#here’s to hoping the words and wording?

[wwinterwitch]

friendly introductions – bucky barnes

summary: bucky unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, and he's brought a few people with him pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader (ft. the thunderbolts*) word count: 3.4k tags: thunderbolts* shenanigans, spoilers here and there obvs, slight miscommunication, big happy dysfunctional family in the making, google translator was used for the russian words (sorry), kissing, little bit of angst and little bit of fluff notes: i just saw the movie yesterday and as soon as i got back home i decided to write this, which is loosely connected to this fic i posted recently. i just loved the thunderbolts* so much they mean the entire world to me right now. perhaps more fics are coming in the future because i have lots of ideas!!! as always, i hope you enjoy

please reblog and/or comment if you enjoy!

all masterlists | marvel masterlist | part 1 (not strictly necessary to read this one tho)

“Sorry for such short notice,” Bucky mutters as soon as you open the door for him and the rest of the entire group. You could tell he’s been having a pretty rough time just by looking at him. Hair messy, frowning more than usual, dirty clothing and a cut on his left cheek. The rest of the people he’s with don’t look any better. It wouldn’t take an expert to figure out they’ve been in some kind of combat and, most likely, they didn’t come on top. 

“It’s okay,” you quickly reassure him, leaving the door open until every single one of them were inside your apartment, closing it behind them. “Can I ask what happened?”

“We…uh, got our ass kicked, basically,” he replies, sounding quite exhausted. 

You take a second to look at the group. Unfamiliar faces of people you could only assume are in the superhero/villain/whatever business. There’s a blonde woman who immediately leans against one of the walls of your living room, trying to get some sort of rest after the fight. The other woman stays by the entrance and you can’t help but admire how cool her suit is. There’s algo a guy in a red suit and he looks absolutely huge and terrifying, but the smile he sends your way with the silly little wave he makes as you make eye contact gives you the impression that he might not be as intimidating as you initially thought.

And then, your eyes focus on the other person in the room.

“You,” is all you say, your voice sounding anything but welcoming.

Everyone turns to look at Walker, who offers you an awkward smile. “Yeah, hi.”

“You two know each other?” the blonde one asks.

“Unfortunately,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the guy at all times. You know enough about John Walker to be stupid enough to let him out of your sight. “Listen, I don’t know what just happened to you guys, but in case Bucky hasn’t warned you already, you can’t trust this piece of shit.”

Noticing you’re starting to get a little heated by his presence, Bucky wraps an arm around your waist from behind, just in case you decide to go over him and confront him for everything that has happened in the past. “It’s okay. He’s here to help.”

You turn to look at him like he just said the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard in your life, but he simply stares back at you with a serious expression, nodding as if to emphasize on his previous statement, trying to let you know you can actually trust the guy. When you turn back to look at Walker, he raises both hands in the air as a sign to further prove that he’s harmless.

“I’ll be keeping an eye out,” you warn him, pointing your finger at him. 

“That’s fair,” he nods.

“Whoa, she’s feisty!” you hear the excited voice of the guy in the red suit as he lets out a short chuckle. “I like her already!”

You feel Bucky’s grip around your waist tightening. “We’re just here to get some cover and figure out our next move.”

Suddenly remembering the fact that all these strangers are standing in various spots in your living room, you get away from Bucky to walk over to your couch. “Oh, so sorry! What a terrible host,” you attempt to joke a little in hopes of lightening the mood, quickly removing your laptop and various papers scattered across your couch. “Please, take a seat!”

None of them move at first, but they eventually accept the invitation and walk towards your couch to sit down. All except Walker, who decides to stay in the same spot he’s been since he entered your apartment. Not like you care, so you just let him stand there on his own.

A few awkward introductions later and you already know everyone. Alexei, Ava and Yelena. One a total stranger and the others slightly familiar to you due to them being related to Natasha. You couldn’t bring yourself to say her name out loud, though. If you struggle to think about her without bursting out crying, you can’t even imagine what it would be like for her dad and sister. Last thing you want is to cause them any discomfort.

“And how exactly do you know each other?” Yelena asks you and Bucky after you introduce yourself to them too.

“Former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Bucky replies before you can say anything, and you can’t help but turn to look at him with a slightly confused expression. “We’ve been friends for a very long time.”

Friends. Sure. Whatever. If that’s what he wants to call it…

After what happened last time you were in D.C., Bucky was constantly making trips to New York to visit you. You’re not officially dating, but it’s established that you’re exclusive. Long distance isn’t ideal, but you’ve made it work so far. Probably the happiest months of your life. But now…you hear him introducing you as his friend. It’s not really a big deal. Technically you are friends? It shouldn’t affect you as much as it does, but…you’re internally fuming right now.

Still, you decide not to say anything regarding that. He’s always been quite a reserved person, so perhaps he didn’t feel comfortable enough to share that information with them just yet. “Can I get you anything to drink?” you decide to ask, looking at everyone else.

“We’re not-”

“I’m sure a glass of water won’t kill anybody,” you say, immediately cutting Bucky off.

There’s a brief silence before Ava speaks. “I’ll have a glass of water. Thank you.”

You look at Yelena as she shortly nods before you focus on Alexei. “Do you perhaps have something else other than water?”

“Dad,” Yelena warns him.

You ignore that short interaction. “Something like what?”

“Like vodka,” he replies simply, like it’s a normal request. Perhaps the russian accent and the fact that he does look like a walking Soviet propaganda adds context to it.

“Dad!” Yelena repeats herself, this time in a louder voice, before hiding her face in her hands. The scene of her getting embarrassed by her dad’s behavior is actually hilarious.

“Two glasses of water and one glass of vodka, got it.” Then it was time to acknowledge Walker again. Even when you deeply hate the guy, you still want to be polite. “Do you want anything?”

“Uh…just water,” he mutters, still unsure on how to really talk to you. It’s ironic how quiet he is right now, considering he had a hard time shutting his mouth when you first met him. “Thank you.”

You offer the group a smile before excusing yourself to go to your kitchen, leaving them momentarily alone. Bucky was about to speak, wanting to initiate a debate on what their plan is going to be to fight against someone as powerful and seemingly invincible as Sentry, but Yelena speaks before he does.

“Now, would you mind telling us how you really know each other?”

Bucky looks immediately confused. “What do you mean?”

“You know I was trained to be a spy since I was very little.”

“Surely you don’t say it enough,” Walker mutters, earning an unamused look from her.

“That must really bother you, Mr. I-was-in-the-military,” Ava chimes in, rolling her eyes.

Ignoring both of them, Yelena decides to continue. “I’m very good at reading people, Bucky. She almost wanted to punch you in the face when you said you two were friends, which let’s me know the comment upset her,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Why is that?”

“Ah! That’s your lover!” Alexei comments with pleasant surprise.

“And you didn’t introduce her as your girlfriend?” Ava says shortly after, giving him a disapproving look. “No wonder she would want to punch you in the face.”

“Yeah, that’s not cool, man,” Walker agrees from his spot in the living room.

Alexei’s cheerfulness dries down, nodding. “I agree. It’s not very nice.”

Bucky scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest in a defensive manner. He couldn’t believe these people were judging him over something he thought was meaningless. It was just a way to keep his private life private. Why should they know he’s dating anybody? They’re not his friends to be sharing information like that with them. And it’s not like they’re ever going to see you again anyway. Why is this such a big deal?

“Whoever I date or don’t date it’s not your business,” he simply replies.

Ava scoffs this time. “Don’t bring us to your girlfriend’s flat then.”

“When did you guys became a thing?” Walker asks this time, looking like he's thinking back on it in hopes of remembering any indication that might've gave it away.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, getting more and more exasperated. “We barely got out of that fight against Valentina’s experiment and it’s a matter of time before we have to face him again. Why are we even talking about this?”

“Oh, Bucky,” Yelena shakes her head in a condescending manner. “You’re right, we do not care about your lovelife. Thinking about it makes me sick, actually. But she looked really hurt by what you said, so perhaps you should go talk to her and make things right.”

The other three agreed with Yelena almost immediately, and Bucky just stood there looking at them in disbelief because why are they giving him their input on his relationship? Why is Yelena giving him advice? Why are they getting involved in Bucky’s personal life?

But instead of arguing, he decides to listen to them and heads towards the kitchen. He walks in just in time to see you pouring Alexei an entire glass of vodka as he requested, the other three glasses of water already filled.

“Oh, good. You’re here,” you say nonchalantly, like what Yelena said about you wanting to punch him in the face was just something she misread in your body language. You surely don’t look like you're thinking about violence right now. “Could you help me with the drinks, please?”

Perhaps Yelena was wrong, but just in case she wasn’t, he decided to ask about it. “Are you okay?”

You let out a quick and confused chuckle as you store away the almost finished bottle of vodka. “Why would I not be okay? If you’re asking because you brought them here, I think they’re actually very nice…aside from Walker, of course.”

“No, I mean…the way I introduced you to them,” he says in a soft voice, walking closer to you. “I probably shouldn’t have said you were my friend.”

There’s a brief pause between you, until you’re eventually shrugging. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” he insists, standing right before you as he grabs your hands in his. “Talk to me.”

You hesitate a little before eventually giving in. “I mean, you can’t expect me to be thrilled to hear you introduce me to a bunch of people as just your friend.”

Bucky sighs. Yelena was right. “I’m so sorry,” he says almost immediately, giving your hands a light squeeze. “I just met these people and I highly doubt we’ll keep in touch after this. I didn’t want to share that information with them. We’re not exactly…close like that,” he explains himself, looking genuinely sorry for what he said. “I should’ve considered how that would make you feel, or at least tried to explain why I did it as soon as I could. I didn’t mean to hurt you or downplay what we have.”

You can tell he’s genuinely sorry, understanding his reasoning behind it. Perhaps you forgot to put into perspective the fact that they’re just super people Bucky has been forced to work with. Not necessarily friends. “It’s okay, I understand.”

Bucky nods, but he still looks absolutely defeated. “I feel terrible,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You let go of his hands, wrapping your arms around his neck instead. “It’s okay, babe,” you repeat, offering him a soft smile to let him know you forgive him. “I understand you didn’t feel comfortable sharing that with them.”

“I promise I won’t do it again.”

“You’re not obligated to disclose anything with anyone if you don’t feel like it,” you say, just to remind him to do whatever it feels right to him. “But I’m glad we had this conversation to hear each other’s perspective.”

He nods again, still uncertain. You lean in to give him a reassuring kiss before deciding to move away from him to get back to the living room with the rest. He hands the glasses of water to Walker and Yelena, while you hand the other glasses to Ava and Alexei.

The last one takes a big gulp of his glass, letting out a growl of approval. “Smirnoff! Not that Absolut der’mo!”

“I adore him,” you say to Bucky, letting out a quick chuckle as you watch the guy drink the entire glass of vodka in less than two seconds.

“It’ll pass, trust me,” he mutters back to you.

You gently hit his arm as a way of telling him to not be rude, immediately focusing on the cut on his cheek, dried blood around the wound. “I should clean that.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry, Bucky,” you insist, patting his shoulder before pointing to one of the two chairs at your small dinner table. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.”

You excuse yourself to go find the first-aid kit to clean the wound on his face. By the time you get back, the group has already started discussing some sort of strategy regarding some ‘Sentry’ person you don’t know absolutely anything about. Perhaps you’ll ask Bucky to give you a proper update on what the hell this whole thing is all about next time you’re alone.

As obedient as ever, Bucky was already sitting on one of the chairs you previously pointed at before leaving, so you walked over to him to attend to his injury. Even if it was a small, almost insignificant little cut, you wanted to take care of him in any capacity you could.

You were gladly surprised when you feel one of his arms wrapping around you, keeping you close as you stand next to him cleaning the dry blood with a small cotton ball before disinfecting the area, finishing it off with a small bandage above the cut. 

The whole entire time you took care of Bucky’s wound, the group was talking about their strategy. Just listening to them was enough to figure out why Bucky didn’t think they’d stay in touch once it’s time to part ways. More than half of their interactions are more bickering than actual communication. They clash almost constantly and they don’t seem to agree on much. They’re quite honestly a complete mess. But still...even when it’s difficult to see how a group like this could work, they oddly do. There’s just something about them. Perhaps they’re the prime example of how opposites tend to work together perfectly. 

“Done,” you whisper to him, not warning to interrupt their conversation.

“Thanks, doll,” he whispers back, giving you a smile.

After a few more minutes of planning, it was finally time for them to get back out there in hopes to put an end to the threat that seems to loom over New York (and perhaps the entire world). You accompany them to the door, all of them saying their goodbyes to you.

“Thanks for letting us hide here,” Yelena says with a polite smile, offering her hand for a handshake as a way to further prove her gratitude. 

“Oh, it’s really nothing. I’m glad I was able to help out,” you reply, accepting her handshake. “And…you know, good luck. You probably don’t need it, obviously, but just in case…”

“You’re adorable,” Ava comments with a smirk, patting your shoulder as her way of saying goodbye.

Alexei doesn’t even say anything. He just straight up walks towards you and wraps his arms around you, lifting you off the ground as he gives you a tight hug. It certainly takes you by surprise, but you pat his back as a way of returning the hug, hearing how Yelena and Bucky are frantically telling him to put you down immediately.

The three of them are already outside your apartment and it’s time to face Walker. He just says a quick “thank you” before walking towards the others that wait for Bucky in the hallway, knowing you probably don’t even want to address him. For now, you decide not to say anything to him. If you do see each other again, perhaps then you’ll try to figure out if you can look past the awful things he has done.

Now Bucky is the one who stands before you and all you can do is hug him as tight as you possibly can, almost not wanting to let him go. You know he’ll be fine. You know he’ll come back to you. But still, you can’t ignore the knot forming at the pit of your stomach, anxiety and fear consuming you at the thought of something happening to him.

He senses how you feel, hugging you back just as tight. “Please be safe,” he whispers.

You break the hug, looking up at him. “I should be telling you that.”

The comment makes him smile softly because it sounds like you're reprimanding him for what he just said. Immediately after, he's placing a hand at the side of your face, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod, still as anxious as you were before. The fact that you still don’t fully know what they’re up against makes your situation worse. If it’s anything remotely similar to an Avenger-like threat, you have plenty of reasons to be afraid. “Just…just take care, please.”

“I will,” he replies, giving you a kiss so sweet and gentle that it practically takes your breath away. He knows you’re worried like never before and he wants to make sure he’s able to give you as much reassurance as he possibly can.

After a few more seconds of him just looking back at you with a soft smile on his face, he moves back from you, knowing he has to leave already.

“Promise you’ll be back soon,” you blurt out as he’s leaving your apartment, still fighting the urge to just yank him back into the apartment to keep him from going back out there.

“I promise you I’ll be back, darling,” he says without any hesitation, knowing he’ll do anything he possibly can to keep his word.

Finally, he closes the door of your apartment, leaving you all alone in there as you try to calm yourself down until everything is back to normal again and he’s here with you. Until he’s back in the safety of the arms of the person he cares most about in this entire world.

You focus on the four empty glasses, the lingering presence of everyone, the trail of dirt their boots left on the floor, the chair Bucky was sitting on just seconds ago...you can only hope they stay safe. Meanwhile, you decide to clean up the living room as a way of distracting yourself.

On the other side of the door, Bucky is turning to look at the group, rolling his eyes when he sees all of them grinning and nodding their hands in approval after witnessing him being so lovey-dovey with you, discovering a sight of him they probably didn’t even know existed.

“Not a single word,” Bucky warns them, immediately walking in between them to get to the elevator.

“What? We can’t say you two looked disgustingly cute back there?” Yelena jokes as she follows after him.

"Who knew that was hiding beneath all that...grumpiness," Ava comments right after.

“I said not a single word,” he repeats, trying to act like he wasn’t feeling terribly embarrassed right now. Or like he didn't find the teasing slightly entertaining. Just slightly.

“I mean, you did look cute,” Walker agrees.

“So cute!” Yelena emphasizes.

Alexei wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, much to his discomfort. “That was adorable. You, my friend, had the eyes of love looking at your zhenshchina!”

“And you had to make it weird,” Ava mutters after Alexei’s comment, just as the elevator doors are closing. translations: der'mo (shit), zhenshchina (woman). again, i apologize if the translation is wrong, i don't speak russian

[harrysfolklore]

lily - but daddy i love him

summary: max verstappen and yn wolff welcome their first baby into the world. READ BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM HERE. wc:1.6k

folkie radio: GUYS I JUST COULDN'T HELP MYSELF OKAY !!! i love the bdilh babies so much and i missed writing about them and this was just the perfect opportunity. i hope you like this!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

The hospital room is quiet now, the chaos of delivery replaced by a peaceful calm. Early morning light filters through the windows of your private suite in Monaco, casting a gentle glow over the tiny bundle in your arms.

Lily Verstappen-Wolff, all of six hours old, has her father's eyes. They're that same impossible shade of blue, currently studying your face with what seems like intense concentration.

"She's got your nose though," Max whispers from where he's perched beside you on the bed, one arm around your shoulders, the other gently stroking Lily's impossibly small hand. "Thank god."

"Hey," you protest weakly, too exhausted and happy to really be offended. "Your nose is cute."

"Tell that to the aerodynamics team," he laughs softly, then goes quiet when Lily makes a tiny sound. "Sorry, princess. Didn't mean to be loud."

The way Max looks at her makes your heart feel too big for your chest. He's been crying on and off since she arrived, the four-time world champion, known for his fierce determination on track, completely undone by five pounds of baby girl.

A soft knock at the door interrupts your moment. Your father peers in, and you've never seen him look quite like this - his usual composed demeanor completely cracked open, eyes shining with tears.

"Is it... can I..." he starts, unusually lost for words.

"Come meet your granddaughter, Papa."

Toto approaches slowly, as if Lily might startle. When he sees her face, he completely breaks down, tears flowing freely now.

"She's perfect," he whispers, touching her cheek with one finger. His hand is trembling slightly. "She's absolutely perfect."

"Want to hold her?" Max offers, already carefully lifting Lily.

You watch as your father - the intimidating Mercedes team principal who's made grown men cower - cradles your daughter like she's made of glass. He hasn't stopped crying, and it makes your own eyes well up.

"Hallo, kleine Prinzessin," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I'm your Opa." He gently rocks her, studying every feature of her tiny face. "You know, I've won many championships, seen many incredible moments in racing, but nothing... nothing compares to this moment right here."

He touches her tiny hand with one finger, and when she grabs it, a fresh wave of tears falls. "Such a strong grip already. Just like your mama - always holding on tight to what matters."

Max wraps his arm around your shoulders as you watch your father completely melt.

"I promise you, Lily," Toto continues softly, "that you will always have someone in your corner. Someone to protect you, to guide you..." he chuckles wetly, "to teach you all about racing politics and team strategy."

"Papa," you laugh. "She's six hours old."

"Never too early to learn about the importance of good strategy," he says, but his eyes never leave Lily's face. "Although maybe we'll start with simpler things. Like how to wrap your papa around your little finger - though I see you've already mastered that."

Max grins. "Like mother, like daughter."

Toto shifts Lily slightly, cradling her closer to his chest. "You know, meine Kleine, I thought I knew what love was. Thought I understood it completely. But seeing you..." his voice cracks, "seeing my little girl become a mother... holding you..." He has to pause, overwhelmed. "You're going to change everything, aren't you? Just like your mama did."

You reach out and squeeze his arm, your own tears falling freely now.

"Papa?" you ask softly after a moment. "Who else is out there?"

"Just Lewis," he manages, still gazing at Lily. "But we don't want to intrude..."

You exchange a look with Max, who grins and nods.

"Are you kidding?" you laugh. "Get him in here. He needs to meet his goddaughter."

"I'll get him," Max says, kissing your forehead before heading to the door.

Moments later, Lewis appears, looking uncharacteristically nervous. When he sees Lily in Toto's arms, his face does something complicated before crumpling entirely.

"Oh my god," he whispers, moving closer. "Oh my god, look at her."

"Want to hold her?" your father offers, though he looks reluctant to let go.

Lewis nods, unable to speak. When Toto places Lily in his arms, he lets out a shaky breath that turns into a sob.

"Hey baby girl," he manages through tears. "I'm your Uncle Lewis. I'm... I'm going to spoil you so much. And teach you everything about racing. And protect you forever."

"Lewis," you say softly, touched by how emotional he is.

"I can't help it," he sniffles, swaying gently with Lily. "Look at her. She's... she's perfect. She's got your smile already, Little Wolff. And Max's eyes..."

He looks up at Max, who's watching from beside your bed. "You did good, man. Really good."

Max wipes at his own eyes. "We did, didn't we?"

"The best," Lewis agrees, looking back down at Lily. "God, I'm never going to stop crying, am I?"

"Join the club," your father says, still wiping his eyes.

"You know what this means though?" Lewis says suddenly, a mischievous glint appearing through his tears. "As godfather, I get to buy her her first race suit."

"Ferrari colors, I assume?" Max raises an eyebrow.

"Obviously."

"Over my dead body, Hamilton."

"Boys," you warn, but you're smiling. Some things never change.

"We'll let her choose," Lewis decides diplomatically, then adds in a whisper to Lily, "But red would look really good on you, princess."

You watch them - these three strong, competitive men, all completely undone by your tiny daughter. Your father has his hand on Lewis' shoulder, both of them looking at Lily like she's the most precious thing they've ever seen. Max sits beside you again, pulling you close as you all watch Lewis whisper promises to your daughter.

"Welcome to the family, little one," Lewis says softly. "You've got quite the crew looking out for you."

Lily makes a tiny sound and grabs Lewis' finger, making him burst into fresh tears.

"Oh, she's got a good grip," he laughs through his tears. "Future world champion material right there."

"First female world champion," Max says proudly. "Right, princess?"

After several more minutes of Lewis making promises to Lily about racing lessons and future championships, your father gently reminds him that you need rest.

"Just one more minute," Lewis pleads, still cradling Lily like she might disappear.

"Lewis," your father says fondly, "they'll still be here tomorrow."

"And the next day, and the next," you add with a smile. "She's not going anywhere."

Finally, reluctantly, Lewis places Lily back in your arms, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Love you already, little champ."

Your father hugs you carefully, mindful of Lily, then surprises everyone by pulling Max into a tight embrace. "You did good, son," he says softly, and you see Max's eyes well up again.

After they leave, the room falls into a peaceful quiet. Max settles beside you on the bed, his arm around your shoulders, both of you gazing down at your daughter.

"Hi baby girl," he whispers, gently stroking her cheek. "It's just us now."

Lily's tiny hand escapes her blanket, reaching up to grab Max's finger. His breath catches.

"Still can't believe she's real," he murmurs. "That we made her. That she's actually here."

You adjust the soft yellow hat on her head. "Remember when we had to hide from everyone?"

"Couldn't even hold your hand in public," Max laughs softly. "And now we have her."

"And now we have her."

Lily makes a tiny sound, drawing both your attention immediately. Her eyes - so impossibly blue - seem to focus on Max's face.

"Hey princess," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "I know I probably look scary right now, crying all over the place. But I promise I'm usually more put together than this. Usually. Unless I'm around your mama. She tends to make me emotional too."

"Softie," you tease gently.

"Only for my girls," he admits without hesitation.

You watch as he carefully takes Lily from you, cradling her against his chest with a natural ease that makes your heart ache. The contrast of his strong hands - hands that have controlled the most powerful cars in the world - being so impossibly gentle with her tiny body is almost too much.

"I had this whole speech prepared," he says suddenly. "All these things I was going to tell her when she arrived. About racing, about life, about how much we wanted her. But now..." he looks down at Lily, who's watching him with what seems like intense concentration, "now I just want to tell her that I love her. That I've loved her since the moment we knew about her. That I'll love her forever."

"I think that's all she needs to know," you say softly, leaning against him.

"You know what's crazy?" Max adjusts Lily's blanket with careful precision. "All those championships, all those wins... nothing compares to this. To her. To us."

You watch them together - your fierce, passionate husband gone completely soft for this tiny person who's barely six hours old. The way he keeps checking her blanket, the gentle sway he's adopted without seeming to realize it, the look of pure wonder on his face every time she moves.

"I love you," you say suddenly, overwhelmed by everything. "Both of you. So much."

Max tears his gaze away from Lily to look at you, and the emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. "We love you too," he whispers. "Right, princess? We love Mama so much."

Lily snuggles closer to his chest in response, her tiny hand still gripping his finger.

Outside, the world keeps turning. Soon there will be visitors and photos and congratulations. Soon you'll have to share her with the rest of your extended F1 family. Soon there will be decisions about races and schedules and how to balance everything.

But right now, in this quiet room with the morning sun painting everything gold, there's just this: your little family, complete at last. Max humming softly in Dutch, Lily drifting off to sleep in his arms, and you, watching the two loves of your life together.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

[daxisyzz]

hiiii i hope you are well !!! i was wondering if you could maybe do a fic where the reader gets kidnapped and tortured by hydra on a mission or something, and after a while bucky and the team find her and save her but she’s so psychologically damaged that she’s scared of everyone? preferably lots and lots of protective and comforting bucky as he looks after her and he becomes the only person she’s comfortable with, all the angst and hurt/comfort with a happy ending would be amazing!!! thanks 🩷

Heyyy!! Hope you're doing well too. Writing this fic made me cry so I hope it's what you expected. Sorry for answering late🙃

Only safe with you

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst, trauma recovery, Kidnapping, psychological torture (not graphic), PTSD, panic attacks, emotional vulnerability, mentions of touch aversion, recovery

Word count: 1.1k+

You didn’t scream when they took you.

That came later—when your voice cracked raw from begging the shadows for mercy, for death, for something other than the cold numbness pressing in around you like icewater under your skin. But in the beginning, there was only silence. The kind that hollows you out from the inside.

The kind that makes you forget your own name.

You had been captured by Hydra. A mission gone wrong. A corner turned too fast. A shot fired too late. And then it all disappeared beneath the haze of a needle and the slam of a steel door.

No one found you. Not for weeks.

And in that time, you stopped existing.

You curled in on yourself, starved and shaking, while voices you didn't recognize whispered in the dark, breaking you down with every calculated word. They told you you were abandoned. That no one was coming. That you were alone because you were unworthy of being loved.

They never needed to touch you.

They just watched you rot from the inside out.

When the team finally found you, you didn’t recognize them.

You heard the explosion first—the thunder of boots, the sharp bark of Bucky’s voice, the sound of someone screaming your name like it meant something.

But all you saw were more shadows.

You tried to crawl into the wall when they burst into your cell. Your fingernails broke against the concrete, your body instinctively folding into itself, your mouth whispering pleas in a language you didn’t know you remembered.

You didn’t know Bucky was crying until his tears hit your hands.

"Hey," he choked, dropping to his knees, blood on his knuckles and desperation in his eyes. "It’s me. It’s Bucky. I’m here, okay? I’ve got you. You’re safe."

But safety was a concept that no longer made sense to you.

When his hand brushed yours, you screamed.

You screamed like you were dying. Like you were on fire.

And something in Bucky broke that day.

The jet ride back was too bright. Too loud. You were swaddled in a blanket like a child, staring through people who whispered your name with eyes full of quiet sorrow. Natasha sat across from you, tense and silent, her hand clenched in her lap.

Steve paced quietly in the back, eyes heavy with guilt.

Tony said nothing, choosing instead to sit beside you in stillness.

They all felt the ache, but none knew how to hold it.

Because they saw the pieces of you, scattered and bloody, and none of them knew how to put you back together.

Except for Bucky.

He didn’t leave your side. Not once.

You wouldn’t let anyone else near you. The first time Bruce tried to assess your wounds, you had a panic attack so violent your lips turned blue.

But Bucky?

You let him stay.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t see him. But he was there. Sitting on the floor, silent and patient, like he was trying to absorb your pain with every breath.

"You don’t have to talk," he whispered once, voice so low it made your ribs ache. "I’ll just be here. I’m not going anywhere."

And he wasn’t.

Not when you curled into corners, sobbing so hard you threw up.

Not when you tore your own skin in your sleep.

Not when you started to disappear into yourself again.

He stayed.

And the others watched, hurting in their own quiet ways.

Natasha lingered by your door some nights, pacing like she wanted to knock but couldn’t.

Steve brought books you didn’t read.

Tony made sure the lights never flickered in your room again.

They didn’t say much. They didn’t force anything. But they were there.

And Bucky? He just was.

Weeks passed.

You started whispering again. Small things. Words like "water" or "blanket" or "stay."

Always to Bucky.

Only to him.

He was the first person you let touch you again.

A pinky finger. Brushing yours. Barely there.

You sobbed when it happened. Clutched your chest like it hurt. Like it burned to feel something again.

Bucky didn’t cry. Not then.

But that night, Steve found him in the hallway outside your door, fists bruised and bloodied against the wall.

"I can’t lose her again," Bucky whispered, voice shattering. "I can’t."

Recovery wasn’t linear.

Some days you smiled.

Some days you screamed.

Some nights you let Bucky hold your hand.

Some nights you clawed at your own skin, begging him to make it stop.

And he did.

Not with force.

Not with words.

Just with presence.

He’d pull you into his lap, wrap his arms around your shaking body, press his lips to your temple and whisper, "You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’ve got you."

Until you believed him.

Even if only for a moment.

One night, you whispered, "Why did you stay?"

Bucky looked at you, moonlight catching the cracks in him that matched your own.

"Because you matter. Because you didn’t give up. Because you let me find you."

You blinked, tears spilling freely. "I don’t feel like a person anymore."

His voice broke. "Then let me remind you how to be one."

They say healing is like a mosaic, broken pieces coming together to form something beautiful.

You were still cracked. Still healing. Still learning how to exist in a body that had been turned into a prison.

But Bucky loved you through all of it.

With hands that never rushed.

With words that never demanded.

With a heart that only ever whispered, You are safe here.

And for the first time in months, maybe years—You believed him.

One Year Later

The morning sun slipped in through the curtains, painting your room in pale gold. The shadows that once clung to the walls had long since faded, replaced by quiet warmth and slow, steady breaths.

You sat curled on the couch, a book in your lap, half-forgotten, as Bucky entered with two steaming mugs in hand. He paused in the doorway, watching you with that soft look he reserved only for you—a kind of awe, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

"You’re staring," you said, voice lighter, steadier now.

