his so-called friends were throwing at him.

Osamu clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, ‘Tsumu, it’s time"

Suna nodded solemnly. “We’re helping you.”

(Y/n) smirked. “For the greater good.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes, but the seed was planted.

“…Fine. Let’s do it.”

And just like that—the Hair-Toning Mission was officially set in motion.

(Y/n) stood at the sink, reading the instructions on the toner bottle, while Atsumu sat on the edge of the bathtub, fidgeting like a restless child.

Behind them, Osamu and Suna loitered in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching like they were witnessing history in the making.

Atsumu sighed dramatically. "This feels like a mistake."

(Y/n) didn't even look up. "You say that like you didn't beg me to do this five minutes ago."

Osamu snorted. "It probably is a mistake, but we're already here, so."

Atsumu whipped his head around. "Shut up! You abandoned the twin hair pact first!"

Osamu raised a brow. "Atsumu. That pact existed when we were ten."

"It was fifteen, actually!" Atsumu threw his hands up. "Ya betrayed me!"

Suna hummed. "Hate to break it to ya, but (y/n) is actually doing you a favour. Your hair’s been looking… rough."

Atsumu scoffed. "My hair is fine."

(Y/n) sighed. "Atsumu, honey, do me a favour and look at yourself in the mirror."

Reluctantly, he turned.

There, under the bright, unforgiving bathroom lights, his unnatural yellow-blonde hair looked even more tragic than usual.

He blinked. “…Oh.”

Suna immediately started laughing.

Osamu clapped a hand on his shoulder, mock sympathy written all over his face. “Happens to the best of us."

(Y/n) clapped her hands together. “Alright, enough existential crisis. Let’s fix it.”

Atsumu grumbled but sat still as she gloved up, mixing the toner with developer.

The moment she picked up the brush, he flinched.

"Yer sure this ain't bleach?"

(Y/n) paused. Then, with a deadpan expression—

"Oh, my bad. This is actually hair remover. Hang on, lemme just—"

Atsumu's eyes bulged. “WHAT?!”

Osamu and Suna cackled from the doorway.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes. "I'm kidding, dumbass."

Osamu leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Honestly, the bald look might suit ya."

Atsumu pouted. "Yer all evil."

(Y/n) finally started applying the toner, brushing it through his roots while trying not to laugh at the sheer amount of facial expressions he was making.

It didn’t sting, but Atsumu sure acted like it did.

"Oh my god, this smells so strong—"

"It's literally just toner, Atsumu."

"It feels weird—"

"That's because you never take care of your hair."

"Wait— Is my scalp tingling? What if I'm allergic?"

(Y/n) paused mid-brush stroke. "You literally bleach your hair every few months. You're fine."

Suna barely held back a laugh. "He’s dying, (y/n). It’s over."

Atsumu gasped dramatically. "I CAN FEEL IT SEEPIN’ INTO MY BRAIN."

Osamu rolled his eyes. "That would imply ya have a brain."

Atsumu pointedly ignored his brother.

Meanwhile, Suna swiped open his phone, thumb hovering over the "record" button like he was itching for a disaster. "If it turns out bad, I'm sending pictures to everyone we know."

(Y/n) sighed, fighting the urge to smack all three of them. "Can you clowns hush up for five seconds?"

Atsumu huffed. "Fine. But hurry up."

(Y/n) worked quickly, coating every strand with precision, her hands expertly weaving through his hair.

Atsumu, for once, actually sat still.

It was oddly quiet.

(Y/n) blinked, pleasantly surprised. "Are you actually being patient?"

Atsumu smirked, leaning back into her touch. "What can I say? I like the feel of yer hands in my hair."

Osamu physically gagged.

Suna made a loud retching noise. "Get a grip."

(Y/n) dropped the brush onto his lap. "Do your own hair, then."

"NO, NO, I TAKE IT BACK—"

(Y/n) sighed. "Shut up and let it sit."

Atsumu grumbled but obeyed.

And so, the waiting game began.

Suna leaned back against the counter, smirking. "So, worst case scenario, his hair turns purple, right?"

(Y/n) smirked. "Or green."

Atsumu sat up violently. "WHAT?"

Osamu chuckled. "Relax. Probably won't happen."

"PROBABLY?!"

Suna snapped a picture of his panicked face. "That one's goin’ in the archives."

Atsumu groaned, head in his hands. "I shoulda just gone pastel pink."

(Y/n) patted his head. "Too late now."

Atsumu leaned over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.

And for once—he was speechless.

His blonde was still there, but softer, cleaner—less like an overripe banana and more like an expensive golden shade straight out of a salon.

Slowly, he ran a hand through his freshly toned hair, tilting his head to admire it from every angle.

A pause.

Then—

“HOLY SHIT, I LOOK GOOD.”

Osamu groaned. “Here we go.”

Suna sighed. “What have we done?"

Atsumu. Did. Not. Care. He was in love with himself.

He fluffed his hair. Styled it. Messed it up, then slicked it back. Different angles. Different expressions.

He even leaned in closer, squinting. “Damn. Who’s that fine piece of—”

(Y/n) reached forward and physically turned his head away from the mirror. “Enough.”

But even Osamu had to admit, it looked better.

Suna gave a slow nod of approval. “I hate to say it, but it’s actually… not bad.”

Osamu hummed. “Yeah. It's definitely an improvement.”

(Y/n) grinned, stepping up to Atsumu.

Then, to his horror—

She pinched his cheeks.

“Aw, you look lovely!” she cooed, mockingly.

Atsumu’s entire expression dropped.

"Hah—?!"

(Y/n) giggled, giving his face a playful squeeze. “You look adorbs 'Tsum 'Tsum!”

Atsumu, gaping, stared at (y/n) with disbelief written all over his face. "'Aborbs'? ''Tsum 'Tsum'? Are ya kiddin' me?"

He whipped around to Osamu. “How come he gets normal compliments, and I get treated like a toddler?” Atsumu pouted. “I demand a redo!”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes.

“Fine.”

She released his cheeks, crossed her arms, and tilted her head slightly.

Then, with a perfectly smooth, slow smile—

"You look hot, Atsumu."

Atsumu’s brain short-circuited.

Was that steam coming off his head?

A blink. Then another.

His ears turned red.

(Y/n) smirked.

From behind them, Osamu and Suna absolutely lost it.

“HE’S WHIPPED.”

“HE’S SO GONE.”

Atsumu snapped out of it, scowling. “THAT AIN'T FAIR! SHE TRICKED ME! THAT WAS SORCERY—"

Suna, grinning like a demon, leaned closer. “Heart racing, 'Tsumu?”

Osamu smirked. “Sweatin’ a little there, 'Tsumu?”

Atsumu whipped around, unable to articulate. “SHUT YER TRAPS, BOTH OF YA.”

(Y/n) just shrugged, entirely unfazed. “You did ask for a real compliment.”

Atsumu covered his face with his hands. “Yer killin' me, woman.”

Osamu patted his shoulder. “You’ll live.”

Suna leaned in, voice dripping with amusement. "Go on. Just say, “Thank you, (y/n), I am hot.”’

Atsumu flung an empty shampoo bottle at him.

(Y/n) laughed.

And just like that—the hair-toning adventure was complete.

[4unnyr0se]

❥ OHMAMI | hajime iwaizumi

warnings: timeskip! iwaizumi, fem! reader, car sex, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, hickeys, degradation, manhandling, slight fingering, finger-sucking, riding, oikawa is mentioned a lot tbh, protective and possessive iwa

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 4.9k

a/n: okay i started this in early june and now im finishing it so im sorry if it doesnt make sense aaaa

❥ song: OHMAMI - chase atlantic

Iwaizumi was never the one people thought of when asked who their favorite member of the Aoba Johsai team was. He grew to accept it over time, albeit with spite and anger. Everyone was always wrapped up in what Oikawa was doing, wondering who would be his next girlfriend of the week. It was gross how Oikawa hogged all the girls; how could he be so selfish? Fucking jackass. 