He grinned. "Can you blame me?"

You set the book aside and took the mug he offered, your fingers brushing his without flinching. That tiny act still felt like magic sometimes.

You leaned into him when he sat beside you, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in without a word.

There were no more nightmares that week.

You’d started laughing again. Dancing in the kitchen. Humming in the shower.

You still had days where the world felt fragile, like it could crack open beneath your feet—but you no longer fell alone.

You looked up at Bucky, your eyes soft. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

His thumb brushed your cheek. "You saved yourself. I just got to love you through it."

And you did. Slowly, then all at once. Day by day, moment by moment, you let the light back in through him.

[lauraneedstochill]

can’t pretend

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (or, alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included)

warnings: <rivals> to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and injuries / I’m hinting at the age gap but you can ignore it / some complicated feelings and a LOT of Jack’s thoughts (his poor therapist will need a raise); assault. ANGST. / words: 7K author’s note: this is my first fic for “The Pitt”. I binge-watched the show in 2 days and didn’t plan on writing anything but my inspiration decided otherwise. I’ve never had a beta reader in my life, please be kind. ♡

Early at dawn, the sky is just the right color — the darkness slowly dissipates, deep purple at the edges, black fading into blue. If he squints and looks above the roofs, he can pretend he’s looking at the ocean. He’s been toying with the idea for some time but it’s more of a dream, a comforting mirage: him getting a small house by the beach, waves crashing softly in the distance, clean blue water blending into the bright blue sky. He’d wake up to the sunrise, take lugs full of cooling salty air, walk in the sand that glistens under the foaming swash. He’d probably adopt a dog — someone to pass his days with, just so the silence doesn’t get too heavy, doesn’t weigh on him when he can’t sleep at night.

A passing car honks down the street, loud and sudden, and Jack flinches, opening his eyes. That’s when the perfect image always falls apart. He is afraid he will get lonely with just a dog and with nothing to do, he will be going up the walls, bored out of his mind. But he doesn’t know how not to be alone. And some days he wishes that he did.

The air in Pittsburgh doesn’t carry any scents at this morning hour, and Jack’s gaze wanders down to the tree leaves writhing in the wind. He absentmindedly rubs his wrists when he hears the door creaking behind him.

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows that he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

» I plan on writing 3 parts in total (a prayer circle for my inspiration to stay with me, PLEASE). of course, there will be smut... they just have to learn how to talk to each other first. » read on AO3 » English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

[velvetinks]

She’ll Come When She’s Ready

Joel Miller x pregnant! Reader

Warnings: Labor/birth (mildly detailed but not graphic), mentions of past emotional conflict between Joel and Ellie (from the lie about the Fireflies), fluff, comfort, soft!Joel, protective!Joel, Ellie being there for reader, found family feelings, Joel crying (just a little)

It was snowing in Jackson when your contractions started.

You woke up to a tightness in your lower back and Joel pacing like he knew before you even said a word.

“You alright?” he asked, hovering as you sat up slow. His hand already found yours. “Was it a kick or…?”

“Not a kick,” you murmured, breathing through it. “I think she’s coming.”

Joel’s face went pale. Then full of panic. Then full of love. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart. We’ve got this.”

He’d never let go of your hand since.

Maria cleared the clinic for you. It wasn’t fancy—just two rooms, some clean linens, and Jackson’s one-and-only midwife, Nora, who Joel may or may not have threatened into staying up all night just in case.

Ellie showed up an hour later.

You were half-delirious from contractions when you saw her in the doorway—arms crossed, brows drawn, trying hard to look like she didn’t care but not moving from the threshold.

Joel tensed at the sight of her.

Ellie didn’t speak to him. Just looked straight at you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “She’s taking her sweet time.”

Ellie gave a tight smile and stepped closer. “You want me to stay?”

Joel opened his mouth, probably to protest, but you reached for her hand first.

“Please.”

And so she stayed.

Not for Joel. But for you.

It was hours of labor. Sweat and tears and Joel whispering in your ear that you were the strongest person he’d ever known. Ellie fetched water, held your other hand, cracked a joke or two when your face twisted in pain.

“You sure it’s just one kid?” she said, lips twitching. “Because you’re making sounds like there’s three.”

You managed to laugh between contractions. “Ellie.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

Joel’s jaw twitched—clearly holding back a comment—but he stayed silent. For you.

When the pushing started, Ellie turned ghost-pale but didn’t leave. She held onto you tighter.

“You’re doing great,” she muttered. “You got this.”

You screamed. You cried. Joel kissed your forehead. Ellie wiped your brow. And finally—

There it was.

A baby’s cry.

Your daughter.

Joel’s hands were shaking as Nora handed her to you, swaddled in a soft blue blanket.

You barely heard anything but the sound of her little voice, the feel of Joel’s arms around your shoulders, the sob you weren’t sure came from him or you.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered.

Joel kissed your temple, voice cracking. “Just like her mama.”

Ellie stood back, eyes wide, mouth trembling like she didn’t know whether to run or cry.

You looked at her. “Wanna meet her?”

She hesitated. Then slowly nodded.

Joel didn’t move. Just sat still, baby in his arms, as Ellie came closer.

“She’s tiny,” she whispered.

“She’s fierce,” you said. “I can tell already.”

Ellie met Joel’s eyes for the first time in months.

Something unspoken passed between them. Regret. Pain. Something old that hadn’t quite healed.

But when Joel shifted the blanket so Ellie could see the baby’s little fist clench around his finger, he said quietly:

“Her name’s Hope.”

You watched Ellie’s throat bob.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t look angry.

She just looked soft.

“She’s lucky,” she said. “To have you both.”

Joel didn’t say anything. But he held your daughter like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Maybe she was.

That night, when the clinic was quiet, Joel held you close in the narrow bed, baby Hope nestled on your chest.

“She’s everything,” he whispered.

“She’s ours.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Think Ellie’ll ever forgive me?”

“She’s here. That’s a start.”

You felt Joel’s chest rise, fall. The kind of breath that holds hope in it.

“I just want her to know I’m trying,” he said. “For you. For the baby. For her.”

“She knows,” you said, eyes fluttering shut. “She’ll come around.”

Joel kissed the crown of your head and wrapped his arms around you both like he’d never let go again.

“She’ll come when she’s ready,” he murmured.

Just like your daughter did.

[rolafamily]

🌿 My Name is Rola, and This is My Story 🌿

I never thought I would be writing this. I never thought I would be begging for help just to keep my children warm, just to feed them one more meal. But here I am, reaching out to you, because I have no other choice.

My name is Rola. I am a mother of two beautiful children, and before October 7th, we had a life filled with love and laughter. We had a home. My children had their own room, filled with their toys and drawings. We would sit together on our balcony, drinking coffee in the early morning light. We had dreams, just like any other family.

But in an instant, it was all gone.

A missile struck. The earth shook beneath us. The air filled with dust and fire. My husband and son ran, stumbling over each other in terror. I stood frozen, the ringing in my ears drowning out my own screams. Our home was shattered—windows blown out, doors ripped from their hinges. And when I looked outside, our neighbor’s house, a place that once echoed with children's laughter, was nothing but rubble and ash.

That was just the beginning.

The bombs never stopped. Every night, I held my children close as the sky rained fire. The sound of explosions mixed with the cries of mothers searching for their babies in the darkness. I covered my children, whispering words of comfort, but how do you comfort a child who is terrified of dying in their sleep?

We had to leave. We walked away from everything—our home, our memories, the warmth of our life before. My children left behind their favorite toys, their books, their safe space. Now, we have nothing.

No home.

No food.

No clean water.

No way out.

I went to buy sugar the other day. It cost $20 for just a kilo. Food is disappearing, and the little that remains is impossible to afford. Every day, I fight to find just enough to keep my children alive.

I am exhausted. I am scared. I need your help.

I never imagined I would have to beg for my family’s survival. But today, I am.

Please, if you are reading this, help us. Help me save my children. Help us find shelter, food, a way to rebuild even a small piece of the life we lost. If we ever have the chance to leave, we need support. If we are forced to stay, we need a home again.

Every donation matters. Every share helps. Every voice that speaks for us keeps hope alive.

💚 Please donate if you can. Share our story. Help us survive. 💚

[pearlywritings]

Who said the night was over?

pairing: Alhaitham, Childe, Gallagher, Ifa, Jing Yuan, Kamisato Ayato, Phainon (seperately) x fem!reader

prompt: morning after 😏

word count: 4.2k+ words in total

tw: NSFW, nudity, hints of sex in the shower, hints of public intimacy, oral (female recieving), consensual (!) somnophilia, implied breeding, cockwarming

~ The Music of the Night event ~

gathered all the requests down here! also, yes to the anon who requested Ayato, i'd be glad to put you down as either of these two emojis! (why not both though?)

Alhaitham

With Alhaitham’s dislike for early mornings, it’s an often occurrence for you to wake up while he is still in bed with you. Today, however, blindly feeling the spot next to you with a patting hand makes your sleep-heavy mind aware that your husband is gone. But the sheets and the pillow are still carrying the warmth of his body, so he couldn’t have been absent for long. 

Satisfied with the thought that he might’ve gone to the toilet and that your alarm clock hasn’t rung yet, you steal your lover’s pillow to hug it close to your chest and settle back into the mattress to catch some more minutes of sleep, especially after the busy night you two had. And also before you have to face the reality in which you have a teaching job.

When the alarm goes off, however, and you shut it down with a dissatisfied yawn, the other side of the bed appears to be empty, with the only difference being its coldness.

Huh, how strange.

But you don’t have time to question the lack of the man in your shared bed. Just as you are sitting up and tugging your askew-sitting sleepwear in all the right places, the door to the room opens, and your half-dressed lover steps in with a tray balanced on his open palm. Delicious smell of food and coffee fills the air and your nose, making you sniff the taunting aroma with a blissful smile.

“Coffee and breakfast in bed? My, aren’t you romantic this morning,” you tease, but when you finally meet his eyes, the discontent etched into his handsome features cuts your already-prepared teasing short. There is a furrow between his brows and a scowl tugging on his lips, when he closes the door and walks further into your shared space. “Habibi? What’s up?”

“Our dear roommate is ‘up’,” he huffs, putting the tray on the space between his and your halves of the bed and carefully climbs onto it. Your eyes widen.

“Kaveh? But wasn’t he staying over at Cyno’s tonight?” Suddenly your whole body is crawling with dread. If the architect was here the whole night when he definitely heard you two-

“He was,” Alhaitham says sharply, grabbing his mug of coffee and taking a gulp to calm his already spiked nerves. “But apparently he forgot to grab some things to bring to the meeting with the client this morning, and came back earlier to finish it, waking me up in the process. I’m actually surprised how you didn’t jolt awake when he dropped the pile of scrolls he was carrying from his room to the living room.”

“I had no idea…” you murmur, still a bit shaken from your initial thoughts, but willing yourself to focus on something else - for example those delicious-looking pita pockets. “But that’s a total bummer then.”

“Oh for sure,” the Scribe rolls his eyes, picking one of the filled breads too. “Though it’s surprising to hear this from you - you like Kaveh.”

“Yes, I like Kaveh,” you sigh, scooting closer to your husband, leaning your shoulder to his. “But I don’t like him very much right now.”

Alhaitham actually stops chewing and stares at you.

“What do you mean?”

“Had hopes for the morning sex before I have to get up and ready to deal with the students,” you grumble, grabbing your drink and taking a sip, “but it’s fine, I’ll manage.”

“...I can kick him out if you want to–”

“No!” you grab his wrist, even though he hasn’t moved yet. “No need, it’s fine, really. Tonight was more than enough.”

“Clearly not, if you are still feeling needy, habibti,” Alhaitham’s arm slithers behind your back and settles on the hip. He leans his cheek onto the top of your head. “I have an idea. Let’s finish our food and then we can fuck in the bathroom. The running water should mask the sounds– if you are quiet enough,” he wears a smirk, though hides it in your hair with a kiss. “Even if you are not - it’s our house, we can do whatever we want.”

...Well, not looking Kaveh in the eyes for a week it is then.

Childe

Do not look the Fatui Agents in the eyes, do not look the Fatui Agents in the eyes, hold your head high and proud as you walk down the hall of the Eleventh Harbinger’s capital residence, and try not to think about the burning marks hidden under the layers of warm clothes and how evident the limp in your steps would’ve been, had Tartaglia not offered you his elbow to latch onto.

The mask, gifted by the Lord Pulcinella, is covering the upper half of your face - just for good measure, even though the soldiers are trained to not ask questions or gossip. The black furred coat you arrived in is replaced by a pretty azure one, perfectly matching the lapis pools of the man by your side. You look like a refined noble from a long-running bloodline, so it’s hard to imagine you are to be interrogated for the business you could possibly have with one of the Harbingers.

Finally, the exit from the manor. The morning chill is biting at your cheeks and chin, and with it, your worries are swept away. The purely white snow is crunching under your boots as you are descending down the wide-stepped staircase. Then, led by your partner all the way through the alley caged between well-taken-care-of pines from both sides, you walk right to the carriage, waiting in front of the gates.

You are truly exhaling in relief only once you two are settled inside, and the coachman whistled, flicked his whip and the horses started off.

“Phew, now I understand your struggle at keeping your identity a secret,” you say in a low tone. You don’t doubt the people who work for Tartaglia, but being too careful never hurts.

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” his big hand slides out of the mitten and covers your gloved ones, resting in your lap in a tight lock. “I am so proud of you, my sneaky little mouse.”

You can’t help but giggle, gazing at him from behind your mask, eyes sparkling with joy.

“Thank you! Oh, I am so excited to see the capital! I am so happy you got half a day off to spend time with me.”

“You better believe this feeling is mutual,” the gingerhead smiles widely, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your lips. You practically melt, reciprocating the affection, and wiggle your hands from under his palm to cup both his cheeks. It was probably a mistake to leave his own limbs unguarded - because the moment your attention got occupied, his fingers went wandering.

It’s warm inside the carriage, and it soon becomes a little bit suffocating - the fervor with which Ajax is devouring your mouth, stealing one kiss after another, is enough to rival the furnace’s flames. You notice too late when all the clasps of your fur coat come undone, and your lover pushes it down your shoulders. It’s only once he breaks one of the scorching kisses, staring at you with hooded eyes, burning cheeks and swollen lips, the understanding dawns on you.

“Ajax, wait–!” You whisper-scream at him, trying to dodge a new wave of kisses. “We are not doing this in the carriage!”

The young man promptly stops, closing his mouth and staring into your eyes. He has the audacity to be pouting! After igniting a wild fire in your chest!

“But why not?” He murmurs dejectedly, settling both his palms on your waist. “It is a lengthy ride and I hoped to make up for the rushed awakening. Feels like after the night of passion I owe you an equally affectionate morning.”

That’s true, in order to enjoy the little ‘journey’ to its fullest with your lover, you two woke up at an ungodly hour and made quite a haste to get ready. Which significantly shortened your usual morning routine. Ah, you can admit now that it was a bit disappointing.

“Fine…” You sigh, sliding your arms back around his neck, much to the ginger’s delight. “But nothing that can alarm the people outside.”

He is nodding like crazy, before diving back in, and you just hope that you hold enough power over your partner to stop him when he goes too far.

Gallagher 

Standing before the mirror in nothing but panties, you cannot mask your horror. Bright, almost angry-looking hickies and bite marks are littering the expanse of your neck, shoulders, chest and– oh shit, thighs!?

Your lover, with only his sweatpants thrown on, returns from the balcony after finishing the first cigarette of the day, scratching his stomach and yawning when you jump on him with a punch to his shoulder. The yawn is cut mid-action and with a strange noise of a strangled cat the man looks at you. His thick brows fly up in confusion.

“Watcha doing, pretty thing? Is it one of your playful fights to get us both tangled in the sheets?”

“‘Tangled in the sheets’ my ass!” You throw your arms in the air. “Look at me, Gallagher!”

Vermillion eyes observe your face for a few seconds longer before casting their gaze down. Understanding immediately appears on his face along with a smirk. A quiet appreciative whistle makes your cheeks heat up and arms cross over your breasts right after.

“‘Tangled in sheets’ is what left me in such a state! Damn, Gal, I know I joke a lot about it, but maybe you’re really a dog? I’m all bitten like a pack attacked me!”

“And yet all of these belong to just one mutt,” he releases a low chuckle, wrapping his strong arms around your waist, pressing your almost naked body flash to his barely covered one. You have half a mind to punch him again, but when he starts kissing your cheek and temple, you squint with a pout and plant your hands onto his pecs, trying to shove him off.

“Go shave!”

“Don’t remember you complaining when this face was between your prettily marked thig-” you butt his chest with your head, wrapping your own arms around his wide frame. Gallagher hisses when you dig your nails into his back. “Careful, kitty, you are not the only one covered in the reminders of last night.”

“Like I care,” you mutter, but nevertheless put your palms flatly. The kiss is pressed to your shoulder right after, yet this time you do not complain about his stubble.

“You are cooking breakfast by the way.”

“Oh? And what will my beautiful girlfriend do?”

“Spend who knows how much time in the bathroom trying to cover with a concealer the damage you caused. Thighs are alright, chest is too, but my NECK!”

“Never looked better,” Gallagher says seriously and before you could retort, crouches and grabs you under the knees. With a horrified shriek you are thrown over his strong shoulder, and are patted on the ass three times.

“Atta girl. Now let’s go and take a shower. We can talk there about how pretty your neck is and have you give me some more hickies as well. And then we’ll discuss the breakfast part.”

You are fucked.

Ifa

The mouth-watering smell is what makes you leave the warm bed, throw on the first thing you grabbed from the chair and leave the bedroom. Led by the delicious aroma you tiptoe to the kitchen of Ifa’s house, and find the man himself standing in front of the phlogiston-fueled stove. You should’ve guessed that the vet, dressed in nothing but pants, apron over his bare chest and with his signature hat gone (probably still lying somewhere in the bedroom…) is the reason for your awakening. 

You can’t help but lean on the doorframe and stare: at his back, at the way his shoulders roll when strong arms move, at the way that pretty tattoo circles his neck in a zig-zag pattern, at those soft, white with a tint of light mint hair, which are still the definition of a “bed head”... Oh, and not to forget that fine ass of his that looks so good in those pan–

“Good morning, sunshine,” a mirth-filled greeting shakes you out of the dreamy stupor, and you have to shake your head to chase it away.

When you look at your lover again, Ifa is bringing two plates to the table and gives you a cheeky smile. You mirror it with one of your own, stepping into the kitchen and skipping right into his arms.

The man doesn’t waste a second, leaning down the moment your arms wrap around his neck and capturing your lips in a morning kiss. You giggle softly at his eagerness, relishing in the moment.

“Good morning to you too, love,” you murmur between kisses and immediately squeal when he turns your body around, cups his palms under your ass and lifts you onto the counter. “Ifa!”

“Damn, babe, you look good in my shirt.”

Ah, so it was his. To your defense, you were so focused on the smell of the breakfast that you really didn’t care what you wore in your boyfriend’s house.

“And it looks like it stayed unbuttoned just to the point of you losing your patience last night and dragging it over my head.”

You notice how his gaze slips down your body, and have to also look. Oh... The shirt is open and barely covering your breasts, giving your lover a perfect view of all the marks he’s decorated your skin with. As the blush is rapidly creeping up your cheeks, you grab the hems, closing them. 

Ifa laughs, flexing his grip on your hips and dragging you closer to the edge of the table. As he presses his pelvis into you and puts his mouth on your neck, you can feel the outline of his semi-hard cock through the pants. 

You need some form of distraction. Urgently.

“And where is–mmm–where is my feathered baby?

“Cacucu?” The way his breath fans over your cheek makes you shiver and try to close your thighs. To no avail, of course. “Probably went outside for the night. Have you forgotten the last time we had sex? You moaned so loudly, the poor guy burst into the bedroom thinking you were being hurt.”

“Ifaaaa!”

So much for the distraction.

Jing Yuan

Even through the veil of sleep, you feel your body ache in a pleasant languor. You also feel a gentle, almost intangible caress on your cheek, which travels down, slowly, following the length of your neck and then the line of your arm. Goosebumps appear in its wake and you can’t help but shiver, jerking your shoulder.

There is a quiet, affectionate chuckle next to you, and the touch returns to your cheek, brought by a thumb that starts rubbing circles on your skin.

Something in the back of your mind tells you to summon the willpower to fight the clinging sleep and join the world of the awake. It’s so hard though - the lovely scent of the fresh bedding and the softness of the mattress and the pillow seem to make your eyelids heavier and body - more indolent.

But then the thumb gently swipes across your lips, dipping between. Instinctively you bite, and a hitch in breath in front of you is finally enough to tear you away from the sleep’s clutches.

It's hazy and you have to blink a couple of times. The display must be amusing to the disrupter of your dream, since he is chuckling again, and the sound is rich and warm and totally belongs to your husband.

“Good moooorning,” you drawl around his thumb, eventually releasing it and giving the pad a sweet kiss. Jing Yuan hums, reaching both hands to your waist to tug your bare body close to his, and kisses your forehead.

“Good morning to you as well, my love,” you smile blissfully at his response, throwing your arms around his neck and one leg over his hip. Your husband gets the hint and rolls onto his back, effectively moving you on top of him.

As you use his shoulders to lift your upper body, his wide palms slide down to your ass, kneading the supple flesh. You giggle, looking down at him with a half-lidded gaze, and the general has the images of last night flashing before his eyes. More specifically the ones where you pushed him onto the bed and straddled his thighs like a queen claimed the throne.

He can feel his cock stir. You can feel it too, right under you.

“Oh?” There is a smirk on your pretty lips. “Does my lion have something to tell me?”

“Hmm… I suppose he has,” Jing Yuan smiles, letting go off one of your cheeks and softly grabbing at your tit instead, working a quiet mewl from the back of your throat. “I propose you a few courses of action, my dear, and you can pick, agreed?”

“Sounds intriguing,” you can feel your own arousal gathering in the form of slick. “What options do I have?”

“First: we get up, dress up and go have breakfast,” by the way you grimace at that, Jing Yuan laughs. “Second: we stay in bed for a little bit longer and let the night’s love-making proceed.”

“And what if I chose the second option?” You shift so his cock is right between your labia petals and roll your hips to smear the juices all over his length. The man groans, palming at your breast.

“Then you can choose either the oral way of doing things or penetration.”

Something - maybe it's the way he hungrily looks at you - tells you that the answer is ‘both’. And you are all too happy to respond in kind.

Kamisato Ayato

Mornings at the Kamisato Estate were always quiet. Despite numerous retainers that took care of the mansion’s inside and outside, the early hours of the day were filled with serenity and a warm breeze entering the room through the window, slightly cracked open.

You are shielded from the little ray of sunshine that's peeked into the bedroom and began its travel across your lover’s body, yet are still coaxed from the dreamland by the soft calls of your name.

“My darling wife, be so kind and grace me with your lovely gaze,” one of the murmurs is against your hair, ghosting across your temple. “I know you hate it when I leave the bed without you, but the duty always calls,” you huff through your slowly dissipating sleep, inching even closer to the warm body behind you, tucking your head under Ayato’s chin, much to his amusement. “Come now, my beloved. If you keep squirming and pressing yourself to me like this, I won’t have any choice but to pick up from where we stopped last night.”

Last night… Ah, right, last night. The first time in two weeks when Ayato managed to clear his schedule for the evening completely. The marvelous moment spent together, which he started with gifting  you a new skilfully sewn attire, proceeded at the restaurant and a night stroll and ended with your bodies tangled in the sheets.

The last night, when your husband got determined to cum inside as many times as his body allowed it, all because you teased and were handsy with him when no one saw. Because you put your hand onto his chest and whispered into his ear, like it was some well-guarded secret, that you were ovulating and would love to try for a child again.

The head of the Kamisato clan cannot deny his wife many things. Well, not for long at least, if his own teasing and edging is anything to come by. But he knows that everything is worth it, when with an exhausted but absolutely satisfied exhale she settles with her back against his chest, his cock plunged into her pussy and an arm wrapped around her middle, as the two of you drift off to sleep.

And wake up the next morning, positioned in the same embrace.

Ayato’s breath hitches when you clench around him unconsciously.

“My precious jewel,” he tries again, not losing hope to perform the morning routine together, “we should really get up, before one of our retainers comes storming through the doors, worried that we are still absent.”

“Not my problem you usually get your ass up at the crack of the dawn,” you finally groan, voice thick with sleep, and surely hoarse from all that moaning he railed out of you. “I’m exhausted, Ayato, let me sleep.”

“Exhausted? My, you say it like you weren’t the one jumping my bones the moment the bedroom door closed yesterday,” your husband hums, using his free hand to move your hair to the side. When he presses a lingering kiss to the back of your neck and rolls his hips, you arch slightly, letting out a quiet moan.

“Well, I was horny and I am not sorry for it,” huffing you try to settle on the bed with the full intention of falling back asleep. But the hand that slips between your thighs and presses on your pelvis to move you flash against him, suddenly makes you hyper aware of his hardening cock still resting between your walls.

“W-wait, Ayato,” you gulp, snapping your eyes open and trying to turn your head to look back at him. You do not like the way his eyes squint and lips pull into a knowing smile. “Didn’t you say that ‘duty always calls’?”

“Oh, so you were listening,” his smile gets wider and fox-like eyes even more cunning, as the pads of his index and middle finger press into your clit. It makes you throw your head back on the pillow with a mewl. “But we’ll discuss your lack of response later. Now my duty is my wife and it calls for giving her a few more ‘tries’.”

Phainon

Your morning begins with a wanton moan and an arched back. Your thoughts are a bunch of incoherent sparks of conscience, running through your head and incapable of forming a thing, but your body knows to try and close your legs and hands gripping the pillow and sheets.

Something stops you from slamming your thighs close, there is a strong grip on them, forcing them open and holding in place. And there is blinding pleasure, coursing through your body, tightening the knot in your stomach and hardening your nipples, that got exposed to the morning breeze with the blanket’s and shirt’s absence.

You have to blink and forcefully rub at your eyes with a trembling hand to finally chase away the sleep and see the ceiling of your bedroom. Your and Phainon’s bedroom.

A new surge of pleasure makes you moan louder, and your hand shoots down, grabbing the messy locks of your lover and pressing his head harder into your pussy. This time the moan is not yours, vibrating against your clit and driving you insane. There is slurping and needy whines, as well as a hot heavy tongue sliding between your labia and pressing against the tight numb.

Just one suck and you are gone, letting the knot in your abdomen snap and body go lax with a breathless plea of his name.

“Phainon…”

Your lover perks up, unlatching his mouth from your poor loins, and, feeling your grip on his white locks lessen, lifts himself on his elbows.

“Good morning, princess,” he says cheerfully, and when you find strength to glance down at him, it gets hard to believe that this man was just eating your pussy out seconds ago.

“M-morning…” you rasp out, still shaken by the orgasm. “What w-was that?”

The way he cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy makes a warm feeling bloom in your chest. How can a man be both this cute and indescribably lewd? It’s like the two images can’t exist together.

“Oh, you mean this?” He points at his mouth first and then between your legs and suddenly you want to kick him in the ribs. “You see… After we had sex yesterday, - which was the first time after so long, - the yearning seemed to become…more prominent, and I–” you notice the red tinting his cheeks and his gaze avoiding yours, “I had a wet dream.”

Your eyes widen at the admission, mouth going slack.

“You had a wet dream? About us?”

He nods, almost shyly. The mattress sinks when he pushes himself up, and a moment later he is resting on his side next to you, supporting his head with one hand and putting the other on your stomach.

“I woke up hot and needy,” he murmurs, lovingly rubbing your belly. “And I remembered how you told me you’d like one day an experience of being woken up by oral. So…”

So instead of being mean and shaking you out of sleep just to fuck, he decided to bring you pleasure by fulfilling your little fantasy, not even hoping you’d reciprocate upon arising. 

Which leaves him hard and leaking still. Which, in turn, makes you smile and reach out for his face to drag your beloved in the morning kiss, tasting yourself on his lips and turning your still aroused body to his, being trapped into the embrace of two strong arms.

How can you not reciprocate?

author's note: fun fact, but Childe's part was actually written with my A birthday surprise fic in thought hehe~

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're No Good

Pairings - Cult leader/clan Leader Geto x F! reader

Summary - You have been promised to marry the psychotic, human hating leader of the Geto Clan, Suguru. Your heart sinks at the wedding when you realize you're likely to be ended once you've fulfilled your duty, giving him an heir. He detests you on sight, as do you, but something happens the first time you lay together, Suguru swears you're some witch, because he can't get enough of you. He becomes consumed with fucking you, with the excuse of 'having an heir' but you begin to wonder just where the lines are blurring. Would you survive this- and will Suguru survive being with you?

CW- Arranged marriage trope, ENEMIES TO LOVERS, psychotic Geto lol- lots of hate sex, Suguru calling you a stupid monkey, angsty, FULL of smut. Reader is a virgin bc she's sheltered due to been promised to him. Reader is FEISTY asf and mean right back. Explicit sex and Geto being whipped/insane/obsessed and psycho. This part- light angst, explicit sex, oral ( f receiving) breed kink (it's me so lol) mating press, multi rounds, honestly cute, sweet and fucking emotional!!! WC - 10k

A/N- THE HAPPY END IS HERE! Sooo the beginning 4k words or so are VERY similar to the angst end, but don't skip them because I put a lot of little nuances and deviations! I hope you enjoy the happy ending and the complete end of this fic <3 I'd love to hear thoughts!!

<<<Part five (Sad end) - Playlist - Masterlist

Happy Ending (Sugu/Reader end!)

Suguru lifts you up into his arms, as tired students and sorcerers retreat tentatively, Suguru’s curses dissolve as if they weren’t there while all he can focus on is you, the guilt eating at his heart. Your unconscious body lolls in his arms as Suguru is speaking to his cult quickly, ordering them to stop and retreat for now, all while holding you so tightly against his chest.

Satoru waits for Suguru, staring at your face now, looking so oddly peaceful for what happened, he wanted to pick you up and bring you to Shoko, but Suguru had snatched you up so quickly he had no chance to. Suguru is carrying you around and murmuring his soft orders, not letting you leave his grip.

Satoru had a feeling this would happen, and he hates himself for knowing it and bringing you anyway, but you were okay with it - willing even - to save everyone, he admires it about a girl he hardly knows. To put yourself and a baby in danger to reach out to Suguru, it shows just who you are, it’s easy to see how much Suguru has fallen, when Satoru never thought Suguru never would feel that way again.

Suguru finally walks up, glaring at Satoru when he brushes back a lock of hair from your brow, itching to smack his hand off. “Don’t touch my wife.” Suguru’s words are husky, through his teeth, as Satoru’s blue eyes dart back to his, raising a white brow.

“You’ve really done such a great job taking care of her so far. Why don’t I carry her, I don’t trust you not to disappear, and Shoko is the only one I trust helping her.”

“Tch, you think I don’t even want to help her!?”

“Why? You left her.” Suguru snatches you up closer against his chest, violet eyes glaring now at Satoru, and you hang so limply he feels sick, like you’re just nothing in his arms, barely any signs of life aside from soft breaths.

“You won’t hold my wife in your fucking arms.” 

“Fine, then follow, now.”

Suguru never thought he’d listen to Satoru, but he does, following him now into Shoko’s medical set up, her brows raise as she sees Suguru for the first time in almost nine years, he notices how exhausted she is, all of the fun energy he remembers sapped away. He falters a moment, before carrying you inside, Satoru shuts the heavy door with an echoing bang.

“What’s happened?” Suguru delicately lays your unconscious frame, as Shoko sets to feeling your pulse.

“Energy blast from… one of my men.” Suguru gulps down it all, the fact that it’s even worse, that you were hurt by one of his by mistake.

He wants to kill that man right now.

But Satoru is fucking right - it’s all him.

“She’s pregnant.” Satoru mentions, as if it were so casual, and Suguru glares over at him. “Isn’t she?”

“Yes she is but it’s not your place to fucking say.” Satoru smiles just a bit, something about seeing his friend actually fucking caring about something for once, even if his ire is directed at him right now. Suguru looks at Shoko now, swallowing nervously as he speaks. “She is pregnant.”

Shoko sighs now, nodding and assessing you carefully. “Can’t be far along, she’s not showing.”

“Five weeks.” Suguru answers, quietly, as Shoko raises her hands now, and shuts her eyes, dark hair falling a bit over her shoulders.

“I can’t guarantee the baby will be okay, but I can save her.” Suguru’s heart shatters at her words, looking as the reverse curse technique starts working over you with the incandescent light.

“It’s all your fault. Why’d you fucking bring her here!?” Suguru walks up to Satoru now, smacking a hand as he brushes your hair a bit off your sleeping face, earning a glare behind white bandages.

“She asked to come.”

Suguru pauses. Are you that reckless?

“I told her no at first, but I thought she’d be the only thing to bring you to any of your fucking senses, have you stop killing my students, our friends.”

“I don’t have any fucking friends.”

Shoko scoffs, eyeing him with tired eyes now. “You did.”

“It’s not you all I wanted to eliminate, you simply chose to defend them, the weak,  pathetic…” He can’t say it anymore, what he called them, what he called you.

“Weren’t you the one who said it’s our job to protect the weak?” Satoru’s voice is quiet now, reminding him of just that, the time he felt that way, naive and young.

“You continue to lose all your comrades and friends, Satoru you may be the strongest but it’s not worth it - without them, there are no more curses.”

“It’s not your choice to change how the world is. You’ve gone so far, the only person I’ve ever seen you love since you… changed… is here.” Satoru’s words nearly make him fall over with the pain, the grief, looking at your still unconscious body, as Shoko focuses harder with her technique, the glow soft around you, hovering right over your tummy where a baby exists.

“Please just save her.” Suguru whispers now, and Satoru slips off his blindfold completely, blue eyes seeing right through him.

“You did this. If she doesn’t make it, it’s because of you.”

“I fucking know that!” Suguru shoves Satoru now, which merely earns a tired, sad little smile, while he grips his wrist before he lets Suguru strike him. “I know it, okay? I don’t even… fucking deserve her. I know it.” He’s close to tears as he shoves off Satoru, covering his face before he looks back at you.

It’s gone too far, god it’s all gone too far, hasn’t it?

How can he live with himself after what he’s done to you. He places a hand on yours, you don’t grip it how could you, limp and weak fingers, exhausted face growing just a little brighter. You’re exhausted from him, from the stress - god he left you in his bed, alone, naked and gleaming from your lovemaking.

Lovemaking, it was lovemaking.

You were his everything, and not once did he let you get treated or shown that way, what was just one time of worshipping your body when he didn’t worship or appreciate your soul? Your mind, your wishes, he barely knew you truly - he never gave you a chance to listen. Why couldn’t he just give you a chance, why couldn’t he be there for you!?

He hates himself.

He was going to kill them all, every single human for a better world, but to lose the only important thing to him, you, in a room with two people who loved him once, who cared for him once, and he never deserved any of it. Of your body, of your heart, didn’t deserve any kindness that you - rarely - bestowed upon him, your sweet pleas nor your desperate cries for more of him.

Now that he sees you, and it’s been a good twenty minutes, he’s pacing, his stomach sick and turning, his mind a tumultuous storm of moments where it all changed. Of moments where everything shifted, the life and family he thought he built all lost to a girl, who slapped him, who cursed him, who overtook his heart.

You.

“It’s not working.” He says after more time passes with no sign of anything from you in the quiet room, worried as Shoko sighs, shaking her head.

“I need more time with her, okay? Her body is already in a rough state.”

“What rough state!?”

“She has a weak will, and she needs to have some will to make it through this.” Suguru can’t stand to look then, turning away, his robes still dripping the blood of others, as the woman he loves is unconscious.

A weak will, because of him, he fucking knows it too- it’s all him that did this, that caused it, he wants to blame Satoru for putting you in danger, but it’s ultimately his fault. You begged him to stay despite having been forced into this, despite the horrible things he said and did to you, despite it all you still asked him. You still tried to break through, almost meeting your end.

You awaken suddenly as he contemplates it, with a startled gasp, sitting up, staring at an unfamiliar but pretty face of a woman in scrubs, a stethoscope around her neck. She smiles gently, you feel two men’s hands on you, Satoru’s holding one hand, Suguru the other, both staring up at you now.

“I’m sorry I put you in harm.” Satoru’s words are full of remorse, one of his blue eyes revealed is staring up at you, glimmering. “It was the only way but…”

“It’s okay. I chose to, it was the right thing.” He exhales in relief, as you look at Suguru now, torn between anger, relief and fear… and more, so much more brimming to the surface. “Suguru…”

“I ended the battle.” It’s all relief now, as you clutch him tightly, and all the love in your eyes makes him even more sick, how could you love him?

“It worked.” Your whisper makes him squeeze you so tightly you can’t breathe, before pulling back, glaring down at you.

“It was foolish, reckless-”

“You are not about to lecture her right now on being reckless.” Suguru scowls at Satoru’s words.

“Let’s talk while Shoko checks her out.” Suguru’s words are surprisingly soft, a way you’ve only heard a couple times, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Suguru…”

“Just a minute.” You nod, but something is tugging at your heart.

Satoru and Suguru walk to the other end of the enormous room, footsteps echoing while Shoko murmurs softly. “I’m Ieri.”

“Thank you for… saving me, Ieri.” Your own quiet name makes her smile a bit, as she looks at Satoru and Suguru. “They were your friends, weren’t they?”

“Hmm, I guess they were. Let me check this heart rate, okay?” You nod, eyeing the two quiet men, as your disoriented mind and sore body process what exactly had happened.

“I know you owe me no favors, Satoru… but can I ask for one?” Satoru frowns now, leaning against the wall, as you sit up with Shoko’s help and speak quietly.

“You stopped the attack, if you’re willing to give this up, I’ll do you any favor.” He says, making Suguru sigh.

He doesn’t deserve you.

He doesn’t deserve Satoru.

He deserves no happiness for what he’s done, the horror in your eyes, the fear of the unknown, the baby just barely growing that surely would not survive with him near you. You look at him across the room, with those sad, broken eyes - he’d never made you happy, not once - yet you truly tried. You begged him to fucking stay and what did he do, what did he cause?

“I am taking Mimiko and Nanako far away.” Satoru’s blue eyes widen now.

“And your wife, yes?

Suguru feels sick as he shakes his head. “No.”

“Suguru, are you fucking serious, what more does the girl have to do to be with you!? She almost died to save you, not just everyone.” Satoru’s voice is a hushed whisper, eyes narrowed.

“That’s just it, I’m no good for her, or the baby if it… makes it. Chances are with me and how devastated I make her, it won't.”

“Suguru, she will forgive you.” Satoru puts a hand on his former best friend’s shoulder, coated in blood, and Suguru doesn’t shove it off, he takes a breath instead, shaking his head.

“She will, and so will you, but I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve her and I never did.”

“So become the man she needs, you’re not too-”

Suguru laughs harshly, taking Satoru’s hand off now, holding it for a moment, a million memories of their friendship falling as his hand falls. “Both of you make excuses, but I see what I did to her.”

“She’ll be okay, Shoko-”

“She’ll never be okay. Satoru, I have to ask you…” Satoru shakes his head again, and eyes you now.

“Don’t. Don’t you fucking run, seriously!?” Suguru yanks him out of the room, out of your earshot now, Satoru crosses his arms, as the door echoes in the cold empty halls of the abandoned building they’d shielded Shoko in.

“Take care of her.” At Suguru’s broken words, tears feeling once cold eyes, Satoru falters, lips parting. “Take care of the baby if it… makes it.”

He glares, shoving at his old friend, who’s too down to not let him budge with the movement, forlorn look on his face. “You take care of them, become better.”

Suguru shakes his head. “I can’t face her. I can’t face what I’ve done, I need to go. Far, far away.”

“For how long!?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever come back. I know it’s a lot to ask - but I also know I can trust you to take care of her.” Satoru’s furious, not at the thought of taking care of you, but the fact that Suguru is running, that he still even now can’t accept love. “You will take care of her better than I could.”

“You think you’re doing the right thing, but you’re not. She chose to come here, can’t you give her a chance?” Suguru peers through the door window, the thick pane of glass, sighing and touching it longingly, while Shoko checks your vitals. “Your family is in that fucking room.”

“I know, fuck… but she has a chance to be happy, to have that baby - the way it’s going? She won’t even get to with me. Please, for the friendship we had, take care of her. The girl I love.” Satoru’s own emotions make his throat close, while Suguru realizes just how deeply he loves you, more than he even could admit. But he didn’t choose you, no matter how deeply you begged him to, no he left you alone in that bed.

He can’t forgive himself for it.

He is not sure he cares about any other casualties, he wishes he did care more for that - he still sees humans as pests, he does not share Satoru’s view and maybe never will. But you so clearly need him to, and he realizes he’s too far in his own hatred still, you were that exception, that bright spot. You were the one regret he now holds, and he knows he loves you enough to let you go.

“Please look after her for me, Satoru.”

“Jesus christ, Suguru.” He swipes a hand through his long white hair, looking at you in that room, sighing. “Of course I will take care of her and the baby. But it should not be me.”

“Thank you.” Suguru puts his hand on Satoru’s shoulder, and for a moment Satoru sees him - the best friend he ever had, making what he thinks is the best decision for a girl he loves. He loves and feels, still deep down, and something breaks Satoru down then. “I went too far.”

He scoffs at that, sighing. “Understatement of the century. I will not tell her goodbye for you, though. You need to at least explain your stupid decision.”

Satoru walks back into the room, looking down at you now, you’re weak but alive, and he still senses two energies with his powerful six eyes. He gently holds out his hands, and you take them, using his help to stand, shaky now. “Are you feeling okay, sweets?”

“I’m okay.” You nod a smile just a bit, turning to Shoko. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course. We’ll… give you two a moment.” She reads the room clearly, Satoru and Shoko have known each other so long it really just takes a look.

You watch curiously as they walk out, and Suguru has tears in his violet eyes, something you never thought you’d see, they glimmer and illuminate, his face so serious and sullen it makes you panic. “Did they say the baby-”

“No, no, for now it all looks fine. Shh.” He pulls you against his strong chest, and you fall apart, sobbing now, shaking your head and shoving at him, hating the mix of comfort and sorrow this man brings. “I know,” he whispers, as if to soothe you, only for you to be infuriated, feeling anger hot coursing through your veins.

You pull back, furious, chest heaving with the quickness of your breaths, your own cheeks covered in your tears now. “You know!? You know? You left me. You chose this over me.”

“I did. And that’s why I’m no good for you.” His broken voice and tired gaze stall you, not after all of this would he not fucking choose you again!? Not after carving his place in your heart entirely does he get to leave!?

You pause now, gasping at his audacity, feeling him tense, emotionally pulling away from you again. “What the fuck are you on about right now?”

Instead of the usual arguments, the back and forth, Suguru is just contemplative, listening to you before he speaks. “It was selfish, so selfish not to let you run when you wanted to.” You’re shaking as he cups your face, thumb tracing your cheek, brushing aside the onslaught of tears, exhaling and leaning low.

“So you’re selfish, what’s new?” Your angry whisper just makes him ache for you, god is there one moment he doesn’t? Is there one second in any universe he thinks he will live without you - he wants to do the right thing now, to let you go, but how can he, when you’re so deeply ingrained inside his fucking soul?

The one bright spot that he almost took out completely clings to him, and why should you?

 “I almost killed you.” He whispers hoarsely, you shake your head now, scowl firm on your tired, beautiful features.

“You didn’t just almost kill me, you almost killed everyone in the fucking city! Suguru, I’m fine, this is not even what you should be worried about.”

“Tch, are you!?” His grip on your waist draws you closer, while your head falls back, and you stare into a monster’s eyes - a monster you love. “Are you fine? You almost died.”

“I chose to come here, you can’t blame Satoru when I begged him to bring me. I had to try to save them, those innocent people!”

“It worked.”

You sigh, shaking further, burying your face against his chest, he’s covered in sweat and grime and blood from the battle, but you don’t care. “Are you done with this foolish effort?”

“I’m done.” You look up in shock, cupping his face now, and he leans so low, until your breaths mingle, hand shaking as it holds you.

“Thank God. Oh Suguru, thank God.” You pull him down for a kiss, full of all the relief in your heart. You’ve saved him, everyone is okay - glimpses of hope and something beautiful fill you with a light you’ve never had. He kisses you back so deeply, exhaling against your lips, deepening it and pulling you so tightly, his hard body enveloping yours.

“I should have told you.” He whispers, pulling back, lips almost against yours, nose brushing against yours.

You gulp, throat dry, in so much fear of what he’s going to say, what he’s going to do, his voice terrifying you in its intensity. “Told me what?”

Suguru cups your face with one hand, heart pounding as he feels it, so deep in his soul, finally ready to spill those words. “I love you,” you gasp then, and his heart hammers nearly out of his chest as the declaration spills from his lips. “Fuck I love you, love when you hit me, love when you called me out, love the fire inside you.”

His declaration makes your heart shatter, you want to be happy, but you feel it - his apprehension, his fear, his love.

Loves you.

He loves you.

“Suguru…”

“I love you and don't deserve you.” His broken voice and tears infuriate you as much as they deeply touch you.

You glare now, trying to hold it together, when you feel like shattering. “Don’t you dare do this, don’t you run!”

“Baby, this is how I can show how much I love you.” He cups your face with two big hands and long fingers, you’re glaring through your tears, gripping his wrists.

“Don’t you dare.” You whisper, teeth clenched, you feel it then, you feel him pushing you away, when he’s just close enough. “I won’t forgive you ever.”

“Satoru will take care of you both, better than I could, he’ll be good to you-” The shock of his words hits you like a wave, like what knocked you to the fucking floor earlier, the dread in your stomach.

“What!? You’re shoving me off on your fucking friend?” You shove at his chest now, but he doesn’t budge, even as you smack at it, he doesn’t move, doesn’t let go of his grip. “If you love me you’ll run away with me, we can start over.”

The desperation in your voice tempts him to no end, god he’d love it, but he knows how much you’d suffer, always. “I am leaving, starting over.”

“Not with me?” Your hurt pours through every word, and Suguru wants to bring you, god he does, but he knows it so clearly - he could never make you happy, but he sees it - how Satoru looks at you. Maybe he could give you what you deserve, as much as he selfishly wants you, as badly as this hurts to do or say.

“You’ll be better off this way. You and the baby.”

“Bullshit, it’s such bullshit Suguru!”

“It’s the truth, I love you enough to finally do this.” He brushes your hair back tenderly, you smack his hand scowling up at him.

“You don’t get to do that, you don’t get to abandon me after not choosing me - just to not choose me again!”

“It’s not that,” your sobs wrack your body, as he steps back, brushing back his tangled dark locks in frustration, the thick strands falling across his face as he watches the girl he loves shatter because of him, all over again. “I am choosing your happiness.”

“Why can’t it be with you?” Your broken whisper makes his heart break.

“How can I look you in those beautiful eyes and know what pain I caused, I can’t have you looking at the monster I am.”

“You’re my fucking monster, okay? Mine!” You shove him again, he just sighs, defeated. “I love you Suguru Geto. I do, despite it all, despite how completely fucked in the brain you were, I love you dammit. You can’t just leave me now, like I’m some damn pet you can’t take care of. I love-”

He’s slammed his lips again, desperate and hungry, and you fall into him, as his kisses grow more and more ardent, pulling back just to take a breath, hand slipping up your spine. The contact alone makes you shiver, tongue meeting his stroke for stroke, so much emotion in this one kiss you wish it would last forever, fingers clinging to the silk of his robes.

“Suguru,” you pull back, tears falling against his fingers, breaths making your chest rise and fall, as you cling to his robes, the blood soaking against your skin, enveloping it in red. “You’re mine, you don’t get to leave me.”

He whispers your name then, his own tears falling, against your lips salty as he hovers over you, exhaling shakily. “I don’t deserve you though, you or this baby, not after what I did to you.”

“Then you’ll earn it, you’ll earn the right of me standing by your side. You’ll become better, I know it, fuck I do. There’s more to you.” Your foreheads touch, while he finally breaks down then, picking you up in his arms now, your lips are angry, hungry, tugging with your teeth as he nips you with his. Your tongues messy and desperate while you drink each others’ cries in, echoing in the quiet room.

“I don’t deserve you, I don’t…” His whispers break you, a broken man declaring them hot against your throat, as he breaks down for you, and you bury your face against his neck, letting him hold you up like it’s nothing, clinging to him then. Feeling every bit of your soul drawn to him, despite it all.

“I need you goddammit, you don’t get to leave me. Us. I’ll beat the fuck out of you if you try, it’s not even funny you psycho.” He exhales, easing you down then, you’re dizzy with desire, with need, thrumming through every inch of your skin, as he leans back, eyeing you under lashes dripping with tears.

“How can you love somebody like me?” His broken whisper destroys any resolve you have left, you know all he has done to you, you can only imagine what he has done to others, but deep down you know one thing to be true-

You do love him.

“I just do, there’s no reason for it, there’s no reason for any human emotion, Suguru Geto. We just feel.” Your tremulous smile, amidst everything he’s done breaks him down, bit by bit, as his heart pounds for you, as his body aches for you, thoughts of ‘what ifs’ flowing through his mind.

What if he did let Satoru care for you?

What if he just left you now?

What if you fell in love, what if you moved on, and were so happy, and got everything he ‘thinks’ you deserved, leaving him alone forever - because he knows damn well he will never want or be with anyone else ever again. What if he had let you go, and had not gotten to see you again, hold you again, kiss your lips? Have you under him, on him, have you?

He almost just did that, one choice and he was going to push you away, when all you wanted was to be let in. He takes a deep breath, an arm wrapped tight around you, bringing you firm against his chest. “I don’t know if I can learn to live with humans, aside from you. I don’t know if I can lose all this hatred.”

“Then we’ll go, we’ll go away. And we’ll try, every day. Okay?” He nods then, you exhale and kiss him once more, the kiss is so different than any before, deeper than either of you have had, while he drinks it in, the girl he doesn’t deserve, the life he’s not sure he should get to have, because you love him.

Does he deserve that love, finally?

“You deserve love.” Your words speak to the questions stirring in his soul, and for the first time in so long, Suguru is crying, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tries to pull it together, holding you in a bruising grip as he just cries then.

Suguru crying.

He has not felt emotions since long ago in Jujutsu high, when he watched his loved ones die, when he lost faith in everything he knew, something he thought died that day glimmers and breaks free. The girl in his arms that he treated horribly who for some odd reason loves him, then he knows - he can’t keep going like this, he has to give everything for you.

“I’ll try, Princess.” His soft tone breaks you down further, so upset in your wracking sobs he pulls back a bit, swiping them off your cheeks with one hand, the other bringing you against his chest. “Calm down, please… take a breath.”

“You really stress a girl the fuck out.” He chuckles a bit, earning a punch from your little balled up fist while you sniffle. “You don’t get to laugh about it.”

“I know, I know.” He brushes your hair back gently, studying a face of a girl that’s been hurt too much, too deeply, but the joy of hearing you say it all overwhelms his senses. He sighs again, tilting your chin up, studying your swollen lips carefully, a thumb brushing across the thin and bitten flesh. “You really want to be with me? I’m giving you an out.”

“I don’t want your ‘out’. I want you, the real you too, not this bullshit cult leader crap. I want the boy who Satoru has fought so hard to get back, I want the boy I met, he’s in there, okay?” He looks away then, shaking his head.

“I don’t know if he is in there.”

“He is, and you know it.”

He wants to believe you, but he finds he’s selfish for not leaving you in that moment, for instead picking you up gently in his arms, bridal style - remembering that first night with you. The first time he touched you, and he knew how deeply he felt, that he assumed you must have powers, but you did in fact have them, they were just different than anything he’d ever seen.

He speaks it then, softly. “You’re not just human.”

“Suguru you-”

“You’ve got a power.” You roll your eyes now, infuriated at the annoying man you chose to fall for.

Well you never chose to. You just did.

“You will not even act like you don’t love a human-”

“Power to bring me to my knees,” he continues, in a husky voice, and when he presses you more tightly to him, lips an inch from yours, the world fades, everything fades but this singular moment. “The power to make me give up anything, do anything for you. Kill anyone who hurts you, even if it’s myself.”

“Suguru-” He cuts you off again, kissing you as he cradles you so tightly, you feel his strength even as his body shakes with his emotions, with his regret, with his need.

“I’ll never hurt you again. I swear it. If I do, you get to twist that knife in my fucking chest.” You shake your head, but he just reiterates it, softly.

“I wouldn’t be able to.”

“You have all the power over me. You’re my everything.” You take the hand wrapped around you, placing it on your tummy, heating up as his violet gaze drifts down to it.

“We are your everything, Suguru. Of course, Mimiko and Nanako too. We can be… a family. If you’re willing.” He nods then, pressing a featherlight kiss to your forehead now. “Then let’s get them, and find… a home. A new home.”

He exhales against your skin, nodding as he carries you out, and Satoru Gojo is leaning against the wall, blindfold off for once, arms crossed casually when he smiles over at you. You tap Suguru’s shoulder and he glares at you. “You’re awfully friendly with him.”

“You’re acting jealous like you weren’t gonna pawn me off on him. Let me down.” You glare up at him and he sighs, easing you down, Satoru’s lips quirk up at the corners, easing off the wall and walking over to you now, tilting your chin up. His eyes bore into you, gleaming with his own emotions.

“Are you alright? You okay to walk?” He asks softly, you nod then, reaching over to wrap your arms around his waist. He falters for a moment, as you feel Suguru’s death glare, holding you back then, hand resting at the small of your back, warm over your silk kimono. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

You can’t help but cry against his chest, and Suguru looks away then, stepping back for a moment. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“No, it was shitty okay? I knew the risk and-”

“No. Thank you, Satoru.” You look up, and his heart hurts when he sees your tears, as his friend avoids even looking at the two of you. “It was the right thing to do, and don’t you dare feel bad.”

He sighs in relief, hugging you again, lips pressed against your ear as he bends down. “You brought my friend back, I should be thanking you.”

You cry more, body shaking and so small in the strong sorcerers hold, as Suguru clears his throat. “You all are a little too close.”

“I can still take care of her if-”

“No!? I mean, no.” Suguru rubs the back of his neck, frowning as he wants to rip his best friend’s arms off. “I was… being…”

“Stupid?” Satoru and you finish, and Suguru crosses his arms now, glaring at the two of you.

“It wouldn’t have been the right decision, especially how you’re pawing at her. Let her go.” Suguru yanks you away, and you can’t stop the laugh that escapes, a sound Suguru never really heard from you, breathless, your soft smile lighting up a tragically beautiful face, one he’s kept upset.

“You’re jealous?” You ask, and he scoffs, glaring, while Satoru does not remove his hand, smirking over at him.

“You two are just too close is all. Conspiring this whole time?”

“Maybe so.” You look back to Satoru, smiling again. “We’re going away for a while, but… we’ll be back one day. Won’t we, Suguru?” You hold out a hand now, and he nods stiffly, Satoru sees it then, the love he so clearly has right on his face for you, and the love you have for him, as your hands entwine.

“We will be.” He gruffly repeats, and the three of you stand there for a moment, each hand is held by the two men as they glance at each other, wondering if it’s still there - the deep friendship, and fuck you truly hope it is. Suguru didn’t just need you, he needed him too, and you hope one day your psycho husband can work on his very shitty communication and open up.

“We would’ve had fun together, sweets.” Gojo teases one more time, before Suguru has you yanked up against him, scowling deeper at Satoru, while you giggle, against Suguru’s hard chest, resting your head for a moment.

“You think it would’ve been fun, him pawning me off huh?” You tease back, and are landed right back in Suguru’s arms, while he and Satoru walk out side by side, and sleep starts to tug at your body, still drained from the hit.

“Of course we would have, you wouldn’t have even missed him.” Gojo winks and you giggle, and you’re pretty sure Suguru is about to lose his mind, walking out then to see the wreckage, it takes your breath for a moment, Suguru’s shoulders slump as he takes in the chaos and destruction.

“Hey, we’ll do better than this.” You say softly, caressing his face, a thumb brushing over a sharp cheekbone. He nods then, sighing and shutting his eyes, as if he can’t take it all in.

“Satoru, thank you for… helping save her.” Satoru blinks in surprise - a thank you is nothing he thought he’d get. “I guess we may cross paths again.”

“I guess we might.” Satoru smiles at you both a little sadly, as if he’d gotten his friend back and he’s going away again, but also it’s a peaceful look, for the moment things are safe for Satoru’s students and friends. For a moment there is peace in his heart as he looks at the two of you. “You’ll have a baby by then.”

“Yes we will.” Suguru murmurs, nodding to him a bit.

“Name it Satoru-”

“No.”

Satoru pouts then, shaking his head. “You know, so ungrateful. I’m out of here, bye sweets.” He winks at you again and throws two fingers up with a grin, disappearing without a trace. You giggle at it, and Suguru keeps glaring daggers.

“You like him far too much.” You sigh, shaking your head.

“We just connect because we both love an emo bitch.”

“An emo… when you’re better, I’m beating the fucking attitude out of you.” Your tummy flips, and you bury your face again in his neck.

“You can’t even do instant transmission like Gojo, huh?”

“Instant… that’s an anime!? I have a dragon, that’s much fucking cooler than Gojo’s shit, hmm?” You just smile against his neck, knowing then, this is him. This is Suguru Geto, the man you lived to see glimpses of. As he’s summoning these giant curses, his rainbow dragon, sitting you right on there and smiling, eyes crinkling and making you melt.

You gasp as you all take off - it’s as if you are some Princess, with a psycho cult leader who loves you, as he pulls you against him, head against his chest while he tenderly brushes your hair back. The exhaustion starts hitting, the fact that you almost lost him, lost everything that you suddenly realize is so important to you, while he inhales the scent of your hair and you fly up.

“Dragons are pretty cool.” You concede softly, earning his chuckle, lips tenderly brushing against your temple.

“I’m sorry I left you last night, I’m so sorry.” You look up sleepily, fuck you’re exhausted, trying to focus on him now.

“I forgive you, Suguru.”

“Should you?” His whisper is soft when you lay back against him again, arms wrapped around his waist.

“Probably not, but I do. I just… want you to never leave me. Promise, please.” You whisper against where his chest is bare, the wind gently rushing across your faces, while he holds you nestled in his arms.

“I promise, Princess. I will never leave you again.”

*****

One year later

You hold your sweet baby Noa against your chest as Suguru puts Mimiko and Nanako to bed, they’re giggling and kissing all over her as they always love to do, but Suguru gently chides them. “Girls, you know it’s well past bedtime.”

“We can help mom with Noa though!” Mimiko crosses her arms, and you smile at her, brushing her hair back.

“I appreciate all your help, but Noa is going to sleep too.” You peek at her precious face, she looks a lot like you but has Suguru’s silky black locks already, too much hair for a little baby to have. And her eyes have the darkest lashes, just like her father, who ruffles both of the girls’ hair now, chuckling.

“Boba tomorrow from your favorite place if you don’t argue.” His sing-song voice works.

“Fine dad.” They say simultaneously, and then the girls kiss you all before finally bouncing off to their rooms, leaving you and Suguru to head toward the nursery, his arm around your waist as your bare feet pad across the floor.

“You always bribe those girls, you know.” He chuckles once more, a sound that’s much more frequent these days, opening up the door for you now, the moonlight filtering through the blinds, illuminating the pretty room, all decorated in pretty pinks and purple by the girls before Noa came.

“I mean, are you arguing the efficiency of these tactics?” Suguru teases, having gone from war tactics to bribery for time alone with you was something quite new to him, but it fit well. Everything felt…

Perfect with you.

With the girls.

With his sweet baby girl, who is already fast asleep against your chest, her pretty face serene as you brush a thumb against a chubby cheek, smiling tenderly, the moon casting shadows across your beautiful face. It fills him with so much tenderness it’s hard to even explain, the way you fit so perfectly, knowing you were the missing piece, filling the void he let grow too long.