Naturally, it was a relief when he graduated. Sure, Aoba Johsai never went to nationals (and yes, it very much stung), but the memories were important, right? Hitting perfect spike after spike, smacking Oikawa around, hearing that glorious school cheer, Iwaizumi had to admit he would miss it. Not the part where Oikawa kept all the girls to himself. 

Graduation came and went, and so did university. It was a breeze. Sports medicine was not a challenging major; he was just really good at the subject. Another graduation came, and Iwaizumi could only think about you and that pretty, perfect face. You were his closest friend in high school, and sadly, you drifted apart during university. You were studying Japanese literature or something, he didn’t remember. It’s not his fault; he was just too busy getting girls for the first time in a while. Totally not his fault…right?

Iwaizumi wasn’t doing himself any fucking favors, he thought about you too much for his own good. Whether Aoba Johsai lost or how insufferable Oikawa was, you were always there for him. You let him lean against your shoulder and complain about his day, his disheveled and messy uniform giving him an even more thuggish appearance. The way your soft, almost angelic hands massaged his scalp, assuring him that he would be okay.  Oh, how he longed for your fingers in his spiky hair again. He had forgotten your scent, your sweet floral scent. Was it roses or lavender? Maybe lilac? Although all the girls in high school wore the same body sprays, yours was different. Was it because you were never scared of him to begin with? Fuck, he missed you.

He sat on the bench in the empty locker room of the gym he worked at, a hot towel draped around broad shoulders as he began to lose himself in his fond high school memories. Images danced around in his mind of your sweet face smiling at him for the first time, the words “Don’t worry, I’ll help you study for the English test!” leaving your soft lips. At least, Iwaizumi thought they were soft. No, he knew they were soft. God, you were so kind to him. You even ignored Oikawa’s advances towards you, which made him blush and gain so much respect for you in an instant. “Man, I’d really like to punch that guy in his dumb face.” you snickered, covering your bright smile. Iwaizumi swore he could marry you right then and there.

From that moment on, he was your closest friend. You went to all his practices and games, cheering for him when no one else would. “Nice kill, Iwa!” you would shout from the bleachers, proudly wearing a spare version of his jersey. His jersey. If Iwaizumi had no supporters, you were dead. The two of you were inseparable until university rolled around, and Iwaziumi became stupidly popular with the ladies. And sure, college girls were pretty and incredibly loose, but they weren’t you. No one was you, and he missed you every day.

Iwaizumi grunted as he stood up, tossing the towel into a basket. He stepped out of the locker room with his hands in his pockets, whistling a song from his cardio playlist. It was around ten at night, and his gym was one of the few open so late, so there wasn’t anyone there except the front receptionist girl who flirted with every guy who walked in. Truly, he couldn’t ask for better entertainment. 

“Yo,” Iwaizumi leaned across the desk, stealing an electrolyte drink from the employee minifridge. There’s no one here; you should just go home. It’s getting late.” The cool drink touched his lips, the cherry flavoring subtle. “If the boss gives you any crap, you can blame me. I don’t mind.”

The receptionist eagerly stood up and practically ran out the door, throwing her time card at him. “Clock me out!” she shouted halfway out the automatic door. Iwaizumi sighed and shoved the time card in his sweats. She really was a ditz, but at least she got people to sign up for VIP memberships. 

He clocked her out and went to his favorite spot in the gym where he usually deadlifts. Unfortunately, there was no one to spot him. Iwaizumi was a jock, but he certainly wasn’t dumb. There was no way he was dying because he got crushed by a fucking barbell. There is no chance in hell. 

His rough and calloused hands decided just to lift weights instead. That was simpler, more safe. He flipped on his headphones and selected a tune from his more…sensual playlist. It's a sensual indie R&B song that could make anyone feel like a sex god. Why was that song on his playlist? He couldn’t tell you. Once again, Iwaizumi became lost in his thoughts as he lifted the weights up and down with such ease. He worked out for health benefits, but just something about staring at his physique in the mirror made it all worth it. Damn, did he look fine as hell. He was ashamed of how long it took him to realize that he was stupidly attractive, and it took a lot of skill not to develop a massive ego around his looks. 

The automatic doors slid open, the dinging sound drowned out by his noise-canceling headphones. His green eyes locked on the floor mat below him, concentrating on passing the time by any means necessary. He paused briefly when he saw two tiny white sneakers enter his field of vision, standing considerably close to his muscular form. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled, placing the weights on the ground. “Music’s loud, y’know?” His eyes trailed upwards until they finally met your gaze, his pupils shrinking in shock. His hands gripped his headphones, softly filling the room with sensual music. “Holy shit.” Iwaizumi’s mouth was agape. He looked like a fool. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi, Iwa.” you smiled brightly, taking his headphones from his rough hands and placing them around his thick neck. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Three years, I think.” Fuck, he forgot how much smaller your hands were to his own. It’s so cute.

“Three years since university, yeah,” Iwaizumi mumbled, wiping the glistening sweat away from his forehead. “I can’t believe it’s been that long. You don’t look any different. Not that it’s a bad thing!” he stumbled on his words, silently cringing at his immature actions. He never got this flustered. He hasn’t been in a while. Less than a minute talking to you, and he was a stammering mess. This wasn’t like him at all. His tough persona might as well be tossed out the window. 

You offered him another sweet smile and rubbed his shoulder, the sweat not bothering you in the slightest. “Change is a good thing, y’know,” your words were gentle and comforting, oozing with wisdom beyond your years. Another thing Iwaizumi thought was perfect about you was that you always knew the right thing to say. “You’ve changed too. You’re way more buff than the last time we saw each other!”

“Damn right,” he smirked, subtly flexing his biceps. Were you looking? He hoped so. “I’m a personal trainer, so I gotta stay in shape. Plus, I train Oikawa, so whenever I’m pissed off, I just do a couple sets.”

“You still hang out with Oikawa? I thought you hated him.” you raised an eyebrow, placing a hand on your hips quizically. 

“I’m getting paid to tell him what workouts he should do. Can’t complain about that money,” Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his head, fluffing out his spiky hair. “Besides, I’m allowed to kick his ass whenever I want. That asshole deserves it. He somehow got even more cocky after he got back from Argentina.”

You rolled your eyes and found a nearby workout bench, crossing your legs over each other. “I didn’t think Loserkawa could become even more full of himself. You’d think being in a foreign country would humble him slightly.”

“Right?” a deep chuckle escaped his chapped lips as Iwaizumi sat beside you, minding the distance. He bit down on his lower lip slightly, just for a moment. Would you mind if he sat closer to you, like in high school? “He even started speaking Spanish, but he’s not allowed to do that around me.”

“Because you’ll throw a dumbbell at him?”

“Because I’ll throw a dumbbell at him.”

You giggled and scooted closer to Iwaizumi, the scent of sweat mixed with his cologne filling your nostrils. He smelled more mature than in high school, but that’s a given. “I see you’re still the same ol’ spikey-haired guy.” you ruffled his hair, knowing that you were the only one who could do that without getting a beatdown. 

Iwaizumi blushed, averting his eyes from your gaze. Fuck, he really missed your touch. “So, uh, what brings you to the gym? Were you looking for a membership or something?” 

You shook your head, casually wrapping your arm around his shoulder. Were you trying to kill him? “Nah. If I’m being honest, I saw you in one of the windows while I was out for an evening walk. It’s been a while, so I wanted to say hi.” You momentarily looked down at your shoes, a faint blush gracing your cheeks. “Besides, I missed you.”

“You walked here by yourself? At night? Are you crazy?” Iwaizumi shouted, grasping your shirt to pull you closer. “It’s not safe at night. You didn’t have anyone to protect you! Do you know how stupid that sounds?” his nostrils flared, a mixture of anxiety and rage overcoming him. “What if something happened?”

You gasped, your brow furrowing. “Well, excuse me! I didn’t know I needed permission from someone I haven’t spoken to in three years to take a fucking walk!” you ripped his hand away from your shirt. 

Iwaizumi groaned, hanging his head. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just…” he took a deep breath. “It’s not safe for someone like you at night, and I’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you because you wanted to see me.” 

You rolled your eyes and pulled his chin up, staring into his oceans of green. “Just because you’re worried about someone doesn’t give you an excuse to be an asshole about it,” you smiled in assurance. “Next time, I’ll bring something to defend myself. Okay?”