Your love for Noa was beautiful to see, of course Suguru adores his little girl, but you were so devoted and constant, also in your love to his girls. Since you met them you were kind, but once you all left and moved out of the country and spent more time, you were fiercely protective and loving of them like they were your own, and the girls had even started calling you mom.

Everything felt too good, and sometimes Suguru wonders if he deserves any of it, any of this happiness, love or joy that you brought him. You look up at him then, a sweet smile on your face, and he walks up to the pretty little white bassinet, brushing Noa’s downy hair back and smiling.

“She looks milk drunk again.” He teases, you shush him, a finger to the lips, a smile on your face.

“She might be, but you know…” your fingertips drift down his chest, over the silk of his robes, making his stomach clench hot with desire. He's been dying to have you, but you two were waiting until you healed up after a bit of a rough labor. The look you give him now makes him ache for you. “I’m feeling very good tonight. I think I pumped enough to have a glass of wine?”

“Fuck…” You cover your giggle and he sighs, hands clenching against your waist too tightly, before releasing you with an exhale. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He exhales and takes your hand, gently tugging you so that you both shut the door quietly of Noa’s room, pressing you against the wall now, arms on either side of your head.

“You’re so excited for wine, Suguru.” You whisper, and you know you fuck with him, he knows you’re aware of the affect you have on him, when you look at him like that under your lidded gaze. “You haven’t gone without drinking, why are you so excited?”

“I’ve gone without drinking alright…” His insinuation makes your cheeks heat up, a blush in the dark, quiet hallway. Although Suguru did have a maids, a cook and a nanny to help you, the home was far quieter than it was with a whole fucking cult living in it. It was much more intimate, private, even though it was hard for you both to get time together alone.

A lot of times, you were exhausted, but you’re wide awake now. All you can do is think about how badly you want him, the most you all have done is months was him toying your clit till you came, and you sucking him down your throat last week when you two had woken up.

He’d been ready to ‘drink you’ last night when the baby started crying, and he’d waited for you to come back only to find you crashed in the rocking chair with Noa. He’d almost had that damn taste on his tongue, but he knows how devoted you are, and fuck he was too, but if he didn’t get to fuck her soon, he was going to lose his fucking mind. 

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, his hair falling softly against your skin as he leans down, eyeing your lips. “What wine do you want, Princess?” He asks, at your command, fuck Suguru is practically ready to kiss your feet if you just let him sink inside you again.

The entire pregnancy until right about the end he’d not left you alone, you were too beautiful, your tits leaking milk, your hips widening to have his baby, the roundness of your tummy, every single mark the baby left. He couldn’t stop devouring you the entirety of it, couldn’t control how sexy you were pregnant, and you’re so beautiful now.

“Some red wine, Sugu. Please.” The nickname always destroys him, he almost falters and just fucks you right in this hallway, instead trying to hold himself together and nodding, gesturing for you to follow.

You both walk slowly to the kitchens, where he opens up one of the wine fridges, and pulls out a bottle of your favorite, one you have had one sip on right after the baby as a little treat. Your cute little squeal of excitement makes him laugh in amusement, pouring you a glass as you watch the dark red liquid swirl.

“Don’t drink too much, you’re gonna be so wasted from like two sips.”

“Will not be! Gimme.” You snatch it up, fingers brushing against his, igniting sparks through the both of you, your eyes meeting his, dark violet in the dimly lit kitchens, he doesn’t let go until you pull back, taking a shaky breath. “Mmm!”

“Yummy?” He pours his own glass, eyeing you over it, the look filling your tummy with more heat than the wine pouring down your throat could, warming you all over.

“So yummy.” You step closer, sipping the sweet liquid, some of it slipping across your lips, and he groans.

“Fuck this.” He sets your glass down and you gasp.

“Excuse me, rude! I can’t have a glass after having your baby?”

“You can have a whole fucking bottle later.” You’re lifted right on the counter, making you so dizzy at how quickly he’s got you lifted, letting out a shaky breath when he slides up the silk of your yukata, watching goosebumps rise against your skin with every inch revealed. “I think I need a drink first.”

“Sugu- ah!” He’s bent down as you’re spread wide on the kitchen counter, kissing a hot messy trail up your thighs, cock throbbing under his robes, already leaking precum just inhaling the scent of your cunt. Your head falls back, revealing your pretty throat as you cry out, arching your hips. “F-fuck…”

“Gonna cum from my breath, huh? Pathetic.” You scowl now, kicking at him with your foot, but he just catches it, smirking up at you as he leans up, his lips a breath against yours, fingers brushing over your bare cunt, and groaning. “No panties, were you wanting this?”

“Of course I w-was, you think I wanted wine?” He moans, slamming his lips against yours, fingers running up and down your slit, your clit twitches when he focuses there, running in circles and making you close just from that. You cling to his silk robes, soft and thick under your fingers, while his tongue starts trailing across your neck, tickling and making you wetter.

“I can’t wait to fuck this perfect cunt again, make you remember that she’s fucking mine.” He’s back down between your thighs as your head rests against the cabinets, uncomfortable as the marble counter is cold under your ass, but all you can think is more.

“Show me then.” He moans softly, on his knees now, so fucking tall he’s counter height to your cunt, and your hands enwrap in his soft raven locks when he presses a hot kiss right against your cunt, watching as you jerk, breathing against you.

“Keep it quiet, slutty little princess, huh?” You nod weakly, fuck it’s been so long since he’s spoken to you like that, since he’s worshipped you like this, and you don’t think you can ever got this long again, not when his tongue laps at your honeyed arousal, making you scream out against your palm. “Fuck… taste your cunt, god she’s so wet f’me, huh?”

“Yes…” You weakly whisper, pulling your hand back just to slam it on your mouth again, the manor you live in is huge but you still don’t want to be that noisy, though it’s damn near impossible as his long tongue slides inside your gummy walls, curling up and making you almost cum from that. “Fuck, fuck!”

“Mnh…” He’s lost then, lost in your taste, in the way your cunt drools down his face, hot and sweet as he drinks it all in, slurping you up while you shatter for him, falling apart with every flick and swirl of his tongue. Your legs start to tremble and he grabs them, spreading them wider, and you can feel your orgasm building up, his teeth nibbling on your clit as you try to keep quiet.

“G-going to cum!” You whisper, but it’s too late, your cunt clenched around his tongue, walls quivering while he curls it up, his nose now hitting your clit, and you let out a muffled scream, eyes rolling back into your head as you cum. “Suguru!”

“That’s it,” he’s sliding his tongue out, sticking two fingers instead, you gasp at the thick, long digits in your cunt, untouched for months, the stretch making you hiss. Your hips are bucking against the counter while he looks up under dark lashes, licking your cunt off his lips. “Another, you can, can’t you princess?”

You nod weakly, and he’s curling those fingertips up against your spongy spot, making you blinded, back down there lapping at your clit and feeling you tighten all around him, that pressure a telltale sign that you’re gonna cum so much for him. “Ah!” You cry out again, biting your lower lip so hard while your head slams the cabinet and you gush down him, orgasm rocking you in waves. “Sugu, too much!”

“You can take more, won’t you be a perfect slut for me? You know you wanna cum again and again. Wanna drown me with all that cum, huh?” His words and their tone fuck you up almost as much as his breath on your clit, while he holds you there, his tongue flicking until your legs finally stop shaking and you collapse, breathing weakly, hands tugging at his hair, burning his scalp.

“Please, fuck me Sugu. God, I need it in me.” Your plea is not going to be denied, not when Suguru almost came from just licking you. He kisses you again, letting you taste your sweetness off his mouth, burying his hands in your hair before picking you up, and you cling to his neck, legs wrapped around him.

“You want it in you, huh?” You just nod weakly, letting him carry you to the room you two share, in moments he has the yukata untied.

“Want it, want it in me so bad- ngh!” Suguru has bared your skin to his gaze, your body swathed in moonlight, for a moment you cover up just a bit, your tummy isn’t the same, and he’s not seen you too much since, earning his glare, as he grips your wrists and eases your arms down.

“You’re as beautiful as the first moment I saw you, so beautiful you made me question if you had some fucking power over me.” He says softly then, easing your worry, a hand brushing over a glimmery mark from Noa, slipping over to your hip and gripping it firmly, watching you tremble in pleasure. “The most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen, got it?”

You nod weakly, swallowing emotions as you quickly untie his robes, revealing his toned, perfect body, your hands shake as they touch his chest, feeling his strong muscles under your fingers. “You’re beautiful, too.”

“Shh.” He picks you up now, cock hard and heavy, already leaking precum when he picks you up, lifting your thigh as you sink into the bed, over the dark purple and gold silk covers, the black canopy enveloping the two of you in darkness. The incense lit earlier still linger in the air, mixing with the scent of Suguru, which makes you need him even more.

“Please, please…” You never beg, he wants to smirk down at you and gloat his victory, but he can't. All he can do is slide his tip right on your slit, groaning as he presses in, feeling your heat wrapping his cock.

“Fucking feel you, so tight, god. Slutty cunt is soaked, all for me?” You nod weakly, and then he thrusts his cock all the way inside to the fucking hilt, and you can’t bite back your scream, thankful the room is so far from the girls now, as he watches you and moans, sliding out and back in. “That’s it, she wants it so much, she’s so fucking greedy huh?”

“Shut up and f-fuck me- ah!” Suguru glares as he does just that, and you would smile at getting him all mad if you weren’t close to cumming from being so full, so stretched by his thick veiny cock.

“Talking shit? You’re still such a brat, tsk.” He’s raised your thighs then, bending you in a way you don’t think you can anymore, pausing when you whine out. “Here okay?” He asks softly, for a moment, then when you nod his sweetness is over, and Suguru Geto is fucking you hard, sure strokes that fuck your brain up until it can’t even function.

He knows it too, as he fucks into you, watching you shatter for him, balls slapping against your ass so heavy, so full of his seed ready to pump inside your eager hole, and you’re begging to be filled by him as he moves. Harder and harder, pressing your thighs further against you until he’s got you in a mating press, and you’re clinging to his biceps, nails digging in.

“That’s it, cum again, let me fucking feel you milk me, huh?” He’s nasty like this, filthy words flowing from his lips like poetry, and all you can do is nod - a girl who once said ‘fuck you’ is now saying-

“Fuck me, fuck me, please, yes!”

And Suguru delights in it, making his pretty wife a mess under him, feeling the hips that are wider from having his babies, seeing your breasts squish, a little milk leaking from them, and then he loses it. “Perfect cunt, she’s ready for all this cum, isn’t she?”

“Mnnnhh - ah! Suguru!” You’re unable to answer when he’s holding your thighs up and slamming his cock until you’re drooling, incoherent.

“Asked you - hah - a question, princess,” he has the audacity to say, in between heavy breaths, all you can do is cry out, as he holds back then, just when you’re about to cum, making you whine out. “Answer.”

“You’re such a - ah! - dick I swear, just lemme cum!” You’re digging your nails in his back so hard you leave marks, and he hisses, but you just turn him on more, making him fuck into you brutally now, pinning you under him so you can’t even squirm.

“Answer me.”

“No!”

“Now.”

“Fuck- ngh! Yes, yes, lemme cum, fuck!” He slams his cock deep and rolls his hips now, letting you finally cum all around him, milking his cock with your greedy cunt, he leans down and kisses you, swallowing your every sweet cry.

“That’s it, she wants all that cum, huh?” You nod weakly, tears of pleasure sneaking from the corners of your eyes, and then he pumps you full, moaning and entwining his hands with yours as the cum pulses so deep, and the two of you struggle to catch your breath. “Fuck, princess, taking me so good, huh? Made for me…”

“Mmhmm…” You’re breathless and exhausted when Suguru pulls back, kissing down and across your chest. The two of you lay there for a while each recovering, laughing, and tickling each other’s skin with gentle touches, grinning.

It’s so perfect here with him in this moment. All of the pain feels like a lifetime ago, not forgotten, but long, long forgiven.

“I’m never going this long without your perfect cunt again.” He touches your clit, making you jerk, laughing as he sucks your cum and his off his finger, moaning and kissing you again.

“I don’t wanna go that long either.” You sigh, kissing up his cheek now. “You know, I was thinking…” you trail off, slipping kisses across Suguru’s sweat slicked chest, he moans, his cock so sticky with cum pulsing again just at that, while his hand runs up and down your back.

“Should I fuck you again, so you can’t think?” He raises an arrogant dark brow, and you narrow your eyes, making him chuckle. “What?

“Well… I was thinking we should visit him.”

“VIsit who? Fuck…” You kiss at the base of his neck, making him tug you onto him, straddling his waist, cunt still coated and dripping his white milky liquid pouring down his dark happy trail, pooling in his flat belly button. He rubs your clit again, watching your eyes dilate, your hips shift. “God, look at the mess you’re making.”

“Mmhmm, but I mean visit Satoru.” Suguru’s scowl makes you giggle, he’s unreasonably jealous that you and Satoru stayed friends. It’s occasional calls, but he’s always mad as fuck afterward.

“Why are we bringing up Satoru when you’re dripping cum on me?” He slips you down, grabbing your hips now, thumbs pressing against the lines that Noa left, eyes feasting on your pretty body. “Look at you, fuck you’re perfect.”

“Am not even.”

“You are so perfect. C’mere.” He yanks you down now, your hair falling across his chest, as he cups your face with one hand, the other making you grind on him. You cry out at the contact, earning his smirk. “Shut you up.”

“N-no! I think it would be good f-for you- you’re distracting me!?”

“Sure am.” You pull up and scowl, so adorable he melts like he always does, sighing as he stares up at you in the dark night. “Fine, we can visit him.”

“Yay! It’ll be good for you, your friend seeing you again. I know it.”

“Yeah yeah, we’ll talk about that after I put another baby inside you.” You gasp then, when he’s lifted you, dragging you right back down his length, filling you in one quick stroke, making you scream out, shaking as the burn hits, feeling so fucking good when he bottoms out in your cunt, loud, wet and messy. He bites that lower lip, lashes lowering, while you struggle to breathe.

“You use your cock to distract me, huh?” He answers with a smirk, slamming his cock up inside you then, you cling to his chest, while his hands drift you your hips, and your cunt is spasming. “No more babies yet.”

“Sure, Princess, whatever you say.” You both glare at each other, before they turn into faces of pleasure, before joking little teases morph into cries and moans, before he’s filled you up again, and again, until you’re collapsed against him, so weak and worn out.

You don’t believe him one bit when he’s waking you up and fucking into you, cumming inside you so much your tummy is full of him, not when he grips your chin with that feral look in his fucking eyes - no, Suguru Geto does want more babies, and you can’t say you mind. Not when having his baby was the best thing that happened, and not when you aren’t dying to give him more.

“I love you, Princess.” He murmurs, stroking you from behind, you gasp and arch your back, whining into his kisses.

“I love you, Suguru.” And you fall again, into the arms of a man that once was a monster, but now was simply…

Your Suguru.

Ahhh so if you read both ends, I hope you enjoyedd, if you only read this I also hope you enjoyed. I initially only planned the bittersweet end, but I enjoyed writing this SO MUCH. Thanks for everyone who stuck around and commented and shared your thoughts on this story. See you in the othersss <3

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[likesomeoneinlovee]

𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x F!reader

Word count: 4110

Summary: Joel’s knees don’t work like they used to. So, he much rather sit back, relax, and have your entire ass and pussy in his face.

Warnings: PORN-NO-PLOT. Assplay, old!Joel, light degradation, sixty-nine, oral F!receiving & M!receiving, old man Joel and his weak knees. Power-play? If you squint. He’s 61 but I’m gettin’ him to SIXTY-NINE! Lazy aftercare scene. One singular spank.

A/N: This is a repost! If you think you saw this before you probably have. I just couldn’t let something I spent 1 sleepless night on go to waste. Anyway, this song fucks harder than Joel.

Slut.

It was on the tip of his tongue as your fingertips traced around the waistband of his boxers. His soft stomach just barely aproning over the elastic. 

Fourth time this week you had him in his room, half naked after dry swallowing one of those small, baby blue pills to get his dick up. First time doing it midday, sun shining in from his bedroom windows, curtains wide open. Shamelessly, he liked it– the thrill he got from the thin chance of someone seeing the real reason you’ve been walking with a limp, a certain shake in your knees all week. 

“Quit teasin’, Sweets. He’s all ready.”

You weren’t blind, just patient. He should be glad your own hormones weren’t constantly leading your mind. Unlike his. Though, spotting the writhe beneath the fabric, that dark spot blooming against the grey cotton. You’d be mad if you didn’t feel the sight, like a punch straight to the ovaries. 

‘May I?”

Joel almost laughed, you were never keen on formalities. It sounded unnatural. 

A nod was all you were given, eyes meeting his which were currently kept guarded by the lenses of those red framed bifocals. 

You leaned in, brushing soft, careful lips over the strain in his briefs, over the curve of seven-and-a-half inches compacted into a forced bow against the fabric. You knew what was to come once the fabric was down to his thighs, a sinful slap against the thick of his belly. Though, that being said; your index still trembled as she went in, curving around his waistband and–

THUMP.

Chest first into the tempur-pedic. 

Your jaw slacked as you felt the wind knocked out of you, briefly. Like the time you fell off your bed back first when you were six. Though this time, instead of a cry it was a moan. Deep from your gut. 

You weren’t as exhibitionistic as Mr. Miller, here. The thought of someone hearing– particularly someone you know. A face you have to see and god forbid greet every day, that’s what made your cheeks red. Your nose pressed down into his duvet, a heady smell of unwashed sex and every-day musk radiating through every stitch. Hoping to Christ the heavy comforter would be able to muffle the pornography shrilling out from your throat. Unlike Joel, shame weighed heavy on your conscience, especially when he was making you whimper just from broad hands with a firm touch, which was currently following the wave of your hip. Thumbs pressing into the gives between the bones, making you–

“Fffffffffffu–huccccckkk.” 

In other words, your tummy hurt. 

Your hips tilted out, his hands palmed your ass through your underwear– white, lace. It boggles his mind to even think where the fuck you found them. Tugging them down to the backs of your knees. It was all he needed.

Joel Miller knew he had you cryin’ every time he did this. Thrusts harmonizing with creaky hips that weren’t shy of sounding like they needed a fucking oil change. You’ve gotten used to it. Began counting them to see how many audible snaps of Miller’s pelvis will it take to cum this time? 

“‘Gonna take care of you today, sweetpea.” He murmurs. 

It was always more- how do you put it, mutual? If it wasn’t the headboard slamming, cervix kissing sex it’d be you on your knees, cheeks stuffed full’a cock after Joel’s been out all day. Thick cum riding the slippery slope down your throat. It wasn’t that Joel hadn’t ate you out before, made you into a proper meal. Though, there was a genuine excuse: this man’s sixty-one year old knees couldn't be put under stress. 

And lucky for you, you liked the taste of spend and the smell of musk as your face buried into his pubes. You liked the sore jaw, shaky knees. You liked doing it in his study, looking up to find fogged lenses of his bifocals. Resting your head on his thigh with a bitten cheek before placing the final kiss to his belly. 

It was fun. Made your pelvis boil and your head fog. As a real man’s cock should.

Broad hands now held around your thighs, one loosened, giving the back of your leg, the soft spot directly under your ass-cheek a lovely pat-pat-pat. 

His tall finger delved forward to the back of your folds, right at your entrance where he can feel the leak that had sprung by his touch. You hummed, wriggling your hips back into the touch. 

“Mm, m’ready, Joel.” 

“Mm-mm” He shook his head. “Need’s some more o’me.” 

Tsk-ing at your advance. You weren’t in the mood for his relentless teasing. Feeling, touching, carving heat into every inch. Though, even so it was hard not to enjoy. You breathed into the plushness of blankets, scooting yourself an inch- two inches further back. Your ass pressing against the palm of his hand. 

“So wet here.” He rubbed that finger through your labia, that build up of slick and arousal coating age-spotted skin. You pouted.

“Need’ya wet–” He paused, trailing a slick digit between your cheeks, tapping it against that foreign spot, the tight, clenched ‘o’ of muscle. “-Here.” 

You sucked in a breath, a sharp one. Fingers, on instinct, curling around the comforter. Not in your wildest fucking fantasies. –Well, yeah, but not the one you thought would come true– Miller’s finger pressed against a pure hole for the first time since you’ve started fucking. You almost forgot it was an option. You almost forgot old fuckers like Joel got off on that shit. 

This shit.

“S’been a while.” Joel drawled, the pad of his finger tracing a circle around the live rim. Nerves finally picking up on the vulgarity. You whined.

He couldn’t believe you whined. A moan, a cry, a chant of his name from panting lips from deep within your heaving chest– but a whine. Like a puppy begging for a treat. 

“You like that?”

He applied the smallest bit of pressure, just enough for your ass to draw a kiss to his fingertip. Joel grinned, mean.

“Barely fuckin’ touched you, babygirl.” 

Your stomach sunk, cunt throbbed and swelled with no finger, nothing to relieve all that tension. All before his middle finger– the same one slicked and lubed with juice bubbling from your pussy into your lips, now pressed in, just enough to invade that virgin ring. Your back arched, you wanted to scream. Gnawing on the rolled foldover of the duvet. 

Your legs twitched and your hips bared down. It was too tight, It didn’t even compare to your cunt, even before Joel- an unpopped cherry, freshly chewed fingernails and a dream. The dream of you making yourself cum on your own fingers. Spoiler alert: sitting there, pumping fingers two inches in, stopping because you’re too scared to go deeper isn’t the way to get off. Especially not with stress in your belly and the constant thought of “Holy fuck, I can’t wait for the real thing.” Looped and singing through your mind. 

Now you had the real thing. In-and-out and successful every time. Joel did that. 

And Joel was doing this too–

A more violent breed of butterflies fluttered in your tummy. Joel felt your hole pulse around nothing. Nothing more than a pressing fingertip in which he slowly pulled away. You whimpered. 

“Dirty girl, huh?” He drew. “Should’a told me you liked this sooner. Would’a been glad to play with ‘er.” 

Oh, fuck him.

The problem was he would’ve, you shouldn’t be surprised, honest. His body curved over your own, the bare, firmness of his chest pressed up against your back. Skin-on-skin, tummy slouched heavy to your lower back, rocking against your lumbar. 

The sudden weight and comfort of your old man made your body relax, slightly, less tense. Though, those eyes were still wide, pupils shaky, jaw slacked against the bed. You hissed this time as you felt it again. This time, a dry, thick thumb.

An assumption that the slick dragged from your pussy to your ass would be enough, it was dumb. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Tsk.

“No, that won’t do, Pretty.” He tapped against the knot, “‘Less she’s plannin’ on easing up, ‘ere.” 

“Joel.” You heaved. 

“‘Less she wants my tongue.” 

If a single finger wasn’t pure sin already, this was. 

He started to slink his body down, broad palms massaging their way down from your ribs, to the inward curve of your waist, hips. Thighs. All the while his body traveled with, nose drawing a line down the divot of your spine. His thorny, greying beard prickled down sensitive skin. 

Then, a weighty kiss was planted against your lower back. His pouty bottom lip reaching your tailbone all before his knees hit the ground.

Too. Fucking. Hard.

“MotherFUCKER–!”

Not only had the feeling shot into his lower back but once his shins joined the hardwood there was a painfully rhythmic snap, crackle and pop that came from his joints. 

It was his body’s kind reminder, he was far from twenty-one. 

“Jesus Christ, Joel.” 

You had breathed, body still in tremors though for a split second you had been transported outside of your haze to check on your old man. Head straining over your shoulder only to see the top of his grey curls peaking over your ass– at least, from your point-of-view.

“Not a word, Kiddo.” He couldn’t help but grumble, turning quickly into a drawn groan as he strained to stand back up. One foot back flat onto the floor, then, slowly came the next. He fisted the mattress, stabilizing himself as he got back on stiff legs. 

He was so fucked.

Your chest would swell against the covers, before releasing a breath. Still involuntarily twitching, shuddering every time you heard an uneven breath, a grunt as he stood. You felt your insides convulse. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” There was a subtle pause, chewing on your bottom lip before–

“old man.” 

He blinked. 

And in a sigh, he shifted close once again. One hand would raise as if to wave before landing a heavy hit to your ass.

“Fu– fuck!”

Once was enough.

“Jo–el–!” 

 Especially after hearing you squeal as you did. His name falling between the cracks of your wail.

“What’d I tell you.” He’d tut. Palming the reddening skin, tingling as it flushed. “Stings, don’t it?”

Instinctively, your back arched into it. The burn was fucking nice. The calloused palms of his hands almost apologetically soothing over the blushing area of flesh. You don’t cry, you moan, deep and hearty like you fucking mean it. 

“Move. On the bed, Pumpkin. You’re drippin’.” 

Dripping would be an understatement. 

Though, obeying Joel’s words, you find yourself hiking a knee over the side of a bed. Then the other, elbows being your way of travel as you heeded on all fours. You were sickeningly willing. Always and forever, for your old man. 

Once you made it to the middle of the queen you allowed your body to rest up on your shins. Keeping an as-picture-perfect-as-you-could posture. Curving your spine, sitting, perched like a cat, silently waiting for her treat. 

Joel, meanwhile; tugged down his boxers, letting them rest around his thighs, heavy balls hanging over the hem. Cock standing against his tummy. A river of cloudy obscenity dribbling from his slit. His brows would pinch together with each step, lips pursing as he let himself drop into his bed. The comfortable cradle where his body lays every night– the slight imprint his body has left in the mattress from five years of settling in that same spot routinely. One-thousand, eight-hundred and twenty-six days. 

His thighs would spread ever-so-slightly, almost to coax you. When he realized you were waiting for a vocal command, he allowed his head to fall against his pillow. Worn with musk- smelled dry. If, that made any sense. 

“Still wanna taste you.” He stated. 

There was a beat.

“Sure you’d just fuckin’ love to do the same f’me.” 

He was right. In fact, he’s never been more correct in the full sixty-one years his presence has graced this putrid earth. And fuck him for that. 

A grounding breeze gently pushed through the window that Joel had opened earlier- a slit. Barely that. The mattress would give against the palms of your hands as you crawled over to him. Almost out of instinct going to straddle over his thighs, but then, rectified yourself quickly. 

Your hands would cup over his shins to get the right pose on him. You feel a familiar, warm palming against the back of your thighs. Feeling, examining. Pathing a calloused digit from the pit of your knee up to the fattiest part of your thighs. Right underneath your buttcheek. 

“Don’t be shy.” He presses. 

And you’d reiterate, once again. Fuck him.

He was lucky enough you chose to spend your days and nights adulterating with him. Wasting time that could easily be spent meaning something. Though, who could be bothered with productivity at times like these. Especially as with every orgasm the weight of the world seems to ease up as well. 

A better mood, a better day. Though, more strenuous for Joel’s joints. Shame. 

You arched back, hips up as you pushed the plush of your ass against his face, his facial hair ticklish against the pillowy skin. Your stomach fell. Your breasts squished against his lower belly, hands finding purchase on the meat of his thighs, breath coming out in slow, balancing puffs. 

The tip of your nose pressed against the grey, wiry curls that laid a crown of thorns around his base. Nostrils flaring as you inhaled the heady– fuckin’ dizzying smell that came within. 

Your parted lips would ghost over the thick vein that ran along the underside of his shaft. The tip of your tongue cautiously laid flat against his cock. Slowly, running up, tasting the salt of his skin. In return, Joel’s teeth nipped at your ass cheek. His own tongue began seeking the taste of you, slacking his jaw the slightest, sinking between your crack once delved past his lips, lapping a stripe from the pink-ish pucker his finger had prodded earlier, down to where you needed him the most. 

One single lick. 

One single lick and your hips involuntarily pushed back into the warmth of his mouth. The wetness of his tongue. It all felt so–

“GOOD–!” 

A loud shrill of that pretty word was consequence of Joel’s tongue flicking against your overly sensitive, all around deprived folds, and a solid thumbing against your rim. You thought he’d be done with her by now. 

One problem: his window. Still open a crack, though we all know a crack is enough. Well, how do we know? Maybe last week, you were walking down the road to get to Miller’s to drop off supplies he had asked for. The window cracked, noises that’d you’d think to only hear coming from a hormonal sixteen year old boy’s bedroom as he jerks off to an old Playboy. 

“Sh–shut up, baby.” He’d murmur, vibrations of his softened voice tickling at your cunt. “Don’t wanna be the talk of the town, now do we?” 

Good point. Great point. Because of course, you definitely would love for that to happen. 

You wanted to sob.

One of his hands slithered down to your stomach, rubbing over the flesh as he pulled you back some.

“Now, why don’cha try stuffin’ those pretty cheeks so there ain’t a worry ‘bout no outburst.” 

A weak ‘mhm’ hummed through the air as you pushed lower, instead of palms the sides of your forearms were keeping you up. The warm light of the afternoon casting a glow onto his head, you savored this sight, taking a moment to wet your lips once more before you’d strike. 

The heaviness of his dick lugged forward against your lips, a kiss was pressed gently, all-too lovingly against his tip before you opened your mouth, flattened your tongue and glided him inside warm, comforting walls. It was just the head at first, suckling sweetly upon the flushed cap of his girth– tentative and teasing, though, his hips rutted up, forcing himself back another inch. 

Your hand wrapped around the base, squeezing him with no real mercy behind the pressure. It was his fault for being this size, your fingers couldn’t even fully meet on the underside. And you’d say it a third time for good measure: fuck. Him. 

Fourth, fuck him for being so big. And fifth, fuck him for tasting like a drink of heaven every time. 

Miller’s mouth hadn’t fell short either, curling his tongue between the swell of your folds, still, impossibly soaked. Never-been-kissed sorta wetness.

 Or, a kiss to a secretive place after you promised your parents no man will ever touch you before two ‘I do’s

Your hips rocked back against his face as he gave you the stimulation that made your knees kick, stomach tense. Walls clench, empty without the fleshy muscle of his tongue. You whined, you missed it. You were all achy for it– he knew that. 

He was the one fuckin’ feeling that. 

A searing kiss captured your cunt, upper lip soft against the tender bridge of skin between your pussy and your ass. The tip of his tongue flicked against your entrance just like it would your mouth, same way he’d turn a soft kiss into an invasion. His tongue delved as far as he could reach, two, just barely teetering three inches. 

You’d moan again, it’d be louder if it weren’t for the fact his cock was stuffing against your left cheek. The tip of your own tongue traced around a bulging vein. For a breather– you were drowning, after all– you’d pull back with an obscene ‘pop!’. Breathe. Watch the long, sticky string of precum connect from his head to your swollen lips, admiring how it’d glisten in the sunlight like the prettiest of silk. Then, slowly bare your mouth back onto his needy, old dick. 

There was a violent twitch against the hollow of your tongue, another moan into your hole. Your arms were shaking as you supported your weight, feeling his thighs twitch beneath your elbows. Though, it still didn’t seem like enough. Every grunt, breathless hum into the mound of swell he was eating like a five-star meal should tell you just how pleasurable it really was. 

You wanted more. 

So, you’d give him ‘more’. 

You remembered what had stuck from your friends ramblings of what-they-don’t-teach-in-sex-Ed. Relax your throat, ease up. Breathe through your fucking nose most of all. 

Joel had been too distracted to notice the feeling of his cock sheathing further into your mouth, stretching your lips into a wide gape. Up until he felt a spasm of your throat, a sickly squelch from the back of your throat before he felt the tightness. How your belly stopped rising and falling– for the time being, you couldn’t breathe.

“Motherfuck– Oh–!” He had to fall back, his nose still inhaling the sweet scent of slick as he let out that throaty, deep moan. 

“Ssssssssss–lut” He hissed.

You swear you paused for a moment, movement haltering. 

Slut? 

Looks like it had finally found a way past his lips. 

And fuck, was it delicious.

You hummed around the length, eyes squeezed as the watery build up that had been pricking your eye finally slipped down your cheekbone, past the flush of your face. Cruelly, your gentle touching fingertips tapped against his balls, they were full, undeniably warm. You traced a fingernail up the seam–

He was supposed to be the cruel one.  

“Stop.”

A single command muffled into your pussy, burying his face further into you. It was killin’ him and it was sure as hell killing you. 

“Focus.” His thumb moved between your slit, tapping firm against your clit before speaking yet again:

“Focus. Focus on my cock, Honey. He’s needin’ you.” 

His voice almost sounded pained. He was right there. ‘Few more bobs of your head, almost wishing he could just reach and tug your hair, shove your head down til’ you got your throat filled, voice breaking once he’s done from his head kissing against your voice box.

He was horrible. That should be a well known fact by now. 

It was all growing stronger now, the feelings– all that god-sent, mutual stimulation making thighs twitch and knees kick. Joel’s tongue swirled your opening, thumb rolling back and forth, up and down ‘stead of round and round over your erect clit. Back arched like a cat in heat. 

Body returning to tremors. Neither of you could deny the inevitable. 

You felt that now too familiar feeling in the low of your stomach. Every shift of his thumb against the bud making you spin, those butterflies bit now. Or, maybe they had tiny cowboy hats and lassos to tie your insides up into a tight knot. 

Your tongue laid one last desperate lick flat along his inches, allllllllll the way up to his head where your lips settled for the last few sucks. Now, he was just rambling. All fingers. Mouth slick with juices, beard glistening with that clear, slightly bubbly substance:

“Gonna cum for daddy again? Fuckin’ greedy little girl, slobberin’, makin’ a mess’a me.” 

Babbling.

“I feel it,” He began. “Feel you pulsin’. Body’s begging for it, baby. Let ‘er go.”

Toes bent, eyes squeezed as you felt that numbing beat throughout your cunt, legs, even arms going that ticklish kind of numb. Things went quiet for a moment.

Then, you released a profane wail against his cock. Eyes squeezing as you POPPED! Yourself off the length, watching it flop back, standing straight as your hips fell down onto his chest, the warmth of the muscle soothing your crying cunt as you road it out. The soft skin felt like a warm kiss to soothe that ache that made you sweat. 

His hands gripped your waist, adjusting and sliding your body down to his thick middle, watching your hips grind from behind, lower back arch. Your heart painfully hammered against your ribs as you desperately tried to catch all the oxygen lost within the last twenty-five minutes, dwindling throughout the heavy air in the room. 

“Thas’ it. Good girl.” He cooed. “Ride ‘er out.”

Sixth, fuck him for soft praise afterwards. 

The hand attached to his person moved to his pulsating cock, gripping it firm right in the middle as he tilted it back, sliding his fist up and down the slick skin. Rubbing his thumb angrily through the split. 

His tummy heaved beneath your recovering cunt. Still weak, still shaky. You swore your eyes had only been closed for a minute until you heard him– 

“FUCK.” 

Until you felt him. 

Warmth painting your belly white, dripping down your navel, down to the sweet, pretty skin of your pussy. Your hand ran down to smear it, rubbing his spend into your skin like it was healing. Like it was something sacred. Fuck this, to you, it was. 

You could always count on the patter of the shower to drown out any thoughts of regret. Not that you had many, anyway.

The warm water cascaded down your bodies. Relaxing aching muscles, comforting on your buzzing body. Joel’s hands softly but greedily palming your tits before slipping down to your stomach, feeling over the spot where his semen had laid just thirty-minutes ago. 

“Could’a had you ride me.” He murmured. “Would’a looked prettier in you.” 

He nipped against your earlobe, inhaling the scent of freshly shampooed hair. 

It was more than foolish to think about children whatsoever in the state of this godforsaken earth. You weren’t even sure you were cut out to be a mother anyway– it wasn’t on your mind much. Unless Joel was behind you liked this, muttering sweet daydreams about it against the side of your neck. 

“Oh, stop it.” You’d giggle, impishly. 

God help him. Thinking with his dick ninety-nine percent of the time. 

“Besides, don’t you think you’re a little too young for kids, Miller?” 

You’d jab, in return he’d lay a much more gentle tap to your ass with his palm, a silent fuck you. His first, as of today. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve had enough of you today, y’know that?”

His touch was tooth-rottingly sweet. Kissing down your neck, nibbling down your shoulder. Each freckle worshipped individually. The thick of his gut was smooth against your back, he was so close. All it was– him, you,

and the memory of the foul pop of his legs as he kneeled. Fucking yikes, Miller.

[mariasont]

PRIORITIES & PRETTY THINGS - A.H

your beauty routine is sacred, but so is aaron's favorite way to decompress. looks like tonight you'll have to manage both

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, smutty smut, kinda free use policy, hotch using u for stress relief, p in v, twinkie (boycotting the name creampie), alexa play CPR by cupcake, AFAB, fem!reader, praise, dirty talk, aftercare, maybe a little breeding kink? talk about kids for like a singular line at the end, also mention of their first kiss which can be read here but not necessary to understand wc: 2.9k

Your love affair with beauty did not have the glamorous, instantaneous sparkle like most people choose to assume. In truth, it began behind a bedroom door barricaded tight against preteen anxieties, something that was constructed by braces flashing in garish shades of bubblegum pink and galaxy purple and bangs unevenly chopped by an overly eager parent.

Yet, somehow, fumbling with frosty blue eyeshadow and watermelon-scented gloss taught you self-expression, how to build confidence from the ground up.

Puberty decided to throw you a bone eventually (thank god), but by then makeup had embedded itself as more than something done for vanity. You would consider it a soul-mate level connection nurtured through midnight eyeliner tutorials, endless afternoons reading magazine spreads, and racking up Sephora points that probably rivaled some small countries economies.

Aaron loves giving you endless grief about your overflowing vanity drawers. Overflowing being his word choice, by the way, not yours. He loves grumbling about the avalanche of cosmetic boxes spilling from your shared closet, loves sighing (dramatically) each time another package lands on your doorstep.

Your face looks perfect without this, he insists regularly, always cupping your cheeks so you’re forced to meet those sincere eyes of his. 

But he overplays his hand — all gooey-soft affection pulsing through his pupils, twitch tugging his mouth upward.

He would never actually begrudge something that makes you so shamelessly happy, even if your spending habits are probably sending him toward an emotional breakdown. Therapy’s overdue anyway, in your opinion.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, brings out Aaron’s inner drama king quite like watching you spend approximately a million years applying the very products he loves to call a sparkly money pit.

You’re wrist-deep in said sparkly money pit when Aaron materializes behind you. Not that it fazes you. Your boyfriend-detecting instincts are now advanced to border on psychic talent (and way hotter than being able to predict lottery numbers).

“Hi, handsome,” you greet, flicking your eyes up briefly to gift him your best flirty, mirror-reflected smile. 

You hope he’s sufficiently distracted by your lips to overlook the fact that you’re still nowhere near ready. And true to form, Aaron’s eyes drop obediently.

His fixation on your mouth is practically Pavlovian by now, something you first discovered when he walked headlong into a door frame mid-argument simply because you had pulled your lower lip through your teeth to avoid saying something that might’ve gotten you bent over his knee.

Needless to say, the fight was quickly forgotten, replaced by a much more enjoyable, hands-on type of interaction.

“Honey.”

You recognize that tone instantly, hearing it countless times before. It’s his signature prelude, a gentle warning shot before he points out the obvious — that Spencer and his girlfriend are undoubtedly sitting at your reserved table right now, politely studying menus, patiently pretending to understand your stylish definition of on time.

And then, right on cue, will come the entirely fair (but completely predictable) mention of your solemn promise to be ready to go the nanosecond his work call ended.

“Nearly ready, cross my heart. Just two more seconds. Okay, maybe three. But four tops. Five, like, absolutely worst-case scenario.”

Aaron’s fingertips skate possessively along your waist, slipping beneath your robe to reclaim their preferred real estate.

“I’m not particularly worried about being on time right now,” he murmurs into the shallow dip at your neck, nose nudging the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your mascara wand skips slightly, completely giving you away. Not that Aaron’s much better at hiding it, his poker face vanishes at moments like this, evident both in the rigid slope of his shoulders and (oh, hello there!) in the very prominent, enthusiastic proof making itself known against your ass.

“Yeah,” you giggle, bumping your hips back against him for emphasis. “I can feel how not worried you are.”

You struggle to fathom how he managed stress before you. Occasionally, you entertain yourself by picturing it — Aaron Hotchner being told to inhale deeply through a mindfulness app? Or earnestly attempting downward dog stretches in your living room? (You’d pay good money to see that.) Or perhaps he’d stress bake, an apron hugging his waist, forehead creased in the cutest serious-face as he glares suspiciously at measuring cups.

Each scenario gets progressively more funny and less believable.

Once, in those deceptively ‘innocent’ days before your relationship became official, you suggested Aaron adopt a new workout regime to help loosen that chronic, tightly wound demeanor of his. Admittedly, you were implying something a lot less treadmill-focused and considerably more… horizontal.

He diplomatically chose to ignore your entirely transparent proposition. Outwardly, anyway. 

What neither of you anticipated, however, was just how accurate your advice would prove. Because nothing drains Aaron’s tension faster than having you trapped beneath him, diligently working out every ounce of strain against your eagerly receptive body.

Which is precisely why, employing your best bedroom voice, you once generously offered Aaron permanent, round-the-clock access to you anytime the mood might arise. No rules, no red tape. Just full, unrestricted access to you.

In hindsight, you should have anticipated the lengthy, serious discussion that ensued after.

Your easy-going, no rules proposition quickly evolved into an impressively comprehensive negotiation, complete with detailed guidelines and exhaustive clarifications.

His eyebrows had knitted together with that intensity of his, repeatedly insisting that you were always in complete control, and then thoroughly checking — then double-checking, then triple-checking — that your consent was crystal clear, until your cheeks burned hot from the combination of embarrassment and sheer excitement. 

Emphasis on excitement.

Knowing him though, you weren’t necessarily too hopeful that he would actually take you up on your offer.

But when he did, it happened so fast, your brain hardly registered the transition from scrubbing dishes to being perched on the countertop, skirt punches around your waist and legs spread.

He’d walked in fresh from a meeting with Strauss, appearing completely unruffled except for the thunderclouds brewing darkly behind his eyes.

Without even a hint of warning, he had hoisted you up onto the island, plunging into you with such sudden decisiveness that all you managed was a surprised little squeak, fingers digging into his shoulders as he split you open in demanding strokes.

Afterward, he casually tucked himself away, tidying his clothes as if straightening his tie after an entirely routine briefing.

He leaned back against the countertop — yes, the one that had been slicked with both your juices — and resumed your unfinished dishes, nonchalantly asking, “Did you do anything interesting today?” like nothing had happened.

Your cheeks run hot at the memory.

“You do realize Spencer will totally freak if we’re late, right?”

“Then you’d better keep working on that makeup,” he murmurs, sliding his hands lower, “and I’ll handle my own priorities.”

Aaron never bothers fully stripping down when taking advantage of this arrangement. And you know that some part of you should be frustrated at that. It should promote at least some token complaint about fairness or reciprocity or whatever.

But instead, the sight of him, belt hitting to floor with a decisive thunk, pants unfastened just enough to take what he wants, well, it melts any kind of objection from your head, leaving only knees feeling more akin to jelly.

You barely suppress a shuddering breath as his cock springs free, hot and demanding against your thigh, marking your skin with a tacky trail of precum.

You attempt to steady your hand, refocusing on your left eye, guiding the wand in patient strokes from base to tip, each swipe sculpting them into perfectly fanned-out strands.

Aaron, however, is far less concerned with patience or perfection. His fingers hook into your robe, tugging it upward to reveal your hips and ass in one movement.

Goosebumps burst along your freshly moisturized skin at the exposure, and even so, you swear the air feels about ten degrees warmer. His right palm flattens between your shoulder blades, tipping you forward, presenting your body like an inviting dessert for ravenous eyes.

He positions himself between your folds, the thick tip of his cock flirting at your entrance before gliding over your puffy clit in sluggish, repeated motions. Your lips fall open on a soft, breathy gasp, eyes blinking dazedly around the blackened spoolie.

A very distant (and honestly not very reliable) part of your brain registers mild surprise at how soaked you’ve gotten. Which is stupid because you should really should expect it by now.

Being with Aaron has transformed you into a creature constantly on the edge, trembling in anticipation, your senses warped in a constant, intoxicating fog of lust.

Living together had only exacerbated that lust a thousandfold. You were constantly surrounded by his addictive pheromones, wrapped nightly in sheets saturated with his heat, body trained to climb him on any remotely available surface — the couch, the corner of his desk, the shower, the bed (obviously), and even once, tipsily, sprawled across the living room floor after a bottle of wine dissolved all remaining inhibitions.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Aaron whispers, dragging his head at your now sopping opening. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your pretty face before dinner.”

“Awh, baby, you know I look even better when I’m —” The retort snaps into a choked-off whine as he pushes into your cunt with one fluid thrust. 

Your wrist spasms without permission, sending the mascara wand skidding haphazardly across your eyelid and streaking your cheek in sloppy black lines. Your pelvis crashes clumsily into the countertop’s hard edge, a sharp little reminder that maybe multitasking is apparently not your strong suit.

Aaron’s fingers card through your hair, sweeping it aside to bare your neck and shoulders. His other hand slowly peels your robe downward, exposing inch after inch of bare skin to his warm mouth.

Tender kisses rain softly down your spine as he draws his hips back, leaving you momentarily empty, only to surge forward again, ripping a sweetly startled whimper from your lips. 

The spoolie clatters into the sink, splattering the porcelain in the process.

“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t mind explaining to Spencer exactly why we’re late.”

He wouldn’t dare, of course he wouldn’t, but your body still preens at the implication, cunt tightening greedily around him as though daring him to prove you wrong.

Because, lately, Aaron has grown noticeably more brazen, perhaps due to the ease and intimacy building in your relationship, or maybe he’s finally giving into your bad (amazing, really) influence.

You’ve noticed it in tiny habits, like when he purposely rolls his sleeves up, putting those mouthwatering forearms on display after overhearing you confess just how much they distract you. Or how he picks ties that perfectly match his suits in ways you’ve gushed about, enjoying the obvious ways your eyes get stuck lingering in team meetings.

He’s even developed a charming habit of pointedly mentioning how wonderfully rested he feels each morning, making clear eye contact when Rossi wonders aloud why he looks so content.

He drives into you again, deeper, sending your nails clawing over the marble, arching yourself forward chasing every ounce of friction you can get.

But Aaron’s hand snakes around your waist, palm splayed across your stomach, guiding you upright until you’re pressed flush against him, the new angle forcing pleasure to surge hot and fast through every nerve ending.

His voice rumbles in your ear, “Keep working on your makeup, sweetheart. Or I’ll have to stop, and neither of us wants that.”

“Aaron,” you whine, drawing out his name in the most petulant, bratty tone you can muster, “I can’t.”

Instantly, he stills, cock fully seated inside you. You try to buck backward, trying to force your hips back against him, but his fingers clamp down around your waist, gripping with the kind of force that leaves marks you’ll admire later (like really cute, private trophies).

His free hand slips lower, fingertips pinching your clit.

You cry out, writhing against him. “Okay, okay, I’ll behave, just, please.”

Your hand fumbles along the vanity, nails knocking loudly into bottles and compacts until, finally, you find your lipliner. 

Aaron rewards your compliance by ramming back into you, obliterating any remaining hand-eye coordination. Your fingers wobble uncontrollably, resulting in an uneven, messy trail of color from your cupid’s bow to who-knows-where.

“That’s more like it. Look at you,” Aaron taunts, “Mouth open, looking so damn pretty.” His thumb lethargically grazes your overly-sensitive nub, causing your lips to part further, deepening your pout. He chuckles softly, clearly amused and more than a little cocky as he studies your reflection, eyes darkening. “Yeah, exactly like that, sweet girl.”

Aaron accelerates his motions, hips snapping roughly, hard enough to send you bouncing onto your tiptoes. Honestly, if his dick was any bigger, you’d need heels just to reach the floor.

Your robe begins to fall away from your shoulder, silky fabric separating to expose the swell of your breast, instantly capturing Aaron’s full gaze, pupils blown wide.

His hand deserts your waist, reaching up to cup your tit, thumb rolling over your nip, coaxing it into a tight little peak. You moan helplessly, eyes mascara-blurred as you attempt to keep your lip color within the lines of increasingly messy lips.

“Having trouble concentrating?” Aaron asks mildly, sounding completely unaffected for someone who’s currently buried eight inches deep inside you.

“I’m — I’m trying.”

He responds by squeezing your nipple a little harder. “So I noticed.”

You squirm wildly beneath him, his chest pressed down against your back, each thrust hitting a spot that makes your brain fizz into pink bubbles. 

Your thoughts spin in a dizzy disaster — Oh my god, Aaron, I can’t, wait, no, I definitely can, please keep going, love you, love you, love you, until half-formed thoughts turn into breathless declarations from your lips about how perfect he is, how you’d marry him tomorrow (white dress, cake and vows) if he’d just keep doing exactly this.

His control frays simultaneously, composed grunts fading into needy, unfiltered whispers against your flushed skin.

His words tumble out just as desperate as your own ramblings — how beautiful you are, how he’d buy you anything, give you anything — a ring, maybe even a baby, anything that would bind you to him forever.

The words send you careening into ecstasy, orgasm igniting within you in bright, syrupy bursts more saccharin than you thought possible. Those perfect promises twist around your core like velvet ropes, pulling tighter with every dreamy picture they paint (domestic bliss, pretty nurseries, endless forevers) until you’re seeing stars and giggling between gasping moans.

Your spine bows as you pulse around him, waves of pleasure radiating outward, turning you both into a trembling mess of sweaty, feverish harmony. 

You feel Aaron spill inside you, and for one fleeting, impulsive second, you catch yourself wishing your birth control would magically fail, just this once.

He slowly eases out of you, legs immediately trembling in complaint, his cum trickling down your inner thighs. You slump against the counter, breath uneven, as Aaron grabs a washcloth to dampen it.

The mirror does not go easy on you. Mascara in streaks across your eyelids and cheeks, lipstick color smeared, well, everywhere. You shoot him a half-hearted glare. He has the audacity to return a proud smirk.

“What?” he shrugs, biting back a laugh. “I think it’s a good look on you.”

You wiggle impatiently, trying to escape Aaron’s hold, your overstimulated body shivering and twitching at every careful wipe of the cloth. 

You glance at the clock. “Spencer is so going to hate us forever.”

 “The reservations got pushed back.” He tightens his grip, one strong arm cinching around your waist. “Spencer texted, they’re running late, something about forgetting stuff at home.”

You spin quickly in his arms. “That is literally the first thing you should’ve told me!”

“And miss watching you get flustered? Not a chance.”

You stick your tongue out defiantly, because that’s obviously the mature, adult way to handle your boyfriend teasing you.

The reward, though, is immediate — a soft, genuine laugh bubbles from Aaron, warming every little corner of your heart and fluttering down to your toes. 

He reaches past you, plucking a packet of makeup wipes from the counter, and his touch, as he gently presses it to your cheekbone, is stupidly gentle, dabbing at your face in a lazy, affectionate path.

You melt right into his palm, almost feline in your contentment, purring with how sweet it feels to be touched like this.

“You know what I’m thinking about?” Peering up at him through your lashes, you flash a smile, “Our first kiss.”

“Funny, so was I.” Aaron’s whole face shifts, eyes crinkling at the corners, the tenderest smile spreading openly across his mouth. “You know, after you fell asleep that night, I sat awake for way too long, worrying you might wake up in the morning regretting it,” he admits softly. “I had a whole speech planned, this overly formal, completely unnecessary lecture about workplace ethics and chain of command. You would’ve rolled your eyes so hard.”

You giggle, sliding your arms snugly around his middle, tipping your head back to look up at him.

“You and your speeches,” you tease. “Lucky for you, I was already planning how to seduce you the second I woke up.”

His mouth finds the corner of yours.

“Well, you’ve always had much better instincts than me.”

You tap his chest lightly. “So, um, did you happen to mention something about giving me a baby earlier or was that just my post-orgasmic delirium talking?”

Aaron laughs. “I might have gotten carried away.”

“No baby, then? Just empty promises?”

“Who said anything about empty?” He smirks, fingertips dancing along your spine. “I just thought it’d be polite to give you my last name before we start creating miniature versions of ourselves.”

“Careful, talk like that will earn you all kinds of privileges.” You reach up, pinching his cheek.

“Good.” He grabs your wrist, kissing the inside of it. “And just so we’re clear, I plan to extensively take advantage for the next, oh, forty or fifty years.”

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[sceletaflores]

LAYING IT ALL ON THE LINE...

꩜ masterlist ꩜ update blog ꩜ inbox ꩜ taglist ꩜ ao3 ꩜

｡꩜°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡꩜°‧➵ WC: 4.1k

｡꩜°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, post-outbreak, hurt/comfort, joel's pov, general violence, minor character injury, jackson!joel, when he picks an unnecessary fight with you because that's all he knows, mentioned age gap, joel miller as a sad old man, joel miller experiences feelings, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty AND his knees are made of steel (but only sometimes), porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡꩜°‧➵ @retrosabers SAYS: thinking about you almost dying on patrol and joel is FUMING, unable to convey just how worried and anxious it makes him. the only way he can even remotely conceptualize his feelings is through a very PASSIONATE rawdogging ♡

｡꩜°‧➵ NAT'S NOTE: everyone say thank you sid for this absolutely luxurious prompt...i'm waiting. i had so much fun with this! i love love love a good semi-angsty, emotionally constipated man having to come to terms with his buried slash repressed feelings in the gritty wake of a near-death experience, like that's my shit. hope y'all love it!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel miller realizes that love isn’t just a four letter word…

"Southeast perimeter’s clear. Heading west by the river bed."

“Wow, you’re finally gonna stop gettin’ us lost out here, sunshine?”

“Lost? Please, you cried when I found that shortcut through the cedar thicket.”

Joel listens to you and Tommy bicker over the radio, a forgotten cup of coffee going cold at his side. That's all he can do when you're out there—patrolling in the snow with a few others. He's not proud of how he just sits by like some anxious house wife, listening to the static between check-ins, but he can't make himself focus on anything other than the way your bright voice filters in and out.

He tries not to hover. Tries not to keep the handheld clutched like it's a goddamn lifeline. But he does, eyes glued to the thing like it might crack open and spill you out if he stares hard enough.

Joel's really not even supposed to be listening in like this. Maria's chewed him out more times than he can count each time she catches him hunched over an old radio that he's never bothered turning in, says it'll do him more harm than good worrying over it.

Besides, these channels aren't meant for civilians sitting on their asses at home. He knows that, because that's exactly what he is now—civilian adjacent. Half-retired.

Tommy jokes about it every once in a while, the way Joel's slowed down, the way his joints complain louder than they used to. A while back, he might've laughed too. Now, every little twinge of pain feels like a reminder of what he used to be.

Joel used to be the one they all looked to out on patrol. He could track better, shoot cleaner, navigate faster than most of the younger guys. That's not the case these days. His patrolling has slowed down over the past few years. He only goes out a few times every couple of months, if even that. 

He tells himself it’s by choice.

It’s not, not at all. He’s tired. His knees ache after long rides. His busted shoulder can’t handle the cold without locking up. Jackson’s got a whole rotation now, young joints, faster reflexes, eyes that don’t blur when the wind hits just right. So he doesn’t go out much anymore. Not unless the group is short. Not unless they really need him.

It makes sense. He knows it makes sense.

That doesn’t make it feel right. You out there, miles away in knee-deep snow with a rifle strapped to your back while he’s stuck here. Not out there. Not beside you.

Joel knows you can handle yourself—hell, you’ve proven that a dozen times over. You’re younger. Strong. Fast. Smart as a whip. You can shoot the cap off a beer bottle and you handle a knife better than most people your age. 

Knowing all that still doesn’t quiet the feeling of unease that eats away at him each time you strap on your gear and kiss him goodbye with a, See you later, Miller. Strolling out the door like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing.

There’s a kind of helpless fury in it. A sick twist in his gut every time he watches you ride out. Like he’s some retired goddamn hunting dog. Trusted to guard the porch, but not sharp enough to run with the pack anymore.

Joel adjusts the volume dial on the radio like it’ll make your voice stay longer.

Tommy’s laugh cuts through the speaker. “Didn’t cry. I got snow in my eye.”

“In July? Sure.”

It comes in grainy and light, full of that same teasing bite you always give Tommy—enough to make Joel’s jaw tighten with a quiet, helpless kind of fondness. He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach past the tight pull in his chest. You’re still picking your way through territory where any tree line might be hiding something.

Joel shifts in his seat, elbows on the table, jaw clenched tight. He tells himself you’re fine. You always are. You have to be.

The channel goes still for a few beats. Then, a crack of static. Some muffled shuffling. And—

“Wait—something’s moving in the trees. Left side, just past the ridge.”

Your voice. Sharper now. Less teasing and pointedly quiet.

“Copy,” Tommy replies, suddenly serious. “Keep eyes on—”

A burst of noise. A flurry of panicked voices overlapping and shouts. The unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Then nothing.

Dead air.

Joel’s heart drops to his boots. “Tommy?” he barks into the receiver. “Come in. What the hell’s happening out there?”

When there’s no answer, Joel shoots to his feet. The chair scrapes across the floor harshly as he crosses the room in two large strides, fumbling for his jacket. “Tommy? Goddammit, someone answer me!”

Nothing.

Joel’s heart thuds violently against his ribcage as he stares at the little black box in his hand like it’s an omen. He feels it rush in all at once—panic, guilt, helpless rage curling cold and mean in his chest. His ears are ringing so loud he doesn’t hear the slam of the door behind him as he tears out of the house and into the cold air. 

Something happened. The group was compromised. You were compromised.

And he’s not there.

He should’ve been there.

Joel doesn’t remember the sprint to the stables. Doesn’t remember shouting at Maria when she tried to stop him at the gate. Doesn’t remember half the ride out. All he knows is that his hands won’t stop shaking around the reins and the bile in his throat tastes like ash—a sick, gnawing pit growing in his gut.

When he finds the group what feels like hours later, just as the sun starts to rise behind the ridgeline—you’re nowhere to be found. His eyes scan the way everyone’s spread out, some with minor injuries and the others patching them up. 

No sign of you.

Tommy plants himself in front of Joel just as he hauls himself off his horse. He doesn’t even feel the way his knees jolt as his feet hit the ground. 

“Where the hell is she?” he rasps, voice so rough it sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel. “Where, Tommy?”

Tommy’s hands are out in front of him like Joel’s a wild animal about to snap. He’s got blood on his hands, but no signs of stab wounds or bullet holes anywhere on him. It’s not his blood. Joel’s stomach turns viciously at the sight, at the thought of whose it might be.

“She’s fine,” Tommy says, eyes wide and placating. “Took a hit, it grazed her side. She wouldn’t fuckin’ stay down.”

Joel knows he won’t feel any relief until he sees you, alive and breathing with his own eyes. “Where.”

Tommy steps aside just before Joel nearly shoves past him, nodding his head toward a rock outcrop a ways away from everyone else.

You’re sitting closest to the makeshift fire, Jesse crouched beside you to clean the gash along your side. You’re bundled in someone else’s coat, hair mussed and blood soaked through your undershirt and spattered across your cheeks.

Visibly shaken. Color drained. Bloody. Alive.

Joel’s throat locks up when your eyes meet his. You give him the smallest, tired smile—like you're trying to reassure him. That look. That stupid, brave little tilt of your mouth like everything's okay even when you're the one bleeding through Tommy's jacket.

It makes something in his chest crack wide open.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t trust himself for it to be anything good.

Joel takes three shaky steps towards you before his knees give out. 

He drops hard into the snow. He doesn’t catch himself, doesn’t try. Just falls forward like a penitent man bowing at the altar of a God he doesn’t believe in. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, eyes locked onto the red seeping through your shirt like it's the only color in the whole damn world.

There’s a beat where nobody moves. Jesse freezes, half-done wrapping gauze, and you’re just sitting there, wide-eyed and shaking like a leaf, lips parted like you’re trying to say something—but Joel’s already reaching for you.

He's on you in the next breath. Not rough, not like usual, not with that greedy, hungry touch he normally has after you come back from patrol. His hands are trembling when they find your face, tilting your chin up gently, his fingers brushing away wet blood and dirt.

Tommy glances away. Jesse too, both men busying themselves with helping the others. It feels too private, even out here in the open.