Iwaizumi smirked. “You’re the only person allowed to call me an asshole, y’know that? If you were anybody else, I’d beat your skull in.

“Then I’m lucky that I happen to still be Hajime Iwaizumi’s favorite person after all these years,” you bit down on your lower lip. “Unless…you have a girlfriend. Then she’s probably your favorite person.”

“No girlfriend, I don’t have the time,” he shook his head, moving himself closer. “I had a girlfriend before, but then-”

“Oikawa took her from you?” you cut him off.

“Fucking Oikawa took her from me. He dated her for two weeks, then dumped her for someone he met at a bar. Can you believe that?” he clenched his fist.

“Unfortunately, I can,” you gave an exasperated sigh. “I guess Oikawa will always be Oikawa.”

“God help us,” Iwaizumi chuckled. “Hey, I gotta lock up the gym. Can you wait outside, and then I can drive you home?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna be a bother.”

“Why would you be a bother? I’m just keepin' you safe, dummy.” Iwaizumi assured you, getting up and brushing off his pants. “Wait here. I’ll come to get you. I don’t want you standing outside. There’s a lot creeps around here who want nothing more than to get close to a pretty girl like you.” he turned around, not realizing that he had just complimented you. You were left with a brighter blush on your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Did Iwaizumi think you were pretty after all this time?

Eventually, he finished what he needed to do to close up the gym: he wiped down all the machines and ensured everything was organized for the morning shift. He grabbed you by the wrist and practically dragged you out of the gym, having an unusually tight grip.

“Dude, what are you doing? I know how to walk,” you tugged your wrist away from his hand, rubbing it. “You’re acting weird. Did something happen when you were cleaning up? “I just don’t want you to stray too far, that’s all. Keep close to me, or else I might end up killing somebody.” he shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweats, making his way to the car. He was weirdly protective over you, but it only bothered you slightly. 

Having your big, strong best friend wanting nothing more than to keep you safe in a parking lot was…well, it was sexy. Iwaizumi was sexy, and he knew it. You wondered if he knew that you thought so, too. How, when you were in high school, you would daydream about him pinning you against the wall and kissing you until you couldn’t breathe. How your mind would wander in college, staring at him from across the dining hall, watching as he unconsciously flexed his biceps in such a way that made you swoon every single time.

With his hand wrapped protectively over your shoulder, he clicked the keyfob and unlocked his car. It was a larger vehicle, boasting proud rims on the tires. “You can get in the passenger seat. I have snacks in the glove compartment if you’re hungry.”

“Since when do you have snacks in the car?” you sat in the passenger seat, buckling up. “That doesn’t seem very healthy, Mr. Personal Trainer.” you giggled, making air quotes. 

He playfully rolled his eyes, getting into the driver's seat. “I have to drive long distances for work sometimes. So, to keep me sane, I keep little snacks in my glove compartment. Granola and crap like that. Protein bars.” 

“Oh, so snacks that aren’t actually snacks?” you winked. 

“Shut up,” he clicked his seatbelt in, revving the car. “Do you wanna choose what we listen to or not? Also, type your address into the GPS while at it.”

“Or I could look through your messages.”

Iwaizumi shot you a glare. “Don’t even joke about that.”

You giggled, typed in your address, and then opened Spotify. “You have a lot of playlists. Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders, flexing the muscles. Fuck, he was so fucking sexy. “I dunno, I guess I just have one for every occasion. When you’re working with Oikawa, music typically helps,” he smirked, raising an eyebrow. “You can pick from any song on any playlist.”

“Then I choose this one,” you selected OHMAMI, handing him back his phone. “It’s from your playlist that has a heart emoji as the title. What’s that for?”

Iwaizumi felt his face become overrun with a blazing blush. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he pulled out of his parking spot, turning the car towards the exit. “Oh, uh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“But I wanna know!” you whined, crossing your arms over your chest. “C’mon, we just caught up a second ago, but you never kept any secrets from me.”

He sighed and bit down on his bottom lip. “Fuck, okay. Fine,” he took a deep breath. “It’s…this song is from my sex playlist. Specifically from college.”

Your pupils blew up, your hand immediately flying to your mouth to stifle a chuckle. “You have a sex playlist? And this is a song on it?”

“That’s what I just fucking said, didn’t I?” his face was red and anger and embarrassment. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you!”

“Iwa,” you tapped his thigh. “Sorry for laughing. It’s just that sex playlists are usually romantic and, no offense, but you never seemed like a romantic kind of guy.” 

He furrowed his brow. “I can be romantic, “ he made a sharp left turn. “I just haven’t had a reason to in a while, that’s all.”

“Aw, I’m sorry, man,” you pouted. “I’m sure someone will come along that can make you want to use this playlist again.” you smiled at him, flashing your teeth.

“Yeah, hopefully,” Iwaizumi sighed, stealing a glance at you. You were perfect, absolutely perfect. He was mentally kicking himself for not making a move. But then again, there was a sexy song playing, so the mood was set. Maybe you wouldn’t mind if his hand squeezed your thigh, dancing lower and lower. Maybe you wouldn’t mind at all. 

He continued to drive, the music from the stereo being the only thing to prevent the car from being silent. His mind wandered places: obscene, filthy places. He wondered what noises you would make if he ate your pussy out in the passenger seat. Would you taste as sweet as he imagined? Iwaizumi just knew your pussy was tight, how it would flutter around his cock as he bounced you up and down on it in the backseat, your hand flat against the roof of his car with the music blaring. He was so deep in thought that he neglected to realize the tent growing in his sweats. But you noticed.

Your eyes darted back and forth to his hard-on, squeezing your legs together at the sight. You suspected he was hiding a monster down there, and now you were sure of it. Surprisingly, Iwaizumi never got hard around you before today, at least not to your knowledge. It was like it was calling you to, desperate for your hands to slide up and down.

“Uh, Iwa?” you groaned, crossing your legs over each other. 

“Hm?” he didn’t take his eyes off the road.

“You have like…a huge boner right now.” you blushed furiously, cringing to yourself. Could you have chosen a more awkward set of words?

Iwaizumi choked on his breath, swerving the car slightly. He glanced down at his sweats, and lo and behold, he was hard. “O-Oh, fuck. Shit, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” he groaned, clenching onto the steering wheel once more.

You squirmed in your seat. “Hey man, don’t worry about it. You can’t control when you get hard, right? S’not a problem.”

He thought for a moment, mumbling under his breath. He canceled the navigation and pulled the car into a parking lot by an abandoned gas station frequented by local teenagers. Luckily, there was no one there right now. “I can’t,” he breathed in, refusing to meet your gaze. “I can’t control it when I’m around you,” he parked the car. “You drive me so fucking crazy.”

You squeezed onto the leather seats, your face still blazing red. “You’re telling me that I made your dick hard?” 

“Yeah, that’s what I just fucking said.” he groaned, unclicking his seatbelt. His eyes finally met yours, full of want. “You made me hard, princess.”

Princess. The nickname rang in your ears. Fuck, it was like hot honey rolling off his chapped lips. “Iwa…” you breathed out, gasping as he tugged on the collar of your shirt, pulling you closer to him. The center console was the only thing that separated you two. 

“Princess,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long. Ever since you said, you wanted to punch Shittykawa in the face.”

“Really?”

“Really.” his eyes landed on your lips, beautiful and begging to be kissed. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long. Please,” his hot breath grazed your cheek. “Please tell me that you want me to. But I’m warning you right now,” he kissed your burning skin. “Once you tell me you do, I won’t hold myself back anymore.”

A sensation began to bubble inside your belly, his words causing your core to throb with want. You parted your lips, wetting them with your tongue. “Iwa,” your voice was barely a whisper. “Please, I want you.”

Iwaizumi let go of your shirt, his eyes flaring with passion and lust. “Get in the backseat, now.” he growled, climbing over the center console. You eagerly followed him, finding a spot on his lap. His hands secured themselves on the fat of your hips, making sure you didn’t go anywhere. It's not like you wanted to, anyway. 