“Goddammit,” he chokes. “God—baby–”

His voice breaks on the last word. Breaks, something sharp and gutted and boyish, nothing like the hardened man who's grown to guard his emotions like they’re classified. Your hands hover uncertainty over his shoulders, the side of his face. You’re worried. He can see it plain as day, written in the wavering line of your mouth.

“Hey—hey, I’m okay,” you say, voice low and urgent. “I’m fine. Look at me, Joel, I’m fine. It just—it just grazed me, okay? I’m fine.”

You’re not fine.

You’re too pale. You’re stone-cold. Your blood is still tacky on your shirt, drying beneath his body's warmth.

Joel presses his forehead to yours and exhales like he’s been kept underwater, and you were the surface he’d been clawing to.

You whisper his name again, quieter this time, and he shushes you. “Don’t—don’t talk, just—let me—” His fingers press to the pulse point at your wrist like he still needs proof. “Let me feel you.”

You don’t say anything else.

You just hold him.

And Joel doesn’t cry. He can’t. Something won’t let him, but he stays there in the snow for a long time, holding you like a man who thought he’d never get the chance to again.

The ride back to Jackson is quiet.

You fell asleep half-way through, head lolling back against Joel’s shoulder as you both sat in the saddle, your body loose with exhaustion and the emergency pain meds Jesse had in his pack. Tommy rides ahead, checking the trail, but Joel barely looks up. He just holds the reins with one hand and holds you tighter with the other.

You’re taken to the infirmary the second everyone files through the gates. Joel sits by your bedside in stormy silence, hands curled into fists and resting on his knees, the only thing keeping him together.

You talk to the nurse on duty. You even joke with her, cracked voice and tired eyes like it’s all part of the routine. Like getting shot is just another part of the job. And Joel sits there while someone else wraps you in new bandages and checks your vitals.

It makes his blood boil.

All he can think about is the way your voice cut out on the radio. The way he didn’t know if you were dead or bleeding out in some field, alone. And now you’re laughing. Now you’re telling the nurse, “I’m fine really, just sore.” And it makes him want to tear the whole fucking clinic apart.

Joel doesn’t say a word until you're cleared to leave. 

Not on the short walk back to your house. Not when you’re walking through the door, cleaned up. Patched. Your shirt’s gone, replaced by his coat and a thermal blanket around your shoulders.

Not when you nudge his arm gently like you’re testing the waters. Not when you say his name soft, like it might keep him calm before you’re heading towards the bedroom.

It doesn’t.

The moment the door shuts behind him, Joel erupts.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish?”

You freeze in your spot halfway across the room, turning to face him.

Joel doesn’t move. Just stands there, fists clenched at his sides. His voice is low, shaking with barely concealed rage. “You gonna tell me why you thought playin’ saviour was worth bleedin’ out in the snow?”

You don’t say anything for a few beats, eyebrows drawn together in a hard frown as you look at him. “What was I supposed to do, Joel? Jesse was pinned, Tommy would’ve taken the hit. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice!” Joel grates, stepping towards you. “You could’ve picked you. You could’ve stayed the fuck down like Tommy told you to.”

“I was trying to keep your brother from getting shot in the head,” you snap, the tension finally striking a flint. “I made a judgment call.”

“You made a stupid call,” he spits, voice loud and blistering. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you repeat, your body growing stiff and tense.

“You shoulda fuckin’ stayed down.” Joel growls. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it—just rips his flannel off, tosses it hard at the wall.

You don’t flinch. Don’t even look away from him as his shirt falls and crumples into a heap on the floor. “What?”

“You heard me,” he snaps, turning to look at you again. His eyes are dark, fiery. “Jesus, you—do you even fuckin’ think sometimes? You were hit. You knew you were hit, and you kept goin’. You didn’t stop, didn’t stay down like you were told.”

He steps closer, eyes boring into yours, face twisted with something too furious to be rational. “You fuckin’ chose to be a goddamn hero, huh? Run into gunfire like it ain’t a fuckin’ death sentence? That it?”

He can see the second your expression changes, your own anger rearing its ugly head now, bitter and hot. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about me being reckless when you know I was just trying to keep people alive. I did what I had to do.”

“No!” he snaps, pointing a finger at you, furious and stricken all at once. “What you had to do was come home. That’s it. That’s all.”

You blink at him, breath caught in your throat.

Joel can’t stop, all the emotions he’s been dealt over the past three hours finally boiling over and spilling through his lips before he can think twice about what he’s saying.

“You could’ve died,” he growls, pacing now, hands dragging through his hair roughly like he’s trying to rip the anger out of himself. “Two fuckin’ inches to the left and that bullet would’ve torn straight through your gut. You think you’d’ve made it to town in time for that? Huh?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he snarls, spinning on you, voice cracking. “It’s not fuckin’ fair. Nothin’ about this is. You go out there, and I sit at home waitin’ to see if today’s the day I lose you. That the last thing I heard is your voice cuttin’ out in the middle of a fuckin’ ambush. That’s what I got to live with now. That’s what I saw every time I closed my eyes on that ride back.”

You stand there, lost for words. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” Joel says, suddenly quieter, throat thick. He swallows hard, looking down, shaking his head like he’s trying to get a grip. “But I still almost lost you. And I don’t—fuck—I don’t know what the hell I’d do if that ever—”

His voice cuts off, ragged. Then he’s in front of you again, cupping your face with both hands. “You’re not allowed to do that to me again,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that.”

“Joel…” You lean into him, slow. Cautious.

Joel meets you halfway.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat—hot and bruising and pathetically desperate. His big hands frame your face, thumbs dragging down your cheekbones as he licks a wet stripe over the plush seam of your lips.

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes the blanket off your shoulders, when his palms skate down your sides to grip your hips hard. Not too rough, not yet, but he’s holding you because he needs you rooted. Anchored. Here.

Joel kisses you like he’s still furious at you, like he hates how much he needs you, like he’s punishing you for making him feel so afraid. It’s not soft, all teeth and tongue as he devours you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When he pulls back, his mouth is wet with your spit, lips pink and swollen. “Need to taste you,” he mutters. “Need to feel you.”

Joel sinks to his knees before you can respond, breath huffing harshly against your stomach. His fingers tug your zipper down with frantic urgency, hooking his thumbs in your waistband to peel your pants down your legs in one swift motion.

There’s no teasing. No smugness. Just a heavy, sharp hunger carved into his face like stone as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing you to his greedy eyes. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting one over his shoulder as he brings his mouth to you like a man possessed.

The first drag of his tongue is slow. Reverent. Hot and wet as he parts the slick seam of your cunt with deliberate strokes that make your spine arch. He groans like your taste knocks the wind out of him, and then he latches on like he’s got a point to prove—to himself or you, he’s not sure. All he knows is that worshipping you is the only penance that could soothe the panic still clawing at his insides.

“Joel.” Your hands tangle in his hair, chin falling to your chest as you gaze down at him.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue relentless, nose pressed deep against you. You whimper, twisting his hair in your grip, hips twitching—Joel doesn’t let you go anywhere. He’s got you trapped, your body pinned with his mouth buried between your thighs like he plans to die there.

It’s filthy, obscene—the way he devours you. Lips slick, beard growing damper with each swirl of his tongue, eyes half-lidded but still trained on your own.

Your eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide and black as spilled ink. There’s sweat beaded on your brow, lips parted and swollen as you let out small huffs of air.

Your thighs are trembling. You're soaked, arching against him, whimpering his name with tears welling in your eyes. And still—still—he won’t let up. He needs this. Needs to make you fall apart. Needs to prove to himself you’re alive by the way your body sings under his touch.

Joel can’t stop. Not until your thighs shake and you’re moaning that you’re gonna come, gonna come, Joel, please—

And you do. You fall apart on his tongue with a broken sob, legs clenching tight around his ears, hips grinding down into his mouth in weak twitches and shudders. He growls and holds you still, licking you through every last tremor until your body goes limp and threatens to sink to the floor.

Joel doesn’t let you fall—he lowers you down gently, like you’re made of spun glass, even as his hands skirt over the hem of your shirt. When he pulls it up, revealing the bandages wound tight around your side, he pauses. His gaze lingers on the wound. Jaw clenched. Something soft and wrecked flickers in his eyes.

Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face, your thumb running over the scar across his temple so gently it has his heart throbbing in his chest. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “Still here.”

Joel takes your wrist in his hand, lowering it down enough to press it hard over his heart. “You feel that?” he breaths. “That hasn’t stopped hammerin’ since I heard your voice cut out.”

You nod slowly. Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Joel squeezes your wrist, turning his head to press a soft kiss to your forearm.

He climbs up over you, chest to chest—the jut of his cock where it tents the denim of his jeans grinds over the sensitive span of your cunt as he settles himself between your legs. He’s thick, heavy even through all the layers. 

Joel’s free hand snakes down his body, making quick work of his belt. He rips his zipper down, freeing his cock from the confines of his soaked boxers and letting it slap up against his stomach.

You moan at the sight of it—hard, straining, the tip a dusty red and wet with pre-come. Your legs widen unconsciously, thighs twitching on either side of Joel’s hips.

Joel takes himself in his hand, fist tight over the base of his cock as he runs himself through your puffy cunt, slicking the skin of his cock with your wetness. “Gonna fuck you,” he breathes, lining himself up between your legs. “Gonna feel you around me, baby, need it so damn bad.”

Joel slides in with one long, smooth stroke, your slick making it easy, and the groan he lets out sounds like pain. Like relief. Like he might lose his mind from the heat of you. Your breath hitches at the stretch, head lolling back against the hardwood as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Mine,” he grits through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, his hips grinding deeper as you cling to him. “You’re mine, baby. Always—always mine.”

You nod, panting, eyes glassy. “All yours,” you whisper. “Only yours, Joel.”

And then he moves.

Hard.

Desperate.

Unrelenting.

He fucks you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, like if he stops, he’ll unravel entirely. One arm hooks under your knee, pushing you open, deeper than before. His hips slap against yours, raw and hopelessly, but it’s not about getting off.

It’s about feeling you.

Every squeeze, every tremble, every gasp that leaves your mouth when he hits that perfect spot. 

Joel’s never felt like this before.

So angry.

So scared.

So in love.

He fucks you like he’s trying to imprint himself inside your body. His thrusts stitch you back to him, sealing you inside his chest so you can never leave. A mess of skin-on-skin and heat and slick as the two of you meet again and again and again.

“Could’ve lost you,” he growls against your throat. “Fuck, honey, I could’ve—Jesus—”

You wrap your arms around him. “You didn’t,” you whisper. “I’m here, Joel—I’m yours—”

He groans, hips stuttering, thrusts turning frantic. He can tell he’s close, that he’s been close since he sank to his knees in front of you.

“Say it again,” he pants, slamming into you with a low, wrecked noise. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Always yours—fuck, Joel—”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, pulling him closer. Your nails dig into his skin through the thin layer of his undershirt, legs locking around his waist to keep him pressed against you like you’re scared he’ll let go.

Joel doesn’t let go. He’d never let go. Not even when you moan his name like a prayer, not even when your nails rake down his back, not even when you gasp out a warning, your voice thin and needy. “Joel, I—gonna—”

“I know, baby. I got you.” His hand snakes down between you, finding your clit and rubbing quick circles over it, desperate to feel you come. “Wanna feel you. Need to—fuck—need to feel you, sweetheart. Please.”

You shatter in his arms with a broken sob, clenching hard around him as your body jerks, overwhelmed and too raw to hide it. Joel feels you pulse around his cock, the tight warmth of your cunt milking him.

It’s too much, and he’s coming with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his chest. He buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking with every pulse, breath catching in your ear. “Fuck, fuck—” he pants, voice hoarse, “—love you, I love you, I thought I lost you, baby, I can’t…”

You’re both trembling when it ends.

Joel holds you there for a long time, forehead resting against yours, still buried deep inside you. He still won’t let you go. Not yet.

Eventually, when he’s calmed, he pulls back just enough to look at you.

You expect that same look from earlier—rage, fear, guilt—but it’s not there. Just love. Just deep, aching relief.

���I can’t lose you,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

You reach up, trace the curve of his brow, the edge of his jaw. “You won’t have to,” you whisper.

Joel kisses you again. Softer this time. Sweeter. A delicate press of lips against lips. His fingers stroke your cheek, pulling back enough for his eyes to trace along your face. He follows the line of your brows, the shape of your nose, the soft curve of your lips.

He can’t feel anything other than love.

Gentle. Solid. Steady.

It’s only love.

mini nat's note: everyone please send good vibes for my hell sent ch*m final on monday...i literally need all the luck i can get. thank you so much for reading! mwah.

[lives-in-midgard]

Can't lose you

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader including Sam Wilson and Joaquin Torres

Summary: After Bucky found out that you had a car accident and are now in the hospital. He rushes to the hospital and is scared to lose you.

Warnings: slight mention of a car accident, sad and scared Bucky 🥺

Word Count: 1266

A/N: Hey! It's been a while since I wrote a Bucky fanfic. I hope you enjoy it. 🥰

Divider made by @firefly-graphics

Masterlist

Bucky was at Sam and Joaquin’s base, talking about a mission when he suddenly got a call from an unknown number.

“Hello, am I talking to James Buchanan Barnes?” The woman said on the other end of the phone.

“Yes, that’s me.” Bucky said and looked over to Sam. Suddenly he began to get nervous. What if something happed to you?

“Did something happen to my wife?” Bucky asked and was scared what she would say.

“She had a car accident and is in the hospital. Your wife is currently getting operated.” She said and Bucky’s heart began to race. The woman explained some more things to Bucky, but he was too nervous to listen to everything.

“Thank you, I’ll be there as soon as possible.” Bucky said and as the call ended, he took a deep breath. He looked at the ground for a second and his eyes began to get blurry. Sam and Joaquin who could hear the conversation looked at each other with a worried expression. Sam walked over to Bucky and laid his hand on Bucky’s shoulder to give him some comfort. Bucky looked at Sam with a worried expression.

“I have to go to her.” Bucky mumbled and Sam nodded.

“We’ll drive you.” Sam said and looked at Joaquin who was already grabbing his car keys.

“Thanks, Sam.” They made their way to the car. Bucky didn’t pay much attention to the drive. He looked down at his wedding ring and softly touched it with his thumb and thought about this morning. The morning started so good. The day always starts good when you’re in his arms. A light smile appaired on his face as he thought back to today’s morning conversation. You had to get up and go to work but Bucky didn’t want to let go of you. So, you stayed a few more minutes and cuddled.

“Bucky we’re here.” Sam softly said and interrupted Bucky’s thoughts. Bucky looked up at him and then they walked to the hospital. As they walked into the hospital a nurse told Bucky where they could wait for a doctor. The three of them sat down on the chairs and Bucky looked at his ring again and started to play with his hands.

“I can’t lose her too.” Bucky suddenly whispered while a tear ran down his cheek. He thought about his sister, his parents and about Steve. You were the only family he has and he loved you so much.

“Buck, you won’t. She is a fighter.” Sam said and a light smile appeared on Bucky’s face.

“Yeah, you’re right. She is.”

“Thanks for being here with me.” Bucky said.

“Of course.” Sam said and Joaquin nodded. You are also important to them. They are one of your closest friends.

A few more minutes passed until a doctor came to them. Bucky, Sam and Joaquin all looked to her.

“Mr. Barnes?” She said and Bucky stood up.

“Is she okay?” Bucky asked.

“Your wife is stable. She is still asleep, but you can go to her, I’ll come and check on her in a bit.” The doctor said and Bucky felt relieved knowing that you were stable and that he could see you. Before walking away Bucky looked at Sam and Joaquin who both also looked very glad that you were okay.

“We’ll wait here.” Sam said and Bucky nodded. Then he followed the doctor to your room. Bucky opened the door and quietly walked over to your bed. He sat down next to your bed and reached for your hand, drawing soft circles on the back of your hand. A couple of minutes passed until you woke up. A soft smile appeared on his face as he noticed that you started to wake up.

When you woke up you looked into Bucky’s beautiful blue eyes.

“Bucky.” You mumbled and looked around.

“You’re at the hospital my love.” Bucky said and you could remember what happened.

“I had an accident.” You whispered and Bucky nodded.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, doll.” Bucky admitted as he softly held your hand and gave it a gently squeeze. You gave him a small smile.

“Sam and Joaquin are also here.” Bucky said after a moment, and you were relieved that he wasn’t alone. A while later there was a knock on the door and a doctor walked in.

“Mrs Barnes, how are you feeling?” She asked and looked at you.

“I feel tired and exhausted.” I admitted.

“That’s understandable, you have been though quite a bit. The surgery went well but you have to stay here for a few days.“

“So, she is okay?” Bucky asked to make sure.

“Yes, they both seem to be in perfect health.” The doctor said. You looked at Bucky with a confused look. Bucky was as confused as you and looked back to the doctor.

“You said they both?”

“I did. Mrs. Barnes. You’re pregnant.” She said and you couldn’t believe it. You began to smile and looked over to Bucky who also had a huge smile on his face.

“We’re gonna be parents.” Bucky said with a smile.

“I’ll let you two alone.” The doctor said with a smile and left the room.

“I can’t believe it, doll.” Bucky said and moved closer to you. He gently placed his hand on your cheek and gave you a passionate kiss.

“I love you.” You whispered as you broke the kiss.

“I love you too.” Bucky said with so much love.

“Can I see Sam and Joaquin?” You asked Bucky after a while.

“I think you should get some rest, doll.”

“Just for a bit.”

“Okay, just for a bit. I’ll be right back.” He said and kissed your cheek before going out of the room. It didn’t take long until Bucky returned with them.

“We are so glad that you’re okay.” Joaquin said with a smile as he entered the room.

“Thanks for being there for Bucky.”

“That’s what friends are for.” Sam said and you smiled back at him and then looked over to Bucky. Bucky nodded at you answering your silent question.

“I bet you will be great uncles.” You suddenly said with a grin.

“What?” Joaquin said confused but Sam started to smile.

“My beautiful wife is pregnant.” Bucky announced with a smile.

“Wow, congrats you two, that’s amazing.” Joaquin said with full excitement and Sam also congratulated you and Bucky. They stayed for a few minutes until you decided that it’s better to rest now.

“If you need anything, just call me.” Sam said before leaving. When they left you tried to move a bit to the other side of the bed.

“Woah, take it easy doll.” Bucky said and quickly stood up to help you.

“Just wanted to make some space for you.” You mumbled and could see how he began to smile.

“You want to cuddle?” Bucky asked in a soft voice, and you nodded. Bucky laid down beside you and gently put his arm around you. You laid your head on his chest, and he gently kissed your forehead. Bucky held you close and began to slowly draw circles on your arm, knowing that it always brings you comfort when he does that.

“I’m gonna be a dad.” Bucky suddenly whispered.

“I already know you’re going to be a great dad.” You whispered and slowly began to fall asleep.

“And you’re going to be the best mom.” Bucky whispered even though you were already asleep. Having you close and knowing that you were okay, finally brought Bucky some peace.

Taglist:

@marvelogic | @eviebuggg | @buck-star | @nicoline1998enilocin | @kandis-mom | @sergeantbarnessdoll | @noellez-best-life23 | @beaubbdoll | @sgtgarricks | @ratchildspartan | @scott-loki-barnes |  @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 |

@mrsbuckybarnes1917 | @brnesblogposts | @rogersbarber

[ilovolderman]

Operation Mugshot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam tries to set a trap to catch your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, drones and oranges

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam Wilson had a plan.

He’d spent the better part of two weeks compiling evidence, cross-referencing time logs, analyzing coffee consumption patterns, and creating a red-string bulletin board that would’ve made any conspiracy theorist proud.

Today, all that paranoia was finally going to pay off.

He sipped his decaf—yes, decaf, because he needed to stay sharp—and watched the living room like a hawk disguised as a houseplant. Or maybe the other way around.

The trap was simple.

Step 1: Hide in the pantry with snacks, a thermal imaging tablet, and a drone disguised as a spice rack. Step 2: Wait. Step 3: Catch you two being adorably romantic in high-definition.

Easy.

Sam sipped his decaf, checked his drone feed, and muttered into his earpiece—connected to absolutely no one. “Wilson to base. Operation Mugshot is live. Targets are expected in T-minus one minute.”

Five minutes in, Sam was regretting the plan.

Ten minutes in, he was beginning to lose feeling in one leg.

Fifteen minutes in, the door creaked open.

He tensed. It was happening. Showtime.

But it wasn’t Bucky.

It wasn’t even you.

It was a Roomba. Rolling casually into the kitchen, bumping into a cabinet, and then zooming away like it had places to be.

Sam exhaled, annoyed. “False alarm.”

Twenty minutes in, the door opened again. Finally.

A creak. Footsteps.

Bingo.

You shuffled in wrapped in a burrito blanket, yawning with your whole body. Your socks were mismatched. You still had a pillow crease on your face. You looked, in Sam’s words, “suspiciously domestic.”

A beat later, Bucky wandered in.

Barefoot. Wearing a t-shirt that just so happened to look a lot like one you “lost” last week. He blinked at the pantry.

Bucky tilted his head ever so slightly toward the pantry. The door was open a fraction too wide. There was a faint hum—Sam’s drone, probably watching like a nosy Roomba.

He mouthed, Trap.

You mouthed back, I know.

So, naturally, you played it cool.

“Morning,” you said casually, reaching for a mug. “Nice weather for emotional espionage.”

“Sure is,” Bucky replied, pouring himself coffee like a man who hadn’t just spotted a super-spy hiding behind the cereal boxes.

You both stood in suspicious silence for a moment.

Then Bucky dropped the act, leaned over, and whispered, “We should absolutely mess with him.”

You grinned. “What do you have in mind?”

Cut to ten minutes later: you and Bucky sat on opposite ends of the couch, the most awkward six feet of exaggerated distance between you. No eye contact. Arms folded. The tension so forced it might as well have been acting school improv.

Sam, crouched in the pantry, stared at the screen. His drone hovered silently, recording the scene.

“Huh,” he mumbled. “No touching. No shared glances. No whispering. That’s… not what I expected.”

The footage was useless. You both looked like coworkers waiting for a Zoom call to start.

Then—movement.

Sam tensed.

You got up. Walked toward Bucky. Bucky looked up.

Sam’s heart nearly exploded with victory.

You said, “Do you have… the thing?”

“The thing?” Bucky echoed.

“The thing for… that work thing?”

“Ah,” Bucky said, “the… report?”

“Yes,” you said stiffly. “That report.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open. They were talking code. He scrambled to write it down. THE REPORT = PROBABLY CODE FOR SECRET RELATIONSHIP.

Sam was vibrating.

“They’re debriefing,” he whispered. “This is it. This is the heart of the operation.”

Then he shifted too hard and knocked over a box of granola bars.

The pantry door creaked.

The drone wobbled and dropped like a bug with stage fright.

You stood calmly and opened the door.

There was Sam Wilson. Looking like a kid caught stealing cookies—except the cookies were a pile of tech gadgets, caffeine charts, and about four different colored highlighters.

You blinked. “You okay in there?”

He looked down at his tablet. “I was… conducting surveillance.”

“For breakfast?”

“DON’T PLAY DUMB,” Sam snapped, pointing dramatically.

Bucky offered a hand to help him up. “Are you good, man?”

Sam slapped it away. “I’m fine. I’m always fine. I just got ambushed by—by deception and romantic subterfuge.” He gestured wildly.

“Coincidence,” Bucky said, way too smoothly.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You will slip up one day. You think I didn’t notice how you both hum ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ while making toast?”

“That was once,” you said defensively.

“ON THREE DIFFERENT OCCASIONS.”

“Okay, twice.”

“Also,” Sam added, “you share coffee stirrers.”

Bucky blinked. “We don’t even use stirrers.”

“You do!” Sam yelled, unhinged. “YOU DO. I HAVE SCREENSHOTS.”

There was a beat of silence.

You turned to Bucky. “We should be concerned, right?”

Bucky nodded solemnly. “Very.”

Sam’s drone bumped into the wall and fell with a soft whirr.

“…Friday,” Sam said, defeated, “run the footage back. Look for emotional cues.”

Then Friday chimed in: “Sir, your footage today is 97% couch silence and 3% you chewing a granola bar while whispering ‘enhance’ at a static screen.”

Sam’s eye twitched.

“I’ve failed,” he said.

You walked over and gently patted his shoulder. “You tried.”

“I hate both of you.”

“You love us,” Bucky said, smiling softly.

Sam pointed at him. “I will find the truth. Someday. I’ll be ready.”

“Sure you will,” you said sweetly.

Sam stormed out. Then stormed back in. Grabbed his granola bar. Then stormed out again.  He grumbled under his breath “This isn’t over. I’ll crack the case eventually.”

FRIDAY chimed softly from above. “Sir, your blood pressure is once again elevated.”

Sam glared at the ceiling. “FRIDAY, remind me to install lie detectors in every room.”

“Noted.”

Once Sam had disappeared, you leaned into Bucky’s side, chuckling softly.

“That was beautiful,” you said, still snickering. “I almost feel bad for him.”

Bucky grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Nah. He’s probably already planning his next move. But at least we know one thing for sure.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

He kissed your forehead again, eyes twinkling with mischief. “We’re definitely not getting caught.”

And as long as Sam kept chasing wild theories, you knew the two of you had the perfect cover.

For now.

From the hallway, Sam peeked back in, only to see you both on opposite ends of the couch again, scrolling your phones.

He narrowed his eyes.

“…One day,” he muttered. “One. Day.”

Later that morning you sat on the blanket Bucky laid out—curled up in one of his hoodies that was at least two sizes too big, sleeves draping over your hands like paws, the collar loose enough that it slipped off your shoulder every time you shifted.

The rooftop garden was quiet except for the lazy hum of bees somewhere off near the lavender.

Above, cottony clouds drifted across a soft blue sky like they were in no rush to be anywhere else.

Bucky sat beside you, legs stretched out, peeling an orange with the slow, careful ease of someone with nowhere else to be. He offered you the first slice with a crooked little smile—the kind he only ever gave you. The kind that made your heart skip like a stone across still water.

You took the orange slice, your fingers brushing his. His fingers lingered.

Another slice. For you.

One for him.

One he tucked into the front pocket of your hoodie with exaggerated seriousness, like it was official mission protocol.

“For later,” he said, his voice low, amused.

You chuckled, letting your head fall lightly against his shoulder. His hoodie smelled like him—cedar, warmth, a little like whatever laundry detergent he pretended not to care about but always remembered to buy.

He leaned into your weight, resting his cheek against your hair, and for a few minutes, the two of you simply were—content, warm, quiet.

“This is nice,” you murmured.

Bucky hummed. “Even if Sam installs spy pigeons next?”

“He already tried. They were drones.”

He tilted his head just enough to give you a look. “You’re kidding.”

“Swear. I caught one trying to blend in with the doves last week.”

“…Did it coo?”

“Worse. It beeped.”

You both burst out laughing, your voice muffled against his arm. Bucky’s chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, and you could feel it under your cheek like a heartbeat made of joy.

“You know he’s never going to stop,” you said, lifting your gaze slightly to meet his eyes.

“I hope he never does,” Bucky said, soft and sure. “Gives us an excuse to keep playing these little games.”

You smiled, fingertips absently tugging at the cuff of his sleeve.

“I like our games.”

“I like you.”

He said it like a secret. Like something holy. Like the sun had come out just to eavesdrop on the moment.

Then he tilted his head and kissed you, slow and soft, a kiss that tasted like orange and quiet and safety. The kind of kiss that wasn’t asking for anything, just giving everything.

You smiled against his lips. He kissed that smile, too.

Then, a soft whirrrr in the distance.

You both looked up.

A drone hovered nearby, clearly struggling against the wind.

Bucky leaned close, whispered in your ear, “Five bucks says he crashes it into the tomatoes again.”

You grinned. “You’re on.”

Moments later, the drone dipped, wobbled—

Thunk.

Right into the tomato trellis.

Bucky held out his hand. “Pay up.”

You laughed and kissed his lips.

 “Acceptable payment,” he said solemnly.

Meanwhile in somewhere in the compound Sam was scribbling in his notebook again.

CASE #111: They ARE Dating.

Surveillance Compromised Drone Casualties: 1 (Tomato-related incident) Emotional Evidence: Off the charts Investigator Notes: “They’re definitely dating. I feel it in my spleen. But also… maybe they deserve to be happy. Maybe… I’m the problem.” Status: Unofficially Admitted, Still Officially Denied

And then, in desperate, scrawled print:

“WHY IS IT SO HARD TO CATCH PEOPLE BEING IN LOVE?!”

Underlined three times.

“They’re too innocent. It’s a setup. It’s reverse psychology. They want me to think they’re not dating so I give up—BUT I WON’T.” he muttered

Then, he paused.

Stared into the middle distance.

“…Wait. What if I’m the one being surveilled?”

Friday, ever patient, replied from the speakers: “Sir, please go outside.”

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2 @herejustforbuckybarnes @stormy-stardust @fallen-w1ngs @winchestert101 @f4d3d-st4rs @ultravioletter @xamapolax @theendofthematerialgworl @doilooklikeagiveafrack @fablehaven-rulez @theproblemisthatimnotfictional @winter107soldier

[cherry-lala]

Some things Don't End, They Echo

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing: Female! Reader x Remmick  

Genre: Southern Gothic, Supernatural Thriller, Dark Romance, Psychological Horror. Word Count:11.4k+

Summary: The dance continues in a world unraveling at the seams, where ghosts wear familiar faces and every silence hides a price. As Y/N moves through shadows thick with hunger and half-truths, she must decide what kind of freedom is worth the ache—and whether redemption can bloom in soil soaked with sorrow.

Content Warning: Emotional and physical abuse, manipulation, supernatural themes, implied and explicit violence, betrayal, transformation lore, body horror elements, graphic depictions of blood, intense psychological and emotional distress, explicit sexual content (including bloodplay, coercion, and power imbalance), references to domestic conflict, mind control, and religious imagery involving damnation and corrupted salvation. Let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Here it is—Part 2 (and the final chapter) to The Devil Waits Where Wildflowers Grow, the one so many of y’all asked for. I enjoyed watching this, even with exams beating me around. Writing it was a comfort, a catharsis—and your support on Part 1 meant the world. Thank you for every comment, like, and reblog. You kept me going. As always, I hope it haunts you just right. Again, Likes, reblogs, and Comments are always appreciated.