“I’ve been waiting for this for so fucking long, princess,” he groaned before slamming his lips against yours in a frenzy. His lips assaulted yours, greedy and shameless. Your mind became TV static, your lips dancing with his as if it was a reflex, as if you had done this a million times before. You moaned into the kiss as he groped you without a care, his hands slipping under the hem of your gym shorts. You gasped as his warm hands wandered, exploring you as if he was attempting to map out your perfect curves.

His hand was scolding hot as it ventured to finger the elastic, ripping the cheap fabric. He swallowed your surprised gasp, smirking into the kiss. “Fuckin’ cheap fabric,” he growled, his hand massaging up and down your panties. “I’ll buy you a new pair, don’t worry, your pretty lil’ head about it.” 

Iwaizumi broke the kiss, resting his head in the crook of your neck while his fingers continued their gentle dance across your clothed, dripping cunt. The digits ran up and down the soaked material, causing him to shudder. “Fuck, you’re this wet from just a kiss?” he groaned against your neck, the sharpness of his canines grazing the sensitive skin. He could have sworn he could hear your heartbeat coming from the veins. Your pulse was thundering, it was fucking addictive. His lips ventured up and down your delicate neck, leaving wanting, open-mouthed kisses in the spots that made you squirm so beautifully on your lap. His teeth nibbled down on your sweet spot, causing your hips to buck into his hard-on.

“Needy fucking girl,” his voice rumbled, fingers dipping into your panties to toy with your sobbing slit. You whimpered, resting your forehead onto his own as the calloused pads of his thick fingers teased your clit. “Fuck, you’re soaked. D’ya even need me to finger this pussy, or are you such a fucking slut that you’re this wet all the time?” his hands cracked against your ass. “Hm? Talk to me, princess.”

“Only you!” you yelped. Iwaizumi chuckled darkly, lifting his head from your neck to greet you with a blown-out stare. His eyes told you everything you needed to know; they told you that he wanted to fucking ruin you on his cock like he’s been wanting to all these years.

“That’s what I like to fucking hear,” he slapped your ass again, making you gasp and jolt. His lips quickly met yours once more as his finger bullied its way inside your cunt, curling inside without mercy or forgiveness. “Shit, you’re squeezing around my finger. Do you really need to get fucked that fucking bad, hm? Is my girl a little slut?”

“M’not a slut!” you sobbed, tossing your head back. Your hands gripped his muscular shoulders with white-hot-knuckle strength, making Iwaizumi hiss in pain. Not that he was complaining. He fucking loved it.

“Fuck, I can’t take this anymore,” he pulled his finger out of your weeping cunt, licking off your slick. “Ya taste so fucking good, shit,” he groaned, sliding off his sweatpants and boxers so that his cock could spring free. You moaned at the sight, taking in his magnificent length. He was small by no means necessary, boasting a lengthy and girthy cock with an angry red tip that was leaking precum. “Turn around and hover above it.”

You did as he instructed, pushing your ruined panties to the side so your pulsating core was just above his angry cock. His hands snaked around the small of your waist, pulling your flush up against his chest. “You’re gonna be a good fucking slut and let me fuck you on this cock, yeah? If I think you’re being too quiet for even a second,” his voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “I’m gonna fuck you stupid.”

“Iwa,” your words died on your tongue as his fingers were abruptly shoved into your mouth, making you gag.

“Don’t fucking call me Iwa,” he demanded, his cock teasing your entrance. “It’s Hajime now. Don’t be a dumbass and forget it when I’m breaking you on this cock. Am I clear, pretty girl?”

You nodded, tears swelling in your eyes. His fingers slid out of your mouth and back onto your hips, squeezing the fat. “Be a good little slut and take this cock,” he growled, biting down harshly onto your neck before slamming you onto his cock without mercy, refusing to give your tight pussy anytime to adjust. 

“Oh god, yes,” Iwaizumi moaned against your neck, bouncing you expertly on his length. His eyes were hooded with lust and desire as he looked over your shoulder. The sight of your pussy swallowing his cock was magnificent. Especially how you struggled to take his length, you poor thing. Maybe he’ll be nicer to you next time. “Do you see yourself, princess? That pretty pussy is swallowing me whole. Good fucking girl.”

You writhed and squirmed on his lap, helpless as Iwaizumi used you like a toy. His hands reached around to pull down your top, exposing your bralette to the hot atmosphere. He pulled your bra down as well, shamelessly pinching and squeezing your pillowy mounds as his cock drove itself inside you with reckless abandon. 

“Y’been hiding these perfect tits from me too? Naughty fucking girl,” his hand dropped your breast and smacked your clit, earning a shriek from your bruised lips. “Can’t believe I waited this fucking long to grope these tits, fuck. I wonder what else you’re hiding, hm?” his hips never relented, continuing their rushed and desperate pace in harsh and fast strokes. 

“You look like such a slut right now. God, I wish I could see that pretty face,” he purred against the shell of your ear, licking the cartilage. His praise was so fucking addictive, making you shamelessly clench on his cock. “Oh, y’like when I call you pretty? Get fucking used to it.”

“I’m gonna make you ruin yourself on me,” his voice rasped, the tip of his cock twitching inside of you. “You’re gonna cum all over this fucking cock, and then I’ll cum inside, yeah? No one’s ever gonna fuck this pretty cunt again unless I say so. Until your Hajime says so, okay, princess?” he smacked your clit again, gathering your slick on his fingers. “Who’s the only one that can fuck this pretty pussy?”

“You! It’s yours, Hajime!” you sobbed, the rest of your meaningless rambling dying on your lips as he shoved his fingers inside your mouth once more. Your tongue wrapped around the digits, tasting your delicious slick. Your pussy fluttered around his cock, trying to pull him impossibly deeper inside of you. You were so fucking greedy.

Iwaizumi snarled against your neck, fucking you even harder. His hips continued to snap as he drove himself deeper and deeper inside, the sensation of your pussy doing its best to milk him being all that he needed. “You’re gonna fucking cum, yeah? That’s it, princes, make a fucking mess on me. Get your Hajime all sticky with your cum like a good fucking girl.”

With Iwaizumi’s encouragement, you finally let go. You came with a wanton sob, the bubbles in your belly boiling over to send you crashing over the edge and into oblivion. You could have sworn you saw white. Iwaizumi fucked you through it, whispering sweet nothings as your release coated his cock. 

“Oh, shit,” he groaned into your neck, biting down once more on the bruised skin as his cock twitched one final time, his release spilling inside to fill your cunt up so nicely. “Good fucking girl, take it all.” his hands fell to his hips, slumping against the leather seat.

“Hajime,” you groaned, reluctantly pulling yourself off his cock. His cum ran down your ruined thighs, mixing with your slick. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that.” you offered him a weak smile, staring at your ripped and forgotten-about jean shorts. “Dammit, you ripped them! These were my favorite pair. And now I don’t have any pants!” you scolded him, hitting him over the head with the fabric. “We’re in a parking lot, and I have no damn pants!”

“Relax,” he sighed, pulling up his pants and boxers. “Did you forget I was driving you home? Besides,” he pecked your lips. “I’m coming over, and we’re gonna cuddle and shit. Whatever you want.” he blushed, not meeting your gaze. He was still scared of you seeing him blush even after you were so intimate.

“Whatever I want?” you teased. “You’re cute when you get all flustered, Hajime.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

[norrisjpg]

only angel - ʟɴ⁴

the one where she hits it off one of his driver friends, and meets a new version of lando in the very same night.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten

contains; fluff, dom!lando, nsfw, smut; manhandling, oral (m & f), slit-fucking?, fingering, orgasm denial, kinda voyeurism?, squirting, crying, degradation kink, praise kink; talks of loss of virginity, swearing.

…

…

‘glamour on the grid’, they called it.

“it’ll be fun!” keegan exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders. “come on, lando.”

the four were sat in a sports bar somewhere in austin — the group being lando, lily, keegan, and max. lando wasn’t quite sure why they’d gone to a bar, when only two of the four would be drinking — max and keegan — but he’d agreed nonetheless after lily said she wouldn’t drink if he couldn’t.

“and it’d be good for PR,” max added, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows. “come on, bob.”

“yeah, do it for the team!” the younger boy nodded enthusiastically.

lando sighed and flitted his gaze over to the girl beside him, “you’re going, right?”

“i mean, i have an invite.” she shrugged. “but i don’t have anyone to go with, it’s a pairs kind of thing.”

“go with me?” he asked softly, “i don’t wanna be on my own.”

keegan went to speak, probably to say something like ‘you’ll have us!’, but max kicked him under the table as to say — ‘shut up, they’re having a moment.’

“yeah, of course.” she smiled softly, the subtlest of blushes spreading across her cheeks when he kissed her forehead briefly — going unnoticed by all but max.

“so, that’s settled, and you need a suit, mate.” max nodded. “do you need a dress, lala?”

lala.

that stupid nickname max had for her — only the quadrant crew called her that. it was her initials, ria had written them down wrong one day, (they were three letters how did she even get that wrong?) and thus ‘lala’ was born.

“yeah, i do, i’ll just ask dior or something,” she shrugged, almost laughing at the nickname. “do you want me to get you a suit too, lan?”

“yes please, you know my sizes and stuff — i’ll just match you.”

max was sat there, watching the two talk, and something was different. the way lando’s gaze lingered a little more than it usually would, how his voice was soft and low, the look in his eyes that made her seem like she’d hung the stars in the sky.

and even keegan noticed it too. the way lily would blush a little deeper than usual for her, the way she was either constantly touching or looking at him in some way, and her inability to have anything but a smile on her face gave her away completely.

maybe they were dating? no, surely they’d have told them by now.

maybe they were…? the boys basically had no idea what was going on there, but they were going to find out.

-

lily wasn’t impressed, whatsoever.

it wasn’t the fact that he wasn’t with her, it was the fact he was with her, of all girls, of the girl he was having sex with for gods sake!

lando and callie had been chatting all night, and it was pissing lily off — she was very aware of her jealousy and she couldn’t give a fuck.

she was this beautiful blonde girl, tanned with the prettiest eyes lily had ever seen, and the most contagious laugh ever recorded — shit, lily would have taken her out herself if she wasn’t madly in love with the boy she currently had her hand on the arm of.

“you look fucked off,” max pointed out as the two laughed about something.

“i’m not,” she snapped, before sighing and realising that maybe max would be able to see through her lie. “okay, maybe i am, but that’s none of your business.”

“just go and flirt with someone else,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “lando’ll hate that, he almost— actually, that’s a story for another day. just go and find someone else to piss him off with.”

“i don’t want to piss him off though.” she sighed.

“oh, so there is something going on with you and bob then?” max caught her, smiling widely.

she had given herself away.

lily could have made up a lie about why she was annoyed — her time of the month, her dress was itchy, it was too hot — but no, she just let the truth fall from her lips.

in all honesty, everything was perfect, but she wanted her boyfriend— no, best friend to be by her side like he usually was.

“just don’t say anything, okay?” lily huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “i’ve only told lex and i don’t know who he’s told, carlos maybe.”

“i won’t, secret is safe with me, as long as this ends in a relationship.” max teased.

she rolled her eyes, before picking up her lemonade and heading off to find her new man for the evening.

-

“no way, i worked with them not too long ago,” he said, crossing his leg over the other as they sat in the quiet corner.

“yeah, i asked them to send me this for tonight last minute,” lily smiled, gesturing to the white sparkly dress clinging to her body. “and well, if this is last minute i really need to up my standards.”

he laughed in response, the adorable gap between his front teeth showing — and no, it wasn’t lando.

lily ainsley was sat with, and had been for the past hour, sir lewis hamilton… talking about fashion of all things.

“we should set up a collab or something,” lewis added, lily nodding as he reached for his drink.

unfortunately, lewis’ hand brushed hard enough against lily’s full glass to send it flying off of the table, somehow not breaking it, but getting lemonade all over the floor and a bit on the bottom of her dress.

“oh my god,” he gasped, clapping his hand to his mouth. “i am so sorry, lily, is it on your dress?”

“only a little bit, don’t worry.” she shook her head with smile, “it’s warm out, it’ll dry.”

she couldn’t help but laugh as lewis’ panicked eyes stared at her nonchalance about the situation — lando had spilled many of drinks quite literally down her top when he was drunk on nights out — so this was pretty minor.

“let me buy you another drink, please?” lewis said, clasping his hands together as he chewed on his lower lip.

“okay, yeah.” she shrugged, a free beverage of any kind was something lily never turned down.

they reached the edge of the busy bar together, and lewis saw the slightly anxious look in her eye, so he simply held his arm out for her to link through.

she mouthed a kind, ‘thankyou’ to him, before they made their way through the swarm of bodies together.

“dude, where’s lily?” keegan asked lando, tapping his arm, while he held up a piece of fabric that had come off of his designer jacket. “i wanna ask her where the fuck this goes.”

“i’m pretty sure that’s your pocket…” lando furrowed his eyebrows. “she’s around here somewhere.”

“what, she’s not with you?” keegan asked, looking at him confused — those two were usually a package deal.

“no—”

“oh there she is!” the australian exclaimed. “oh, fuck nah, she’s with lewis… i’ll go over later.”

“she’s with lewis?” lando’s head snapped up, searching for lily’s familiar face in the foreign crowd. “as in— what the fuck?”

there she was, in all of her angelic glory, laughing softly with one of his childhood heroes — well that was a sight he thought he’d never see.

lewis’ hand was loosely around her waist, mostly to stop her being swept away by the bustling atmosphere of the crowd.

to lando, it was a declaration of war.

-

the uber home was filled with a tense silence, the lingering scent of annoyance and jealousy tainting the air. neither of them spoke, either too stubborn or too pissed off with the night’s antics to talk.

her phone lit up, max fewtrell.

max fewtrell: let me know how it goes with sunshine. he was real pissed earlier. worse than when i broke his gaming chair. good luck!

“lewis?” lando spoke up roughly.

“what?” she looked up from her phone after she’d unlocked it.

“too busy talking to him to listen to what i’m saying, wow.” he huffed, god was this boy dramatic.

“sorry, i thought you were too busy with callie to acknowledge my existence.” she shot back, rolling her eyes as she replied to max.

‘he’s in such a piss. i should have just left it be. i hate your ideas, fuck you!’

“oh please, you were all over lewis! he’s double your fucking age, lily!” lando snapped, raising his voice at her — something he never did.

“well maybe that’s because you were too busy being a slut to acknowledge my existence!” she shot back.

he laughed, he fucking laughed.

the rest of the ride was silent, it wasn’t even tense — something was looming, lando was planning something, she could tell.

the uber was paid and tipped gratefully, and the two took the elevator back to their hotel room. his hands weren’t on her, which worried her a little — either she had upset him, or he was saving it for once they were behind closed doors (she hoped it was the latter of the two.)

the door closed behind them, and it was like a switch flipped inside of the brit.

“a slut, huh?” lando chuckled lowly, grabbing lily and throwing her over his shoulder roughly.

“lando— put me down, lando!” she hit his back, with no real force — but she didn’t want to seem desperate.

“shut up.” he grumbled, putting her down on the floor so she was stood up.

“thank—”

his hands were on her hips, spinning her away from him. lando’s large hands managed to undo the zip on the back of the dress with ease, before he pulled it down and pushed the item off of her body.

he smirked to himself as she let him, not protesting as he spun her back around to face him.

“on your knees,” he nodded, unbuttoning his shirt.

she looked up at him, dazed and very turned on by this new version of lando she was met with.

“are you deaf?” he snapped “i said on your knees.”

lily got her knees gently, the cold tiles of the floor making the position a little uncomfortable.

he nodded, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek — she knew what he meant, wordlessly telling her to get to work.

his belt was undone by her slender fingers, and to her surprise, he wasn’t fully hard, meaning she was actually going to have to—

no, the first brush of lily’s fingers on his shaft sent it upward, slapping up against his abdomen. the thought of teasing him swirled around her mind briefly, but the look in lando’s eye told her to think otherwise.

a warm splatter of saliva dripped onto the tip of his cock, lubing the tip as she then took it in her mouth. her lips expertly wrapped around him, taking him deep down her throat straight away, swirling her tongue around every part she could reach. he groaned, clenching his jaw as he began to thrust slowly into her mouth.

she bobbed her head to meet his thrusts, tears welling in her eyes as he crammed his cock into her mouth.