Taglist: @alastorhazbin, @jakecockley, @dezibou

The room smelled like lavender and starch, thick with the stillness only Sunday mornings knew.

Mama hummed a hymn under her breath, the notes trembling like moth wings in the golden light.

I stood still in front of the mirror, hands folded over the folds of my white cotton dress.

White gloves. White socks with the little lace trim.

The picture of innocence, shaped by hands that still believed innocence could be preserved if tied tight enough.

Mama’s fingers, careful and calloused, smoothed my sleeves. She tucked a wild curl behind my ear and smiled at me through the mirror — a tired, proud smile she saved only for mornings like these.

“Pretty as a picture,” she said, her voice carrying all the love and all the fear a mother could fit into a few words.

I blinked.

And the world shifted.

I turned in her arms, meaning to reach up and hug her.

But somehow, suddenly — I was taller.

And she was older.

Her hands trembled on my shoulders, confusion flashing across her lined face.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Mama asked. Her voice cracked at the edges. “Why are you cryin’?”

I hadn’t even realized I was.

A tear slid hot and slow down my cheek, dripping onto the lace.

Before I could form words, Mama gasped — a raw, wounded sound — and stumbled back, the white ribbon slipping from her fingers to the floor like a dying bird.

I spun toward the mirror.

And saw it.

Saw me — but not the girl I was.

Not even the woman I thought I’d grow into.

No.

The thing in the glass wore my face, but wrong.

Eyes black as cinders, ringed in a seeping red that ran down my cheeks like melting wax.

My mouth hung open — a silent scream caught behind broken lips.

The white dress, once so carefully pressed, now bloomed with stains the color of old blood.

Mama pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

Her voice came out in a whisper too full of knowing to be anything but truth.

“The devil has visited you… and left a raven’s feather at your door.

And you — you accepted it.”

I spun toward her, arms reaching — pleading —

“Mama, no—!”

But the floor cracked open first.

A black mist poured out like smoke from a curse long buried.

It wrapped around her ankles, her knees, her throat.

Her body jerked once — then dissolved into ash, crumbling through the air like burned prayer paper.

And through the mist, a mouth formed.

That mouth.

That smile I had trusted.

The one that once whispered safety under the stars, now pulled wide in a predator’s grin.

The world tilted.

Blurring.

Fading.

I came back to myself with a ragged breath, choking on the thick air of a dark, unfamiliar room on the floor, cold sweat clinging to my back, the faint flicker of an oil lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The room dim and silent, except for the slow creak of wood… and the quiet hum of breath that wasn’t mine.

Sitting across the room, watching me carefully — was Stack.

At first, my heart leapt — a familiar face in a world gone cold.

I almost ran to him — almost — until I caught the gleam in his eyes.

Not brown.

Not human.

But white.

Blazing and empty as a snowfield under a full moon.

His smile stretched just a little too wide.

Predatory.

Slouched in the chair across the room, arms folded, watching me with a patience that felt wrong.

“What…” I rasped, backing toward the dresser, “what happened to you?”

My voice trembled. “What are you?”

The mirror above the dresser caught me just as I turned.

I saw my own eyes — or what used to be mine.

Pitch black. Red glowing like coals flickering deep in the hearth.

A fire that didn’t warm — just warned.

I stumbled back, mouth opening with a soundless gasp.

Stack chuckled, low and lazy like the devil warming up a sermon.

“I’m like you now,” he said, tilting his head as if showing off the whites of his eyes. “Well… kinda. He gifted us freedom. From all that heartbreak, all that heaviness. Gave you freedom the way you thought was best.”

Desperation gripped me.

I lunged for the window, tearing the heavy curtains aside.

Sunlight poured in.

It hit my skin—

and the world fractured.

It wasn’t fire.

It wasn’t pain.

It was terror.

Ripping through my mind like a pack of wolves.

The golden light twisted into knives, slicing into every hidden corner of me — dredging up every buried fear, every secret shame, every broken promise.

The sun I used to love—

the warmth that once kissed my skin—

now roared inside my skull like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

I collapsed, a hoarse, broken scream tearing from my chest.

Clawing at the floor, at the walls, trying to escape what was already inside me.

Stack watched.

Silent.

Almost sad.

He reached out with a casual hand, pulling the curtains closed again.

The light vanished.

I lay there, a trembling wreck, sobbing into the dusty boards.

Stack crouched low beside me, voice dropping soft and cold as winter mud:

“She’ll learn,” he said.

“This life’s better for her.

True freedom.”

His boots scraped the floor as he stood again, leaving me crumpled there.

The door clicked shut behind Stack, and for a moment, the room was quiet again — too quiet.

Then came the sound.

Soft boots on old wood.

He was here.

Remmick.

The air changed with him, thickened until it tasted like copper on my tongue.

He crouched beside me, slow and easy, like he was soothing a frightened animal.

His hand brushed against my hair — a pet, a comfort, a mockery.

“You’re all better now,” he crooned, voice low and soft enough to make my teeth ache. “Sometimes… the first taste of freedom’s too sweet for a belly that’s been filled with bitterness too long.”

I jerked away from his touch, scrambling back until my spine hit the cold dresser behind me.

The mirror rattled above it, showing me both of us:

Me — trembling, broken.

Him — smiling, patient.

Like a god admiring a sculpture he’d half-finished.

He didn’t follow.

Just stayed crouched there, red eyes gleaming like coals, eyebrows lifted in that innocent, boyish way that used to warm me from the inside out.

Now it just made my heart twist the wrong way.

Not because I hated him.

Because I still loved him.

And love like that…

It’s worse than hate.

It’s the knife you twist in yourself.

I choked on a sob, the words clawing free without thought.

“Why did you turn me into this monster?” I whispered. “This ain’t freedom… it ain’t even enslavement. It’s worse.”

Remmick’s mouth pulled into something almost pitying. Almost.

He stood slow, dust shifting off his shirt.

“I only did what you asked of me,” he said, voice syrupy sweet. “Don’t talk like I didn’t give you a choice. You wanted this, darlin’. You begged for a way out. I just made the decision easier.”

His words spun the air — circles with no end, no beginning.

“But it’s alright,” he drawled, stepping back, giving me room to breathe and suffocate at once. “Once I find lil’ ole Sammie… this lick of freedom will be just a taste of what’s to come.”

At Sammie’s name, my heart leapt.

He was alive.

Maybe others were, too.

I clutched at that hope with trembling fingers, already piecing together desperate plans. Run. Warn him. Stop Remmick.

But Remmick chuckled low in his throat, like he could taste my thoughts.

He dropped into the chair Stack had occupied moments before, sprawling like he owned the whole damned world.

“Oh, darlin’,” he said, voice dripping pity. “Don’t be so eager. Sammie won’t trust you no more than he trusts me. Thinks you’re the devil’s pawn now—”

“Fuck you!” I snapped, the venom lashing out before I could leash it.

He didn’t flinch.

Just smiled wider.

A crescent moon smile. Hungry.

“Aw, no need to get upset,” he cooed. “I’m doing this for the best, you see. For me. For you. For all those poor souls that ache for a world without chains.”

His eyes shone when he spoke. Like he believed it. Like he tasted salvation and didn’t even know it was poison.

“You don’t know what’s best for me,” I hissed, fists curling tight enough to split new claws into my palms. “You never did. You preyed on my need for compassion. For hope. Fed me lies, called it love.

You’re no savior.

You’re just a lost soul that drunk the wine of lies and deceived yourself.”

For the first time, Remmick’s smile faltered.

Just a flicker.

He dropped his gaze to his hands, turning them over slow, as if even he didn’t recognize what he’d become.

When he looked back up, his face was empty.

“Never said I was a savior,” he murmured. “Only came to set the captives free. To bring peace to a broken world. And…”

His lips twitched up again.

“Well, I guess I did come to save after all.

Look at you, darlin’. Finally usin’ that pretty head.”

He turned, heading for the open door with lazy grace.

“I’m going to warn them,” I spat after him, my voice shaking with fury and terror. “I’ll find Sammie. Even if it kills me.”

He paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder.

A shadow stretched long behind him, darker than night itself.

“So stubborn,” he mused. “No vision.”

He tapped his lips, mock-thoughtful.

“But that’s why I didn’t turn you fully.

You fight too much.

You keep me… entertained.”

His smile sharpened.

“But don’t think I came unprepared, darlin’,” he said, voice sinking low. “When I changed you, I made sure you couldn’t end it easy.

Didn’t want you throwin’ yourself into the sun like some tragic heroine.”

He shook his head, tsking.

“I left you more living than dead. Call it mercy,” he said. 

His voice thickened, dragging the room down with it.

“And now?

The sun don’t kill you.

It holds you.

Burns your mind.

Plays every mistake, every grief, every lie you ever swallowed — on a loop.

That’s your true punishment, sweetheart.”

He stepped into the hall.

Paused just long enough to drive the last nail into me.

“Now you’ll finally see just how close you’ve always been to the devil.”

The door closed with a whisper of finality.

The door closed with a whisper—quiet as sin, soft as silk over a blade.

And I shattered.

My fists struck the dresser like thunder begging to be heard, splinters flying like a cry unsaid.

The mirror spiderwebbed outward, each crack a fault line in my chest.

The lamp flickered—once, twice—then danced wild shadows across the wreckage of the room.

Shadows that didn’t move like they used to.

I dropped, sobbing.

Raw.

Broken open like fruit too ripe for this world.

Tears carved tracks down my cheeks, hot as blood.

And in the fractured glass, she stared back.

Me.

But not.

Black-eyed.

Twisted.

Monstrous.

I had become the thing I swore I never would.

The thing I once pitied.

The thing I feared.

I had tasted freedom… and drank too deep.

And now?

The devil wore my face.

That quiet little sound—just a door closing—rattled through me like a funeral bell.

It echoed too loud.

Too final.

Like the world had whispered its last breath and left me behind to rot in the stillness.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Not really.

The silence pressed in—soft at first, then tight, cruel.

Like fingers around my throat, wrapping around my ribs, filling the hollows of me where hope used to live.

Squeezing.

I backed away from the door on legs that no longer felt like mine.

My fingers shook—not from fear.

From truth.

Because I understood now.

Not just what I was—

But what I’d lost.

No freedom.

No peace.

No promise.

Just a hollow thing with something vile curling inside her chest.

A mistake dressed in skin.

I staggered.

My knees buckled, and the floor met me hard.

My chest heaved like it remembered how to cry for help, but the air wouldn’t come.

All I could feel was him.

Remmick.

Still here. Still everywhere.

His voice smeared across the walls like oil.

Like blood.

“You’re always closest to the devil.”

And that smile.

God.

That fucking smile.

My hands clawed at my chest, trying to hold on to something warm, something human—

but all I touched was the burn.

It pulsed.

Grief.

Rage.

The taste of love soured and rusted on the back of my tongue.

I choked on it.

Choked on the truth.

Choked on the ache of still loving the thing that broke me.

Because that’s what he did.

He cracked me open and called it mercy.

Called it freedom.

And I let him.

I followed him down, thinking his voice meant salvation.

And now?

Now I didn’t know what I was.

A woman?

A monster?

A memory?

Just a shell shaped like me.

I dragged myself to the mirror, arm trembling.

Bones screamed under skin that didn’t bruise like it used to.

And when I looked up—

She looked back.

Not me.

Not anymore.

Eyes like polished obsidian.

A red glow flickering deep inside like the devil left a candle burning just beneath the surface.

Like coals waiting for breath.

I touched the glass.

It was cold.

And it didn’t feel like mine.

And for the first time—honest and low��I whispered it.

“I’m not strong enough.”

Not for this.

Not for what’s coming.

Not to stop Remmick.

Not to bear this hunger in my blood, this weight in my bones.

Not when part of me…

still wanted him.

Still ached for the sound of his voice.

Still dreamed of his hands.

Still missed the lie of being chosen.

The tears came quiet now.

Not hot like before.

Just steady.

As if I was already halfway gone.

The room swayed, broken, tilting on some axis I couldn’t fix.

I curled up.

Surrounded by shattered glass

and the dust

of a woman I used to be.

Because now I saw it clear:

Remmick didn’t destroy me.

He rewrote me.

And I didn’t know if there was a way back.

Not anymore.

———

Sunlight. Soft, dappled through the canopy overhead like God’s own fingers pressed gentle against the earth.

I was little again.

Knees diggin’ into warm dirt out behind Mama’s house, the kind that clung to skin and crept under fingernails. The hem of my baby blue dress puddled around me, streaked with grass stains and the green breath of summer. My breath came light. Easy. Like I’d never known sorrow.

In my small, shaking palms, a bird fluttered. A little thing — brown wings tremblin’ like paper caught in a storm. It looked up at me with one eye, scared but still trustin’. Caught between dyin’ and hopin’ I might keep it.

“I’m gon’ fix you,” I whispered, voice soft as a prayer. “Mama says you gotta press gentle on the hurt. Let the hurt feel heard.”

I wrapped its crooked wing with Mama’s rag — one that still held the warmth of a stovetop — and moved careful, clumsy. My hands were filled with the shaky pride of a child who still believed love could mend what life broke.

“There,” I said, satisfaction curling around the word. “That’s better, huh?”

It didn’t answer, but it blinked at me. And that blink — Lord, that blink was enough. I set it down like I was settin’ down a blessing.

It stumbled. Hopped.

And then—by some mercy—it flew.

That’s how I remember it.

That’s the memory I held like gospel.

But memory lies.

Because when I blinked—

The world shifted.

The ground grew darker. Wet with somethin’ more than earth. The rag I’d tied ’round that little wing was soaked through — red and seeping.

The bird wasn’t flutterin’.

Wasn’t breathin’.

The rock sat beside it. Just there. Like it’d always been. Heavy. Stained.

And my hands — my baby hands — were red.

I gasped, staggered back like the sky’d tilted.

“No,” I whispered. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

The screen door behind me slammed open.

Mama stood there, her eyes wide and wild, brimmin’ with fury and shame.

“You killed it,” she hissed, voice like the strike of a switch. “Lord have mercy… what did you do?”

“I tried to help—”

Her finger pointed, shakin’ so hard I thought it might break right off. “You ain’t no healer. You’re a curse.”

The words hit me like stones. Like God Himself had turned His back.

“No,” I breathed. “No, I loved it. I loved it—”

But her face blurred. The edges of her eyes twistin’, meltin’.

The memory broke apart like ash.

And when she spoke again, it wasn’t her voice.

It was his.

Remmick’s voice. That slow, slick honey-coat of a man born of sweet lies and sharpened teeth.

“You’ve always been a killer,” he said.

“You just needed someone to show you how to be honest about it.”

———

I woke with a jolt, lungs burnin’. Another nightmare. Another slice of hell carved from the corners of my mind. I sat up in that dusty bed, heart jackhammerin’. Couldn’t rightly remember how I got there — just flashes of me, scribblin’ out a plan on scrap paper, mind runnin’ circles ’round Sammie.

It had happened twice now. Slippin’ like that. Losin’ whole hours to black. Like my brain weren’t mine no more.

Remmick hadn’t shown his face since. Just leavin’ me to rot in that room, watchin’ from shadows, waitin’ for me to break in two.

And maybe I already had.

Maybe that was the plan all along.

I pressed my hand to my chest. Couldn’t even trust my own thoughts. They felt borrowed. Bent.

Before I could blink again, the house filled with sound.

A choir.

No, not a choir.

Voices — too many, too close. Low and strange.I rose, legs stiff, bones screamin’. Walked slow to the curtain, peeled it back.

Moonlight sliced into the room.

Out there, just past the tree line, shapes moved. Dancin’.

No.

Spinnin’.

Hypnotic. Like they was caught in some kind of trance.

I opened the window without meanin’ to. The music crawled in. Sank under my skin.

It sounded like sorrow strung with sugar.

Before I knew it, the house was behind me. I was out there — feet crunchin’ twigs, heart poundin’. Every step felt like I was bein’ pulled by strings I couldn’t see.

They danced in a circle. Counter-clockwise. Backward. Like time rewound and never stopped. 

It almost felt like how it was back at the juke joint, something spiritual. Like a copy to some degree. But somethin was missin. Like eating a lemon but the taste is sweet than sour.

And in the center — Him.

Remmick.

He was smilin’. Eyes like burnin’ paper under moonlight.

He beckoned me forward, just like always. And I obeyed.

He grabbed my arm, pulled me in close — too close. The others danced on, hummin’ Merle in voices that didn’t sound like they came from mouths no more.

“You feel it don’ ya?” he said, his breath warm on my cheek. “You feel this energy, this magic, but you also feel how somethin’s missin.”

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t blink.

“That somethin’ missin is Sammie and his gift,” he said, low and smooth. “And the longer we wait, the more time is wasted on not bein’ truly one family.”

“And we don’ want that, now do we y/n?” Mary’s voice cut in like a blade, and there she stood — eyes white, smile gone bitter cold. “We just want to be one big happy free family.”

Tears welled up, but they wouldn’t fall. My body — my soul — refused to spill for them no more.

Then the pressure cracked.

My voice came back, and Lord, it came sharp.

“You say Sammie is that somethin’ missin, or is it really because you can never invoke the ancestors — past, present, and future — like Sammie can? You can never truly have that, because the people you turned will never have that connection that drawn you to the juke joi—”

He snatched my face in one hand. Squeezed ’til my cheeks burned.

His eyes flared, teeth grit.

“You just love to run that mouth of yours,” he said, too calm. “Should’ve just taken over your whole mind instead of half.”

That grin — it weren’t playful no more. It was mean.

“Don’t forget who at the end of the day can break this pretty mind of yours. Did it once. Don’t make me do it again. It’ll be worse than what hell the memories the sun can burn in that head.”

He shoved me hard.

My body moved without askin’. Stepped right back into the dance. Circle never broke.

And all I could do was watch through the window like eyes of mine.

Watch the world spin the wrong way.

Watch myself disappear.

———

The moment I came back to myself, it was like the dark got peeled off my eyes. Breath caught sharp in my chest. I shot up off from the same dusty bed, fast but quiet, hands movin’ like they already knew the truth was waitin’ where I left it. Dropped to my knees and lifted the warped floorboard — the one with that stubborn edge I had to dig at with the crook of my nail.

There it was.

Paper, curled and brittle with dust, still hidin’ where I’d stashed it. I pressed it flat on the little nightstand near the closet, fingers shakin’ as I picked up the stub of that pencil. Lead near gone, wood splintered at the tip — but I didn’t care.

I had to finish.

Didn’t matter if it took blood instead of graphite.

I wrote fast, every word scratchin’ against the paper like a cry from my chest. A warning. 

Then came footsteps.

My whole body froze.

Heavy. Sure. Drawin’ closer like the tickin’ of judgment.

Quick as I could, I folded that letter, shoved it back in its hidey hole, laid the board back down — just as the door creaked open.

Stack stood there, leanin’ in the doorway like he owned the place. That grin on his face made my stomach turn damn near inside out. Like he was proud of somethin’ that oughta haunt a man.

“Remmick wanna see you,” he said. “Don’ want no trouble. Just talk. His words, not mine.”

I stood slow, my limbs feelin’ older than they had any right to. Didn’t speak. Just followed behind him through them crooked halls, each step echoing like the house itself was watchin’.

He led me to another room — one I ain’t never been in before.

No bed.

Just two chairs.

And a chess table.

Door shut behind me with a hollow click that made my heart skip. Then I saw it — and God help me, I wished I hadn’t.

Remmick was sittin’ there, leanin’ back easy like a man on a front porch. Blood streaked from his mouth down to his bare chest, open shirt hangin’ loose like he ain’t had a care in the world. At his feet, slumped and still, was a man. Facedown. Dead lookin. Neck at the wrong angle. Gone cold.

I staggered.

My breath caught hard.

“Oh, no need to be worried, darlin’,” Remmick said smooth, like we was talkin’ over sweet tea. “He just got too close to where he wasn’t s’posed to be. Guess he wanted to join the family.”

His teeth shone through the blood. Sharp. Too many.

I opened my mouth — wanted to scream, cuss, beg, anything.

But I couldn’t.

Somethin’ else stole my focus.

“Aw, darlin’,” he drawled, that voice low and syrupy. “You droolin’.”

I blinked — felt warmth on my chin, lifted my hand to find it slick.

Thick.

warm.

“No,” I whispered. But it was true.

“You just hungry is all,” he said. “Come here. I can share.”

And I did.

Or rather, my body did.

Dropped to my knees, crawled across that splintered floor like a dog he’d called home. Every movement wasn’t mine but felt like mine all the same. Like my soul was screamin’ and my limbs just smiled.

He reached down, fingers under my chin, tiltin’ my face to his.

“No matter how much you resist it,” he murmured, “it’ll push back ten times harder.”

Then he kissed me.

Deep.

Long.

Blood warm on my lips on my tongue , seepin’ into the cracks like it belonged there. I moaned — not from pleasure, but from the horror of likin’ it for a split second. My hands climbed his thighs, desperate and trembling, until they found his arms and held on like I could keep myself from drownin’.

When he pulled back, he tapped my cheek real sweet, like a man might to a wife who made his supper just right.

“You look so much better with a lil’ blood on ya.”

My chest clenched.

Hard.

But I didn’t let it show.

“Remmick,” I croaked, voice cracked open down the middle, “why you so hellbent on makin’ me more of a monster than I already am? Can’t you let me fake it — just a lil’, for my own sake?”

He leaned in close, voice soft but cuttin’.

“You ain’t no monster, darlin’,” he said, brushin’ hair from my face. “You just a step forward to bein’ a goddess — my goodness. And if you’d just help me finish the plan, well… the world could be ours.”

His hand cupped my cheek like I was sacred.

But his words?

They tasted like honey poured over rot.

And still — I let it coat my tongue.

Even though I could already feel the cavities settin’ in.

——

Remmick takes my silence as support. I don’t say a word when he comes back with newly turned people or when he’s off on the manhunt for Sammie. I don’t say a word when he seeks me out after another failed attempt of finding Sammie. I don’t say a word when he comes back blistered and burned from the setting sun, cursing that them Natives found him again killing Annie and Mary -though the weight in my chest lifted a bit at that, knowing they were finally free now, along with a few others he so-called new family, saying that we had to leave by sunrise or they will kill us all.

 So we fled my note left at the front door. A woman taking clothes off the clothing line from a full day's dry in the sun is who his next victim was. He easily overpowered her and changed her and when she stood back up knocking on her door her husband opened it and invited her in with no hesitation she then turned him. The house was free to roam now. The day passed with no signs of the natives in the area and as soon as night fell again, Remmick was out again hunting down Sammie like a man starved. 

He has become restless but so did I. After he left I waited a few before changing out of the bloody dress I’ve been wearing since that night at the juke joint to whatever dress was in the closet in the first room I went in. I threw on a dainty brown hat before walking out of the house to town. I squeezed my hands into fists hoping that Grace didn’t close up her shop too early.

Once I reached town, the moon was high up and most of the businesses were already closed. Some folks were still out, bringing shipments into the shops before locking up. I made my way to Grace's shop, the light inside was still on but the door was locked. I quickly but quietly knocked on the glass and waited. The hushed background noise of conversation outside filled the empty space. 

As I was about to knock again I see her silhouette come from the back making her way to the front. She unlocks the door about to make a comment about how the shop is closed but when she locked eyes with me she ate her words. She quickly invited me in before locking the door behind her.

“I got your letter, them natives dropped it off to me earlier in the day.” She said getting straight to the point. “You said very little in the letter but I know it’s more you couldn’t share on paper.”

I nodded with a heavy sigh before hugging her, a sob breaking from my lips.

“Things are so fucked right now, Grace, everyone I knew is gone.”

She comforts me, patting my back, “news broke fast at what happened down at the juke joint, people say it was the klan but didn’t find any body’s. I’m just glad you’re alright,”

“That’s the thing Grace, I’m not alright. Something changed in me and I can’t even trust myself but I know I can trust you.” I gave her another folded piece of paper that I quickly wrote in before leaving earlier and handed it to her. “I know you and Bo know where Sammie and Smoke are laying low at but I don’t want you to tell me just pass this note to him please.” She nodded as she took it from my hand, a determined look on her face.

“I have to go now but please be safe out there, there’s more monsters lurking out there than the klan.”

After our exchange, I quickly headed back to the house. When I reached it there was no one in sight letting me know Remmick was still out on his crazed hunt. I opened the door; I entered the home easily as it didn’t know whether to let me in or keep me out. The clothing I wore tore the veil and I slipped in like I never left.

I tossed down the hat on the table in the kitchen, making my way to the room to change back into my old garbs before Remmick gets here. I opened the door as I began to unbutton the front of the dress.

“Went dancing without me, darlin’?” I jumped in my skin at the sudden voice and turned slowly before making eye contact with the culprit.

Remmick sat in the darkest corner in the room, tapping his long fingers on the armrest of the wooden chair. 

“I-I” the lie was caught in my throat as he stood reaching my shocked form. His sharp nails digging into my side and I wince a bit in pain. “No need to lie darlin, I’ve caught you with your hand in the sweets jar.”

I pushed his hands off me as I created space between us, sitting on the small bed in the room. “You knew I wasn’t going to sit here and let you continue your manhunt for Sammie and do nothing about.”

“Who did you meet with?” He ignores my previous words, and I scoff a bit. “No one that concerns you or your heinous plans.” I spit. A choked noise came from my throat as he wrapped his hands around it squeezing it; I gripped his wrist to try to pull it off me but he only squeezed it harder.

“I just keep on letting you get over on me because I care for you and all you want to do is destroy this plan of mines. Don’t you get it? I’m trying to make heaven on earth. Didn’t you want that? “ he lets go of me before taking a step back looking away from my choked form. “I didn’t want that, all I wanted was for you to save me from my life with Frank, from his hands. But now I see it, that you’re no better than him. I guess the devil does come in many forms.”

He sighs before kneeling in front of me, leaning his cheek on my thighs as he caresses them, “I’m sorry, darlin’ I got ahead of myself.” His voice soft now, his emotions giving me whiplash, “it’s just I lost them all today, them Natives never left from checking the premises and they killed them all,” he sounded defeated and I felt elated with this information, he’s at his lowest right now and I can now carve his mind the way I need to.

 “Oh wow, I-I’m sorry.” I say sadly, playing the part as I run my hands through his hair in a comforting way. “Maybe we should lay low for a while so they can get off our backs. The more we rush this, the more we lose.” He groaned at my words like he disagrees or doesn’t want to accept it. “I can’t stop; I’ve gone too far.

 This is the time I’ve been waiting for centuries and now that I have the opportunity in my grasp I won’t let it slip from me so easily, especially when it’s right in front of me.” I sigh in my head at his words knowin’ it wouldn’t be that easy to persuade him but at least I tried on to the next plan. “Well let me help you find Sammie.” He lifted up from my lap quickly a suspicious glint in his red eyes. “And why would you want to do that?” I can see his walls begin to build itself up again so I quickly respond “because now I see how you truly care to give people freedom from their pain and chains in this world and the longer I sit back and watch the more I wish to make a change even if it has to be by this way.” I say like I was reluctant to the idea but understand him.

He looks at me with those pouty eyebrows like something softened in him from my words, “Darlin’ you don’t know how much I needed those words.” He reaches his hand out caressing my cheek; we kept eye contact before he broke it looking at my lips before locking eyes with me again. Remmick stared up at me like I was the sin he’d spent centuries chasing.

The room reeked of blood and tension, the kind that coils tight and doesn’t let go until someone breaks.

His lips brushed mine—brief, testing—before I grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down hard, our mouths colliding like a war. It was messy, greedy, all tongue and breath and teeth. He tasted like heat and iron and the kind of ache that never goes away.

Clothes didn’t come off—they were ripped. Thread popped. Buttons scattered. Neither of us cared.

He shoved me down onto the bed, hands already between my thighs, spreading me open with a growl low in his chest.

“You’ve been starvin’ for this,” he hissed, fingers pressing where I needed them most.

“So have you,” I gasped, grinding down on his hand. “I can smell it on you.”

He chuckled darkly and dropped to his knees, dragging me to the edge of the bed. His mouth was on me in seconds—no hesitation. He licked like a man denied heaven, tongue greedy and practiced, lips curling into a smirk every time I gasped or bucked or cursed his name.

His fingers dug into my thighs, pinning me open. I came fast, hard, writhing under his mouth—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t let me go. Just kept going like my climax was just an appetizer.

“You gonna beg for me now?” he murmured against me, voice wrecked and low.

I pulled him up by the hair and kissed him hard, tasting myself on his tongue.

“Fuck me,” I snarled.

And he did.

He bent me over, hand in my hair, other gripping my hip like he owned it. When he pushed inside me, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was claiming.

Every thrust was deep, brutal, intentional—meant to remind me of what I was, what he made me. My hands fisted the sheets, the wall, his arms—whatever I could reach.

“Look at you takin’ me,” he growled in my ear. “Body’s been beggin’ for me every night.”

I didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t.

All I could do was moan—low and guttural—my mind white-hot with the sensation of him hitting just right, over and over.

We flipped again—me on top, straddling him, clawing at his chest as I rode him rough and fast. His hands roamed everywhere, nails scraping, teeth biting, drawing blood that only made us crazier.

I leaned down, lips brushing his throat, and bit deep.

He gasped—head snapping back, hips bucking up hard into me.

His blood filled my mouth, hot and electric, and I moaned into the wound.

He grabbed the back of my neck and bit me too—shoulder, collarbone, throat. Marking me. Claiming me. Drinking me. His blood mixed with mine, thick and sacred.

“We were made for this,” he groaned. “You feel it too. Say it.”

I didn’t.

But I screamed when I came again, body clenching around him like it never wanted to let go.

He followed, snarling into my skin, coming deep and hard and endless.

⸻

We collapsed together, breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat and blood.

He tangled his fingers in my hair, lips pressed to my shoulder.

But I didn’t close my eyes.