“so much more polite with my dick in your mouth, aren’t you, angel?” he said, almost sweetly.

she made a muffled sound around him, not daring to pull off until his seed was deep in her throat.

her jaw was starting to lock, and the tears spilled down her face.

lily could feel him twitching inside of her mouth, and she was about to speed her movements up, when he pulled his cock out of her mouth.

loosely wrapping a hand around her throat, he pulled her gently, getting her to stand up, before pushing her onto the bed.

“ass up,” he commanded, helping her a little as she buried her face in the pillow.

he gazed down at her white underwear, clearly soaked and most likely ruined. one clean swipe rendered them (and her) useless, her panties tossed across the room with any dignity she had left.

“don’t even deserve to be fucked,” he muttered, taking his cock and pushing it though her folds, notching at her entrance.

he positioned his cock so it sat snugly in her puffy folds, bumping up against her clit every time he pushed forward.

“you think lewis could make you feel like this, baby?” he spoke cockily as she shuddered, thighs clenching as he pushed down her slit agonisingly slowly — holding back his own moan.

“n-no,” she choked out, moaning as her lower tummy fizzed with need.

“then why were you with him?” he pried, knowing the real reason — he’d spoken to max.

“tryna’ make—” she moaned softly as he brought his thumb forward to toy at her needy entrance. “get your attention, didn’t like seeing you with her.”

“so you were whoring yourself out with my rival?” he questioned lowly. “you could have just told me you were a pathetic mess for me, you know?”

her body was so hungry for him, pushing back against his slow thrusts into her slit — that the tears from earlier in their escapades resurfaced, streaming down her face.

he knew she was crying, but until there was an apology for calling him a slut, there wouldn’t be any letting up on her.

lando continued to thrust forward, her whimpers quiet and low. so, in aid of not being able to hear her, he slipped two fingers inside of her weeping entrance — pumping them hard and deep with no warning.

her slick was dripping onto his dick, coating it in a warmth as it slid back and forth though her folds. the previous stimulation of being buried deep inside of her throat helped him get close quickly, and he could tell she was close by the way her hips jerked when he scissored his fingers apart.

but he was closer than she was, and a sick though passed through his head and into his movements.

the brit pulled his fingers from her, grabbing his cock and pumping it on top of her ass. he let out a guttural groan, shooting thick webs of cum over her perfect ass and picturesque back — “fuck, stay there.”

she sobbed and whined out as his fingers left her hole, feeling empty without his digits stuffed deep inside of her.

he leaned down off of the bed and fished his phone out of his pants pocket, before repositioning himself as before.

“let me take a photo, yeah, baby?” lando asked roughly. “look so fucking pretty like this.”

she hummed, pushing her ass up toward him. flicking to the camera, he placed his hand on her lower ribcage, pulling her marked body back toward him, and snapped a photo.

“lando,” lily whimpered, thighs shaking a little at the loss of her much needed high.

“i’m sorry, what was that, lils?” he asked condescendingly, flipping her from her tummy onto her back. “wanna repeat that?”

“lan,” she murmured, lower lip caught between her teeth.

“oh, pretty baby,” lando teased, leaning over her so their faces met. “shoulda’ though ‘bout what you wanted before you decided to be a bitch.”

“i’m sorry,” she murmured. “didn’t mean it, promise, ‘m so sorry, lan.”

“there she is,” lando switched, his whole mentality flipped based on a few words. “there’s my pretty girl.”

“‘m sorry,” she repeated, tears streaming down her face.

“i know you are, i know you didn’t mean it.” he reassured her, pressing soft kisses to the tear stains on her cheeks. “tell me what you need, and i’ll give it to you, angel.”

the addition of the please popped on the end sealed the deal for him, and he nodded, gently connecting their lips as to say — sorry for being a prick.

“mouth, need your mouth.” she nodded quickly, “please.”

“mhm, there’s my good girl.” he praised, nodding at her as he gazed into her soul.

lando pressed kisses down from her throat, through the valley of her breasts, over her tummy, and softly began his mission to bring his girlfriend— no, best friend into a world of mind-bending pleasure.

“open up for me baby,” he asked softly, placing his hands on her inner thighs.

she spread her legs shakily, letting him have full access to her slick pussy.

lando flattened his tongue against her pussy, groaning against her as he lapped up her juices. he circled her clit, pressing his thumb into her entrance to tease her.

she clenched around him, moaning softly as he closed his lips around her clit, gently sucking it as he replaced his thumb with two thick fingers, sliding into her tight heat with a little resistance. lily whined, clenching around his digits as he set the same pace he had previously kept.

“lan…” she let out a guttural groan, eyes rolling back. “fuck— gonna cum…”

it was embarrassing how quickly she came, inner walls convulsing around his fingers, legs shaking, liquid gushing from her and a large portion of it spraying into his mouth.

he whined into her pussy pathetically, drinking her up without hesitation. “so pretty,” he murmured, toying with her clit as her hips bucked away from him.

“my pretty girl.”

-

the morning drew in, and the tanned arms around her body stayed here, tightening every now and again.

“morning.” he said groggily, lifting his head from the crook of her neck.

“good morning.” she yawned softly.

“i’m um… sorry, about yesterday.” lando began softly, “just um… i just didn’t like you and lewis, and i went the wrong way about it completely, i‘m sorry,” he sighed, blinking at the girl. “i shouldn’t have been with callie, i went there with you, not her.”

“it’s okay, lan, really, i overreacted — but i promise you, nothing is there with me and lewis, he’s just a friend i promise.” lily reassured him, gently carding her fingers through his soft curls.

“i know, i was being a twat.” he pursed his lips. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay, i promise.” she nodded softly, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“why don’t we make an agreement?” lando suggested. “while we’re doing this, there’s no one else. we’re like… exclusive to each other.”

a soft blush spread across her face, and she smiled at the boy wrapped around her.

“yeah, yeah that sounds good.”

-

god this one was actually so hard to write i almost died — more coming soon!

[i2rizz]

can i ask a version of “no way he pulled that”about shidou? where reader is not only gorgeous, she’s also like the total opposite of him, please and thank u💗💗

Sure girll! There were also other requests for shidou from anons so this is for yall too.

No Way He Pulled That Pt.12

There was a rumor floating around NEL.

Not the usual one about Rin and Isagi’s passive-aggressive arguments, or about Reo buying three new jet skis just to race them down the hallway (which did, in fact, happen). No, this one was different. More outlandish.

Apparently… Ryusei Shidou had a girlfriend.

Which—let’s be real—no one believed.

Rin straight-up laughed. "No woman with a functioning nervous system would voluntarily be with that thing"

Barou didn’t even entertain it. "You mean someone tolerates him?"

Even Isagi, ever the peacemaker, said, "He probably made her up"

Chigiri had the most logical explanation: "She’s probably imaginary and lives in his ego"

But Shidou kept talking about you like you were real.

"I got a volleyball queen, bro. She's got that ‘I could ruin your life and you'd say thank you’ kind of look! Trust"

No one bought it.

So when NEL organized a beach day—partly to relax, partly to stop Shidou from threatening to set the weight room on fire again—Shidou just grinned. "Hope y’all like volleyball"

It started like any other beach day: sunscreen flying, Bachira doing flips in the sand, Reo building a comically massive umbrella fortress, and Nagi lying facedown under it like a collapsed Roman statue.

Kaiser tried to start a game of beach soccer. Isagi threatened to drown him. Typical stuff.

And then someone said, "Hey, isn’t that a volleyball net set up down there?"

The boys looked.

Farther down the beach, the sun caught the glint of a net swaying lightly in the breeze. And then they saw her.

You.

You moved like poetry in motion.

Barefoot in the warm sand, black volleyball shorts hugging your legs, a fitted swim bra that left just enough to the imagination, and your hair pulled back in a loose ponytail that bounced as you leapt up—smack!—and absolutely spiked the volleyball over the net like your life depended on it.

The way your muscles flexed, the confident arch of your back, the way you laughed when you missed a hit but adjusted with ease the next second—

You were dangerous.

Not just beautiful—but lethal. That mix of elegant and athletic, with a face that belonged on the cover of Vogue and a presence that screamed: I could ruin your ego with a single comment.

And God, you were smiling. Not just sweetly—fondly.

Especially when your eyes drifted toward the group of NEL boys gawking from a distance. More specifically—to him.

Shidou, who had been unusually quiet for five whole minutes (a personal record), was grinning so hard it looked painful.

"That’s her" he said proudly, like he just dropped a nuke on their fragile psyches.

"NO WAY IN HELL!"

Isagi dropped his water.

Aiku blinked and whispered, "I think I’m in love with her already"

Barou scowled harder than the sun could burn.

Rin squinted. "She’s…smiling. At him?"

Chigiri looked personally betrayed. "You’re telling me he pulled that?"

Kaiser straight-up choked on his drink. "No. No way. This is PR. He hired her"

"Oh? She lookin’ this good for fun now?" Shidou smirked, tossing his shirt over his shoulder like the menace he is. "That’s my girl, boys"

As if to punctuate his statement, you jogged over after winning the set, your smile radiant, your arms glistening with a sheen of sweat, volleyball cradled in your hand like a trophy.

"Baby!" you beamed.

Baby.

The boys blinked.

You jogged straight up to Shidou, leaned into his space like you owned it (you did), and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He grinned so wide he developed dimples.

They lost it.

"THAT'S ACTUALLY HER?" Isagi hissed. "I thought he made her up!"

"No way," Chigiri muttered, looking personally offended. "She's normal looking. Like, emotionally stable and everything"

"Maybe she hit her head" Rin said.

"You think she's being held hostage?" Nagi offered.

"Blink twice if you need help!" Reo yelled across the sand.

You just laughed.

"What, didn’t believe me?" Shidou purred, arm snaking around your waist. "Told you I don’t cap about perfection"

You rolled your eyes, tapping his nose. "You also told me dolphins were just ‘ocean dogs,’ so forgive their skepticism"

"See?" Aiku hissed. "She’s funny, too! And she touches him without flinching!"

"She deserves an oscar for putting up w him" Isagi muttered.

"She needs therapy" Rin grumbled.

"She could kill me and I’d thank her" Bachira added dreamily.

Nagi, still lying facedown in the sand, mumbled, "Too much light. Can’t look directly at her"

Meanwhile, you turned to Shidou again, gently fixed his crooked necklace, and said, "You forgot sunscreen on your shoulders again, didn't you?"

The man who once bit a player on the field melted instantly. He looked like a golden retriever being praised.

"Oh my god," Barou said in horror. "He's soft"

"He let her touch him," Bachira whispered, stunned.

"He didn't bite her," Isagi added.

"He kissed her cheek," Charles muttered.

"Maybe she has a taser," Rin concluded.

You turned to them with a sweet smile and a wave. "Oh btw, I'm (Name)!"

Dead silence.

Then Bachira, bless his soul, grinned. "Can I get adopted into whatever romantic comedy you two live in?"

Shidou tossed an arm over your shoulder. "Don't get jealous now, losers. You could never"

And that was the day the NEL realized: Ryusei Shidou did, in fact, have a girlfriend.

Not just a girlfriend. A walking, talking goddess with soft eyes, who gently told him to stop harassing seagulls and actually listened when he started ranting about new goal techniques.

The worst part?

You actually liked him.

You laughed at his jokes. You held his hand. You kissed him like he didn't start fistfights just for fun. And every time he looked at you, it was like watching a rabid pitbull turn into a very confused housecat.

Shidou would grin and say, "Yeah, I'm the luckiest bastard alive"

And everyone else would whisper behind his back, "How the hell did he pull her?!"

And the cherry on top?

When Shidou turned and yelled, "Ey! Who wants to get demolished in volleyball by me and my queen?!"

You just smirked, tossing the ball in the air. "Losers serve first"

They never stood a chance.

[coolgrl111]

JEALOUS!ART X READER.

PART 4.

a/n: hiiiii i’m sorry i’m literally evil.. it’s been a year daddy!!!! i’ve been wanting to write more in my fics, so we have another mix of smaus and writing!!! pls enjoy 💋💋

part 1

part 2

part 3

—

she opened the app with fingers trembling like moth wings. drew’s page. a carousel of screenshots. texts ripped out of context. photos from months ago with captions twisted into knives.

“cheating whore.”

“hope art was worth it.”

“funny how you act innocent when you’re on your knees for your best friend.”

her face burned. the room tilted. the silence screamed.

her first instinct wasn’t even heartbreak—it was shame. not because of what she’d done (nothing, nothing, nothing) but because of what people would now believe.

art stirred. turned. blinked at her with sleep-slowed eyes, the worry rising as he took in her expression.

“what is it?”

she couldn’t speak, just handed him the phone.

he read it once. then again. jaw tight, mouth a straight line that trembled only slightly.

“he doesn’t get to do this to you,” he said, voice low. “he doesn’t get to twist things.”

her throat burned. “but people will believe him.”

art sat up, ran a hand through his hair. looked at her like she was something fragile, yes—but not broken.

“then let them believe what they want,” he said. “i know the truth. you do too.”

her fingers went slack.

the phone slid from her hands and hit the carpet with a soft, traitorous thud.

she folded forward, slow then all at once, like paper creasing under rain—arms around her stomach, head pressed to her knees, trying to hold herself in. but the sob tore through her chest without warning, and then another, and then another.

it was ugly.

guttural.

art was beside her in less than a breath.

“hey—hey,” he said, panicked, the word breaking. “no, please—what—what can i do?”

his voice cracked on please.

she couldn’t look at him. couldn’t speak. the pain swelled inside her like a tide, rising fast, drowning her in shame and hurt and the fear that this—this version of herself, shattered and humiliated—would push him away forever. but art stayed.

he knelt on the bed beside her, his hair messy, his eyes puffy from sleep—a hand hovering before it landed on her back, trembling.

his palm moved in slow circles, but he was shaking too hard to make it steady.

“you don’t deserve this,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “you know you didn’t do anything wrong. you’re no cheat. we didn’t...” his words quietened. it was true. they hadn’t done anything intimate. was it bad if she wished they did?

she shook her head, hands covering her face, tears pouring through the cracks in her fingers.

“they’re gonna think it’s true,” she choked. “they’ll think i lied, that i—that we—”

“fuck them,” he said, too loud, too raw. then softer, “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

his other hand brushed her hair back. his eyes were red now, too.

“i hate seeing you like this,” he said, close to crying himself. “it’s like—god, it’s like someone’s reaching into my chest and ripping everything out. i just want to fix it. i’d do anything to fix it. i never fucking liked drew, you know that? never thought he was good enough.”

and then she remembered.

his text.

“i’m in love with you, y/n.”

last night, amidst her panic about the stanford gossip page posting about her and drew—he’d sent it. she hadn’t replied. couldn’t.

it was only six words.

just thinking about it again knocked the air out of her, just like drew’s horrible messages did—only this was a different panic. because maybe she reciprocated it.

she looked up at him, finally. saw the way his eyes searched hers, desperate. his bottom lip was trembling.

“why did you tell me you loved me last night?” she whispered.

he blinked, startled. “because i couldn’t hold it in anymore. because you were so sad. and you’re so beautiful… and i couldn’t stand the thought of you going home to someone who didn’t see you the way i do.”

her breath caught in her throat.

“and now this happens,” he went on, voice breaking again. “and it’s like—i confessed something real and instead of kissing you forever, making you mine— i’m watching you fall apart because of someone who didn’t deserve one second of your love.”

her eyes filled again. not from shame this time. not from fear.

“i hate drew, y/n. i absolutely despise that fucking prick.”

his words were firm, but from the way he looked at her, so soft, it was like she was all he’d ever waited for.

“i’m sorry i didn’t say anything,” she whispered. “i was scared.”

“i’m scared too,” he said. “but i’m not going anywhere.”

his thumbs were still on her cheeks, catching the tears as they fell, brushing her skin like he was memorising the shape of sorrow. and she was crying again—not from fear this time, but from the unbearable kindness in his voice, the way he held her like she was something sacred.

her hands moved slowly, unsure, reaching to hold his wrists. she looked at him—really looked—and saw him trembling just like she was. his eyes glossy, mouth parted like he was afraid of what might happen next.

and then, almost without thinking, she whispered, “then don’t go.”

and leaned in.

their foreheads touched first, like a prayer. a pause. a promise.

and then, finally their lips found each other.

it wasn’t perfect. it was messy and wet and trembling. he kissed her like he had waited forever but wasn’t sure he was allowed. she kissed him like she might break from it, and maybe she was.

they were both still crying. she could taste salt on his mouth, couldn’t tell whose it was. didn’t care.

his hands slid to cradle her jaw, holding her steady. her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like she needed to anchor herself to something that wouldn’t hurt her. the kiss deepened slowly, like a secret unfolding between them, years in the making. it wasn’t lust. it wasn’t a firestorm. it was gentler, more devastating—it was real.

when they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far. foreheads resting together. breathing the same air. they both sniffled from the tears.

art let out a soft, broken laugh. “i’ve wanted to do that since we were sixteen.”

she smiled shyly. “me too.”

taglist: @blastzachilles @mrszweig @grimsonandclover @areyoutheregoditsmecelia @hrrysglitter

[daryltwdixon]

𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥

Bitch!!! I ain’t even a series girl and there’s multiple in here!!! Who is she!!! And look at me tagging a fluff fic!! Turning a new leaf round here. If you see something you like please let these wonderful authors know by showing them some much deserved love Sorry this is late! I was traveling and literally haven’t touched my laptop in days

Bicep biting by @tinysunshine

Daryl Dixon x you one shot summary: you kiss daryl’s arms and have to explain what cuteness aggression is after you bite his bicep ♡ my thoughts: I feel like woodchuck todd from easy a when he’s gobblin’ on that wood log LET ME GET A BITE OF THAT BEEFY ARM, DIXON

literally anything by @cavillscurls

(bitch I’m such a fan we got a whole damn list to get thru)

daddy next door

joel miller x you ongoing series summary: It’s summer in Texas, and when the dashing Joel Miller moves in next door, your less than favorable life gets completely turned around. my thoughts: ohhhhh my heart. such a different version of joel than im used to (rich & fancy) but it really hits the spot. cute romance and I see you in so much of this!!!

ass man

joel miller x you drabble summary: joel miller is an ass man my thoughts: what I wouldn’t do for this man to put his hands all over my best ass(et). Mya showed me this after I went off about joel in fact being an ass man and I was eternally horny grateful

Inescapable 🕊️

clint (freaky tales) x you one shot summary: Clint always gets what he wants—this time, you’re going to give it to him. my thoughts: YES SIR YES SIRRRYYYYYYYY mya has already heard all my praise but we’re gonna say it again holy SHIT Clint smiling into my neck as he puts a baby in me?!?! SIR MAAM YES PLEASEEEEE this has been a fave trope of mine lately. Captive reader who used to scream and beg for him not to touch now loving every second of it sorry bit dark it’s giving “run” vibes which was rec’d on last month’s list!!! And that shit is one of my faves so I knew this would tickle my pickle in the same way. I wish I could be eloquent about this shit but my GOD it’s so good trust.

Joel in glasses by @mushgloomz

peepaw!joel x you drabble summary: what the title says my thoughts: I’ll just put this here and you tell ME you don’t feel some type of way: “ain’t i old enough to be your daddy, darlin’?”

of rage and ruin 🕊️ by @corazondebeskar-reads

werewolf/alpha!joel x you ongoing series summary: Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He turns into a much different kind of monster than he expected, though. my thoughts: no no no you don’t understand. You don’t GET IT. Is this omegaverse? Yep. I’ve been dabbling. And the others just don’t do it like you do baby 😭 I read this way too fast and now I just wait for the updates but holy shit. No one puts my baby in a shock collar 😭😭😭😭

Idle Threats by @pearlessance

jackson!joel x you series summary: Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for. my thoughts: I’m so glad I didn’t post this fic rec on time because holy mother of god. I blew through this so quickly because of how fucking beautiful the writing is. Joel Miller feeling dirty about liking a younger woman? Check. Religious themes denouncing god for his one and only girl? Check. I’m sorry I’m so sorry I don’t usually add this but some of this dialogue is 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 “Because if anyone but me ever called you a slut an’ I heard about it?” He presses your clit harder, grinning when you start panting. “I’d have to kill ‘em, baby.” .....Like W H A A A A A a a a aaaa 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[starsinthesky5]

Have joe and songbird ever done it in his childhood room (sorry im ovulating) 🤭

a/n: i think half the joemmunity is currently ovulating so it's okay, im here to do my job 😋

warnings: nfsw content below

you are in love masterlist

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

oh my god, yes. they've absolutely done it in joe’s childhood room—more than once. it's like…the second they’re in that house, something short-circuits in their brains. they sneak around like teenagers and it's so stupid but adorable in its own way—soft giggles and sneaky glances whenever his parents are distracted. and when they finally catch a moment alone? game time.

it starts innocent. sort of. they’re supposed to be visiting for the weekend; family dinner, home-cooked meals, catching up with everyone. and they’re good, mostly. well-behaved. holding hands under the table, sharing little looks across the kitchen, sneaking kisses when no one’s looking.

but the moment his parents decide to run to the store or step out for a walk? joe’s dragging her down the stairs like he’s seventeen again, whispering, “we have, like, twenty minutes—come on,” while she laughs and follows, hand in his.

his childhood room is something to say the least—barely fits his old bed, a dresser, and a shelf full of high school trophies and worn-out footballs. the star wars posters on the wall are a little crooked, the lamp still has an OSU sticker peeling off it, and the bed creaks like crazy.

“you’re such a menace,” she whispers through a laugh, barely getting the words out before he’s shutting the door behind them, eyes already dark.

“and you’re wearing that little skirt in my house,” he shoots back, backing her toward the door. “who’s the menace now, huh?”.

and god. everything about it feels so high school.

she’s got the boy on the football team: broad shoulders, messy hair, wearing a vintage LSU hoodie and looking at her like he’s never seen anything so pretty. and she’s sneaking around his parents’ house like she’s seventeen again, like she snuck over to her crushes house after practice and couldn’t keep her hands off him.

he’s got her pressed against it, hands under her shirt, whispering, “this is so stupid...we’re too old for this,” right before he groans into her mouth, already hard against her hip.

they’re trying to be quiet, but that only makes it hotter. more intense.

her knees hit the mattress and he follows, knocking into his old headboard with a muffled thud that makes them both wheeze with laughter. “shhh,” she whispers, already breathless, “they’re gonna hear—,”.

“they’re not even home yet,” he mutters, lips dragging down her neck, “and you’re the one moaning like that, babe,”.

it’s messy and tight, his hands pushing up her skirt, her thighs around his hips, the mattress groaning like it’s fighting for its life. and god, it feels different here.

like they’ve slipped into some younger version of themselves. playful and giddy and reckless. her hand claps over her mouth to muffle the gasps when he thrusts deep and slow, his breath stuttering out against her neck, whispering, “you’re gonna get us caught,” like that’s not the exact reason they’re doing this.

his chain dangles and swings with every movement, her back arching off the mattress, fingers tangled in his hair. the window’s cracked open, letting in a soft breeze that does nothing to cool the heat burning between them.

and when they both let go—chests heaving, skin slick, mouths open against each other’s shoulders—it’s not just sex. it’s something sweeter. something that tastes like nostalgia and inside jokes and that familiar ache that only they can soothe. they’re still giggling when they pull the covers over themselves, tangled together on a bed that’s way too small for the both of them.

and when they hear the garage door open upstairs?

they scramble like kids, adjusting clothes, fixing hair, trying to look normal as they shuffle into the kitchen two minutes later, cheeks flushed and pink and eyes a little...too bright.

his mom’s like, “you two hungry?”

and she just smiles, slipping her hand into joe’s, “starving,”.