I just laid there, heart still pounding, blood still thrumming, the taste of him thick in my mouth.

Because this wasn’t love.

This was warfare.

And I’d just given the enemy every inch of me.Again.

——

Two Days Later – Nightfall

The house exhaled behind me as I slipped out the front door, closing it with the kind of care that makes no sound—like I was sneaking out of someone else’s life. The sky was dark as velvet—the kind of night that clung close, hushed and watchful. Still. Heavy. No wind, no whisper, just the faint hush of pine trees breathing in the distance.

Remmick was upstairs, lying low like he said. Said the Natives were still lurking, waiting to strike again. Said we needed to be cautious. Said he needed me to go check the edges of the woods, see how close the threat was.

He said it like it was nothing.

Like he trusted me.

So I nodded and played the part.

But I turned toward town instead, boots moving quick beneath my hem, the cold dirt road swallowing each step. The air was damp, alive with the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening.

No one stopped me. No one looked twice. Just another shadow among shadows, passing quiet under the unlit porch lamps and shuttered windows. I walked with my head tucked low, hat pulled firm against my brow. I’d learned how to walk invisible.

By the time I reached Grace’s shop, the quiet felt louder. And I knew before I even stepped close—something was wrong.

The lights were out.

The door locked.

Stillness pressed against the windows like a held breath. No smell of boiling herbs. No faint silhouette behind lace. Just absence.

I knocked once. Gentle.

No answer.

I waited, blood rising loud in my ears.

I was about to knock again when I heard it behind me.

“Evenin’. Lookin’ for Grace?”

My hand fell, slow. I turned just enough to see the man across the street. Older. Thick coat. His store sign swung gently above him—dry goods. He was locking up, half in, half out the door.

I offered a nod. Nothing more.

He chuckled. Not mean, just tired. “She’s alright. Her and Bo both. Took sick, maybe. Word is she’s been out for two days. Bo’s been back and forth quiet-like. He’s home now. Taking care of her, I’d guess.”

His voice was casual, but it didn’t land right. My stomach pulled tight.

“Thanks,” I said soft, barely above the hush of the wind. Just enough to pass.

He tipped his hat and disappeared into the warmth of his store, door shutting behind him like punctuation.

I stood there a beat longer, just watching the door. The silence around the shop didn’t hum with illness. It hummed with absence.

Still—I crouched low and slipped the folded letter under her door. Just like before. Quick. Clean.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t wait.

Just turned and made my way back to the house, faster now. The shadows felt thicker. The road shorter. Like something was following me home.

———

The house looked just the same as when I left it—tilted quiet, half-forgotten, the way places get when they’ve seen too much. The porch creaked beneath my feet, but only once. I pushed the door open slow, stepping into the stale hush that lived between these walls.

Inside smelled like wood smoke and old iron. The kind of scent that clings to grief.

Remmick was in the parlor, long legs stretched out, one boot propped on the table. He was toying with a deck of cards, shuffling with one hand while the other cradled a glass of something dark. His eyes stayed on the cards.

“Well?” he asked, voice lazy.

“Didn’t see no one,” I said, brushing my sleeves off. “Nothing but trees and dirt. Think they’re gone now.”

He nodded slow, like he already knew. “Good. Gettin’ real tired of lookin’ over my shoulder.”

I walked past him and sank down on the couch, letting my breath out slower than I should’ve. The fabric under me still held the shape of his weight from earlier. He’d been there not long ago, waiting for something.

His eyes flicked up to me once—just a glance—and then back to the cards.

“You did good,” he said. Smooth. Steady. “Ain’t nobody better I’d trust to check.”

I hummed, not bothering to answer.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t notice the way I dug my thumbnail into my palm just to stay here, in this moment, in this lie I had to wear like skin.

Didn’t notice how I was listening—for movement, for footsteps upstairs, for the scrape of someone else in the dark.

I leaned my head back against the cushion, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, where the wood grain twisted into patterns I used to trace in dreams. Now I couldn’t stop seeing them shift like they were trying to spell out a warning.

“You tired?” he asked after a while.

I shrugged.

Remmick cut the deck again. “You been quiet lately.”

“Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous thing to do in this house,” he muttered with a smirk.

He tossed a card on the table face-up.

The devil.

I stared at it. Couldn’t look away.

He watched me then. Not just glanced. Watched.

I felt it.

“Somethin’ botherin’ you, darlin’?”

I turned my face slow, gave him a smile I didn’t feel. “No. Just tired. Like you said.”

He smiled back, like that answer pleased him.

But I could tell he was listening harder now.

I shifted on the couch and let my eyes close. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make him think I was at ease.

But I wasn’t.

Grace was missing.

Bo too.

Remmick hadn’t suspected a thing. Not yet.

But this plan I’d been shaping in shadows? It was slipping through my fingers like water, and I didn’t know how many more nights I had left before he caught me trying to hold it.

——

The street felt longer this time.

Quieter, too.

I walked with my head down, arms wrapped around myself like that could keep the ache in my ribs from spreading. Remmick was out again, gathering what scraps he could—new bodies, new followers, anyone who could fill the void of the ones he’d lost. And I was left to sit in the hollow of his house, mind chewing itself raw.

Grace hadn’t reached out.

Not a whisper. Not a sign.

Something twisted in me the longer I waited, and by the time I pulled my shawl over my shoulders and stepped into the night, I already knew I wouldn’t come back whole.

Her house came into view at the edge of the lane—familiar and wrong all at once. The blinds were drawn. The porch light was off. Stillness pressed up against the walls like something holding its breath.

I climbed the steps slow.

Knocked once.

Waited.

Another knock.

My pulse started up in my throat, heavy and loud, until—

The door opened.

And there she was.

Grace.

Same face, same eyes, but not the same woman who once whispered promises in the back of her shop.

She didn’t look sick. Didn’t look surprised.

Just tired.

Like she’d already made up her mind before I even got there.

“Grace,” I breathed, relief and confusion tangling in my voice. “I’ve been waitin’ for word—what happened? Are you alright?”

She looked at me for a long moment before she spoke. No hug. No warmth.

Just cool, clipped words.

“I can’t help you no more, Y/N.”

My breath caught.

“What?”

She crossed her arms. “Whatever it is you’re stirrin’ up, it’s followin’ you. You done brought danger to my door, and I can’t let it near Bo , Lisa or me again. Not now.”

I blinked, heat rushing to my face.

“But you said—Grace, you said if I ever needed—”

“That was before,” she said, voice hardening. “Before I realized what you’d turned into. What’s waitin’ in the woods behind you.”

She looked past me then.

Not at the trees.

At what she thought I’d become.

I shook my head, mouth parting, searching for words that might save whatever this was. “I’m still me—Grace, please—”

“I need you to go.”

And with that, she closed the door.

Didn’t slam it. Just shut it soft.

Final.

I stood there, staring at the wood, like maybe it’d open back up and undo what just happened.

But it didn’t.

The porch creaked as I sank down onto the top step, arms limp at my sides. The air had that thick weight to it again, the kind that made your bones ache like they remembered something awful.

My last string to Sammie was cut.

I didn’t even know if he’d gotten my note.

Didn’t know if he was alive. Or hiding. Or already lost to Remmick’s hunger.

I didn’t cry.

Didn’t have anything left in me for that.

I just sat there, for what felt like hours, until the wind shifted and I knew I had to move.

———

The house felt colder when I returned.

Not in temperature—just in presence.

Like it knew something had changed.

I pushed through the door, not bothering to close it quiet this time. The shadows felt heavier. My skin prickled like the walls were watching.

I drifted through the parlor, my steps slow, heavy. Sank into the couch, my eyes fixed on nothing. Time blurred. I could still feel the echo of Grace’s voice, the chill behind her words.

I stayed there until I heard the latch click.

The front door creaked open.

Bootsteps.

Remmick.

He stepped in with his usual ease, closing the door behind him. His shirt was wrinkled. Dust clung to his cuffs. His eyes locked onto me, curious at first.

But I didn’t give him time to ask.

I stood.

Crossed the space in three sharp steps.

And kissed him.

Hard.

His mouth met mine with that familiar pressure, warm and dangerous, and for once I didn’t flinch from it. My hands curled into his shirt, fingers pulling him down into me, my breath caught somewhere between fury and grief.

He staggered back a step with me in his arms, mouth moving against mine with a growl of surprise, then heat. His hands found my waist—firm, possessive.

I kissed him like I needed to forget.

And maybe I did.

Forget Grace.

Forget the weight of a name nobody said anymore.

Forget that I’d lost the only person left who believed I was worth saving.

He didn’t ask what I was running from.

Didn’t need to.

Because Remmick knew what it looked like when something broke in you.

And he knew how to kiss like it was the cure.

Even if it was just another poison I drank too willingly.

Even if I was the one reaching for the bottle Again.

———

I waited until the moon sat high and clean above the trees before slipping out again, coat pulled tight over my frame, the last chill of daylight still clinging to the edges of the wind. Remmick was still hunting what he’d lost — what he thought he could recreate with blood and sweet talk. He didn’t ask where I was going tonight. Just told me, quiet and easy, “Be back before it’s too late.”

Too late for who, I didn’t ask.

The road to town stretched long, silent. My boots crunched softly over gravel, a sound that felt too loud for the kind of thoughts I was carrying. I counted the minutes with each step, mind racing faster than my feet. I needed clarity. Grace’s face hadn’t left my mind since she shut that door in it. Something was wrong, and I couldn’t let it go.

I turned onto Main, the familiar wooden storefronts all shadowed in lamplight and memory. I spotted the dry goods store across from Grace’s shop — the one where that older man had spoken to me before. I approached slow, cautious. The windows glowed from within.

I stopped at the edge of the porch and knocked gently against the doorframe. Not too loud. Not too soft. Just enough to say: I don’t mean no harm.

The man inside looked up from behind the counter. Recognition lit up his face, though he squinted just the same, like he wasn’t quite sure if I was real or not.

“Evenin’,” I said, voice calm but low. “Can I come in?”

He hesitated for a second, then gave a small nod.

“Come in, sure,” he said, walking over to unlock the door. “Don’t often get visitors this late, but it’s your kind of hour, I suppose.”

I stepped inside, the warmth of the store meeting me like a familiar hush. It smelled like cedarwood, dust, and old paper — like things that kept secrets.

He moved behind the counter again, leaning slightly against it as he regarded me. “You lookin’ better than last time I saw you. Seemed a little… restless then.”

I gave a small smile, not enough to reach my eyes. “Still restless.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Ain’t we all.”

I didn’t waste time. “You remember what you said about Grace being sick?”

He blinked. “Sure.”

“Well, I saw her. She ain’t sick. And she wasn’t surprised to see me. She just… shut me out. Like I was poison.”

His frown deepened. He scratched his head, gaze drifting toward the window like the answer might be hiding outside. “I don’t know what’s what no more. She and Bo kept to themselves the past couple days. Didn’t even open the shop since you came by. But I do recall…” His fingers tapped rhythm on the wood. “Something strange.”

He snapped his fingers suddenly, his expression lighting up. “Damn near forgot!”

He ducked behind the counter, rummaging through drawers and stacked papers until he pulled out a folded note — weathered but intact.

“Grace gave me this in a hurry a few nights back. Told me if a woman came lookin’ for her at night — to hand it over. No name, just a description. Figured it was you.”

My fingers trembled as I took it. “Thank you,” I said, voice soft.

He nodded, already turning back to wipe down a nearby shelf. “Hope it clears somethin’ up.”

I unfolded the paper with care, and Grace’s familiar script met my eyes like a balm and a blade:

Y/N—

He got it. Your letter. Sammie read every word.

I don’t have a reply from him — he didn’t risk sendin’ one.

Things got bad quick. Too many eyes. I’m layin’ low for now, maybe longer.

But listen close —

Sammie and Smoke are heading north. Five days from when you sent the letter.

He’ll wait as long as he can, but once the time comes, he has to go.

It’s not safe to stay.

I don’t know when you’ll get this, but you’ll have to move fast. Here’s where to look——

God keep you.

–G

The words rang through me like a bell toll.

Five days.

I counted backward in my head, trying not to panic. Three had already slipped through my fingers. Two remained — if I was lucky. If he was.

I closed the letter, fingers stiff, and slid it into my pocket with trembling care. I turned for the door.

“Thank you again,” I said over my shoulder, not waiting for him to reply.

Outside, the wind bit a little harder. I pulled my coat tighter and walked with purpose toward the alleyway.

No one followed.

The trash can waited like a sentinel.

I tore the note into pieces, sharp and fast, letting them fall into the dark.

Gone.

Gone like the chance I was clawing to keep hold of.

I looked once more at the glowing windows of Grace’s house in the distance. Still drawn. Still closed.

And then I walked back toward the house I shared with the devil — heart pounding like a drum, like war.

——

Remmick was still gone when I got there.

But not for long.

And the next move would have to be mine.

The plan was set. Rough around the edges, held together by frayed nerves and desperate hope—but it was all I had. Tomorrow night, it would be enacted. No more waiting. No more second-guessing.If all went well, I’d be gone.Possibly leaving Remmick behind. The thought pierced deeper than I’d anticipated. A dull ache settled in my chest, one I couldn’t quite name. 

I sat on the couch, the room dimly lit, lost in my thoughts when the door creaked open.Remmick entered, exhaling a sigh that spoke of exhaustion. He moved with a weariness that seemed to seep into the room. He settled into a dining chair behind me, the weight of the day evident in his posture.

“Things are moving slower than I’d like,” he began, his voice tinged with frustration. “People are hesitant, resistant. It’s… taxing.”

I nodded, offering a noncommittal hum.

After a pause, he asked, “Any updates on Sammie’s whereabouts?”

My heart skipped a beat. “No,” I replied quickly. “Nothing concrete. The town’s been quiet.” 

He studied me for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re sure?” 

I forced a smile. “Positive. If I had anything, you’d be the first to know.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied.The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I stood, the need to bridge the distance overwhelming. I walked over to him, noting the way his shirt was discarded to the side, suspenders hanging loosely at his waist.His eyes met mine, a glint of red flickering in their depths as I settled onto his lap.

“Just wait a little longer,” I murmured, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Who knows? Sammie might just walk to you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rough. His hand found my waist, pulling me closer.

“Or maybe I’ll find him,” he said, voice a whisper against my skin, “because I never lost him.”

A shiver ran down my spine. I silenced him with a kiss, desperate to drown out the implications of his words. I didn’t want to hear the rest. Didn’t want to know if he was bluffin’ or boastin’.I just needed to forget.

I slid off his lap, down to my knees between his thighs. My hands moved on instinct, unfastening the button at his waist, pulling the fabric down slow. His cock was already half-hard, twitching to life under my touch.

Remmick watched me with a quiet, ravenous hunger, his eyes flickering red like they remembered old wars.

“You sure about this?” he murmured, voice dipped in syrup.

“No,” I whispered. “But I ain’t stoppin’.”

I wrapped my lips around him, taking him slow, tasting the salt and musk of him as I worked my tongue down his shaft. His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. His hand curled into my hair, not pushing—just there. Guiding. Praising.I sucked harder, deeper, letting him hit the back of my throat, letting him feel every inch of my want and denial.

He cursed, low and shaky. “Fuck, darlin’. You feel like you’re prayin’ with your mouth.”

His hips rolled, shallow thrusts meeting the rhythm of my mouth. He tasted like power. Like a promise I didn’t want to keep.My hands slid up his thighs, holding him steady as he twitched in my mouth, his moans climbing higher. Faster.

Until he bucked hard, one hand clenched in my hair, spilling into me with a growl that sounded like a broken vow.I stayed there a moment, letting him ride it out, then pulled back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to breathe through the weight in my chest.Afterward, the room was silent save for our mingled breaths. I rested against him, heart pounding, mind racing.

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, eyes searching mine.

“You won’t leave me now, would you, darlin’?”

I hesitated, then shook my head slowly.A smile touched his lips. “Good. Wouldn’t want the woman I love to leave me to forever loneliness.”

The words struck me, a mix of warmth and dread curling in my stomach. I buried my face in his neck, the weight of my decision pressing down on me.

——

The moon wore a veil of clouds tonight, like it didn’t want to bear witness to what was about to happen. Half-bright and mean-looking, it hovered above me as I crept away from the house like a thief in the dark. Remmick had already left—gone off chasing ghosts and pieces of a plan falling apart in his own hands. Said he’d be back before sunrise. I knew he would.

And I knew I wouldn’t be.

This was it. No more stalling. No more swallowing screams in that house where the walls watched me breathe. My plan—frayed at the seams and stitched with desperation—was all I had now. And if the stars were kind, it might buy me a few hours’ head start.

I followed the path Grace had described, further from town than I expected. The ground grew rockier, the trees thicker. Shadows pressed in close. My nerves were wired so tight, every rustle in the trees felt like someone whisperin’ my name. But I kept walking. I had to. The house wasn’t far now. I saw it through the branches—a small thing, hunched in the dark with a car parked in front. A flicker of breath escaped me. Relief. They hadn’t left yet. Grace’s directions had been good. I hadn’t been followed. Not yet.

My steps quickened, hope making me reckless.

And then—I froze.A rustle in the trees behind me. Not the wind.

My skin went tight. My body wanted to run, scream, fight—but I stood there locked in place like prey.Then something small burst out of the treeline.I nearly screamed. Nearly ran. But the shape straightened. A face I knew.

“Grace?” I whispered.

She stumbled toward me, her breaths ragged, tears streaking her cheeks. Her dress was torn, her hair wild.

“They got them,” she sobbed, falling into my arms. “Bo—Amy—oh God, I watched them turn ‘em right in front of me. I hid, I ran, but they—they knew, Y/N. They knew.”

I held her close, one arm locked around her trembling body as the other reached instinctively for the gun hidden in my waistband. My stomach sank with her words.

This wasn’t just a ruined plan. It was a massacre in motion.

“We have to go,” I breathed. “Now.”

The two of us ran the rest of the way to the house. My mind was already racing. I didn’t know if they’d followed Grace, if they’d followed me, if they were already here—but I wasn’t about to lose this chance.

I pounded on the door.

It opened so fast it startled me.

Smoke stood there, rifle raised—but the moment he saw our faces, his expression broke wide.

“Y/N? Grace?”

“Can we come in?,” I gasped. “Now.”

“Yea.”He stepped back fast, letting us in. He looked both ways before slamming the door shut behind us.

Inside, Sammie was in the hallway, tense and alert—eyes wide as he saw us. Then soft, just for a second. He was alive.

I rushed to him and pulled him into a hug. The weight of his arms around me almost brought me to my knees. He smelled like sweat and pine and something old and burnt.Then I saw it. A claw mark across his cheek, still scabbed and angry. I reached for it. He lowered his head like he was ashamed.

“Remmick,” he said quietly.I said nothing. Just dropped my hand.Smoke locked every window, checked every corner. We gathered in the parlor, breathing too loud, too fast.We shared what we knew—Grace telling how Bo and Amy were caught. I told them what Remmick had lied about. What he was building. What I let him build.None of us had words for what sat in the room with us. We just knew we had to go.

Smoke pulled a heavy sack from the floor. “We leave now,” he said. “They’ll trace Grace’s steps soon enough.”

I nodded, numb. My hands moved on their own, grabbing bags, helping load the car. It was muscle memory. Fight or flight. Survive.Outside, the wind stirred the trees.Grace tugged at my arm, pulling me aside as the others worked.

“I think we should stay another night,” she whispered. “Just till things calm a little. It’s too sudden. We’ll draw less attention—”

“Grace,” I said gently, but stopped.

Something was wrong.

“G…Grace,” I said again, and my voice cracked. “You’re—you’re drooling.”

She wiped her mouth. But it was too slow. Too calm.Her lips stretched into a smile that wasn’t hers.

“Guess the cat’s out the bag.”

I stumbled back.

“Smoke!” I shouted.

He turned just as Grace’s eyes went white, glowing like a lantern lit from within.

“Ah, shit,” he breathed.

Too late.From the trees, more figures emerged. Calm. Confident.

Bo. Stack. Amy.

Grinning.

Like puppets with the strings still showing.My stomach flipped. I counted bodies.

Annie. Mary. More of them. All the ones Remmick said had died.Liars. Every last one of them. Or maybe just him.

And then—there he was.

Remmick.

Stepping through the trees like he never left them.

He looked just the same. Dusty boots. Rolled sleeves. Hair damp with effort. But his eyes?

His eyes burned.

“Should I call this a family reunion?” he drawled, voice cutting through the night like a whip.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. I wanted to scream, to cry, to laugh from how stupid I’d been.

“You fuckin’ liar—”

He cut me off with a soft tsk. “Now, now. Don’t give me that, Y/N. You been lyin’ to me since day one. Thought it was only fair to give it back in double.”

The others fanned out, blocking the car, the trees, the road. There was nowhere left to run.

“I kept an eye on you,” Remmick said, stepping closer, every word heavy. “Even when you thought I wasn’t around. Every errand. Every letter. Every secret little knock on some poor girl’s door—I saw it. You think you were foolin’ me, baby? I let you.”

My mouth opened—but I couldn’t find a lie good enough to cover the hurt.

“You played me like a fiddle,” he said, voice suddenly sharp. “But only one of us got stuck. Only one of us saw the bigger picture . And now look what you done. Wasted time. Endangered what I built. You think I waited centuries for this just to let you get in the way?”

His voice dropped to a growl. “I could’ve made you a queen. Instead, you chose to be a warnin’.”

The pain hit like a slap.

But it wasn’t the betrayal.

It was the shame.

Because I had loved him.

Even when I shouldn’t have.

Even now.

Smoke stumbled, wounded and breathing heavy, his arm barely lifting the rifle. Sammie moved to help—but Remmick was already there.

He grabbed Sammie by the collar, mouth open, teeth sharp—

I didn’t think.

I just moved.

Grabbed the gun from the dirt, raised it, and fired.The shot cracked through the clearing.Remmick dropped Sammie, staggering back, shock and fury twisting his face.

He turned to me.Eyes burning. Hurt. Betrayed.

“You really wanna do this, darlin’?” he whispered.

I didn’t know I was crying until the tears reached my lips. “I can’t let you make anyone else suffer. You’ve done enough.”

The moon tilted in the sky, shifting just enough that I could see the edge of morning begin to rise.Sammie struggled to his feet, limping.

“I should’ve never let you play with my plan,” Remmick said, quiet now. “I guess… my love for you was my weakness.”

Sammie grabbed the stake. I saw it. Saw him raise it behind Remmick.

I dropped the gun.I stepped forward.

And kissed him.

Remmick stiffened. Shocked.His hand cupped my face. For a moment, it was just us again.

And then—

“Do it, Sammie,” I yelled.

The stake drove through his back.

And into my chest.Pain like I’d never known.

He snarled.

I gasped.

“You were never meant to be mine in this life,” I whispered, forehead pressed to his. “But maybe in the next…”His skin began to blister then burn. The sun rose.

Screams echoed around us—his followers lighting up like bonfires as they tried to run.He tried to pull away.

But I held him.Held him until the flames took us both.

And everything went black.

———

1985

Somewhere in Louisiana

The market smelled like July holdin’ its breath—hot tar, overripe peaches, and molasses gone sour under the weight of the sun. A Marvin Gaye tune played low from a radio tucked behind a fruit stall, half-swallowed by the hum of cicadas and the thump of crates bein’ moved.

I came for coffee beans. That’s it.

But fate’s got a funny way of reroutin’ simple errands.

He passed me like a ghost wearin’ skin.

Not ‘cause he was fine—though he was.

White tee soft with time, tucked into jeans worn pale at the thighs. Denim jacket slung careless over one shoulder. Boots steady on the ground. Hair a mess like he’d just woken up from somethin’ deep.

But that ain’t why I stopped.

I stopped ‘cause my body knew before my heart remembered.

Like my bones stood still for someone they used to ache for.

He paused. Turned.

Brows drawn in like he was tryin’ to place me in a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

“‘Scuse me, miss,” he said, voice smooth as aged bourbon. “Do I… know you from somewhere?”

I blinked once. Twice.

“I—maybe,” I said. My voice came out soft, like it hadn’t spoken sorrow in years.

He smiled, half-tilted, cautious. “That’s funny. I was just about to say the same.”

I nodded slow. “You ever been down to Mississippi?”

His smile dipped, then stilled. “Once. Long time ago.”

That somethin’ passed between us—

not quite tension. Not quite peace.

Just an old ache that ain’t ever learned how to die.

He stepped closer, like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.

“I know this is a little forward,” he said, reachin’ in his pocket, pullin’ out a worn scrap of receipt paper and a pen, “but… would you wanna grab a drink sometime?”

My breath caught.

Not from surprise.

From remembrance.

That voice.

That tilt of the head.

That kind of question that could rearrange your whole life if you let it.

I didn’t let it show.

“Sure,” I said, smiling faint. “I’d like that.”

He scribbled down a number, handed me the paper like it held somethin’ sacred.

I took it, my fingers brushing his.

“Remmick,” he said.

“Y/N,” I answered, just as quiet.

His eyes searched mine for a second too long. Somethin��� flickered there—like déjà vu grippin’ his ribs too tight.

Then—

“Y/N!” a voice called out behind me, sharp as a church bell on Sunday morning.

“You gon’ make us miss The Movie! Move your feet, girl!”

I turned quick to see Mary, arms crossed, grin wide watching my exchange.

“Oh—sorry!” I laughed, half-startled, shakin’ my head as I gathered my bags. “I’ll call you later,” I told him, already steppin’ backward.

“Hope you do,” he said, lips curvin’ easy.

I turned toward Mary, my heart beatin’ fast for no reason I could name.

Behind me, he watched.

Eyes flickered red—

Just for a second.Gone before the blink finished.

And when I looked back one last time—

he was walkin’ away, hands in his pockets, hummin’ low to the rhythm of a song only he remembered.

[jarofstyles]

Teach Me?

Hello love bugs, we've got a huge one shot here. I see a lot of writing where the guy helps the girl out with inexperience, but I thought I'd like to write something where he's the one asking for help. I had a lot of fun putting this together so I hope you guys like it. I may do more but I have a lot of other stuffed planned but let me know your thoughts!

Check out our Patreon for early access and 260+ exclusive writings!

WC- 12.3k

Warnings- mentions of insecurity, anxiety, oral, soft!Dom H, soft!Dom Y/N, switchy vibes but mostly Dom!H, Y/N pokes fun at him for being nerdy but she loves it,

"Hey..." Harry began casually, wiping his hands on a towel after washing. Her best friend had invited himself over for dinner, which meant he was going to do the dishes. It was an unspoken rule of their friendship. If you invite yourself, you clean up. But seeing as Y/N was the one who cooked nine out of ten times, it had become a normal to see him at her kitchen sink. Her eyes peeked up at him from her phone, giving him a look to continue. "Can I ask you something? It's a kinda...weird request." He scratched the back of his neck nervously, looking at her with an attempt at puppy dog eyes. He wanted something and it made her narrow her eyes. 

“I’m not going to the convention with you again, Har. It’s not my scene, I told you. I’ll watch any series of movies until our brains leak out our ears but if I have to sit through panels and Q&As where they ask what the characters favorite food is again I may lose my mind.” She knew it was coming up… but apparently that wasn’t his point. Thank God.

 "No! No. Adam is going with me this year. Rude. But besides that…” It made her a lot more curious as to what it could be because he did genuinely look nervous. “It's a weird question, actually." He sat down next to her on the couch, twisting his hands together. "And you can totally say no... but..." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Would you... maybe..." The hesitance had her sitting up a little straighter, raising her brow higher to urge him forward. "God..." He muttered softly, trying to find the words. "You promise not to judge?" He saw her raise an eyebrow. "I mean it. No making fun of me." He watched as she slowly nodded, waiting.

“I make fun of you for a lot of things, but if you’re asking me not to, I won’t. Are you okay?” Y/N asked softly, unused to his behavior. He was usually playful and could take any joke, so it wasn’t exactly like him to ask her not to do it. 

"I'm okay." He assured her, but still had the nervous look in his eyes. "It's just... I've recently realized... kinda an embarrassing thing about myself." He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I don’t think… I don’t think I’m actually making girls finish properly when I hook up with them. At least not every time. And I feel like shit about it.”

That was a surprise to her. Harry had the whole hot and nerdy thing going on, and he pulled plenty. Not that he always attempted or took them up on the offers, but he’d had a few girls he had hooked up with that she knew of. Usually he kept pretty quiet about it, but that didn’t bother her. Y/N had assumed a lot about him because… He did have some big dick energy going on. He had really nice hands too. The idea of him being unskilled in bed didn’t feel like it was right, but she was hearing him out. “What’s making you think this?” She asked curiously. “Did someone say something?”

"No, no one's ever said anything. Not to my face." His face flushed slightly pink as he shifted again, trying to get comfortable. "I just... well. Sometimes I noticed they'd tense up or seem kinda disappointed later. Like they were expecting something else. More? I dunno. And they don’t usually text me again, which is fine and all but I hate thinking I let someone down. It’s embarrassing." He avoided looking at her while he talked, staring at his fidgeting fingers instead. "I don't want to be one of those guys who only thinks about themselves. That’s the last thing I want to do." He trailed off, clearly embarrassed. So unlike him that it made her heart hurt a little bit. Harry was a happy guy and seeing him not like that was like seeing a wet puppy in the street. She had to fix it. 

“Well the fact that you even care at all is really good. I know, the bar is on the floor but, unfortunately a lot of men don’t give a shit if we finish or not.” Y/N knew plenty of men- had experienced them herself- that didn’t care if it felt good for her. They wanted a quick nut and go. Harry never seemed to be the type. Honestly, he was very thorough in most things and she’d assumed that would properly bleed over to sex.

 “Wanting to be better is half the battle. You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. The first time I sucked someone off I gagged really awfully, the sound made him go soft.” She laughed at her own bad time. “We all start somewhere.”

He laughed softly at her story, feeling a little more at ease knowing he wasn’t the only one. Y/N was far more experienced and open about being a little freak, so it felt better to know even she had some weirder experiences. It wasn’t just him. "Yeah, I can imagine." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Gagging on dick is not the most pleasant experience, is it?" He turned to look at her, his eyes serious again. "But, um, thanks for listening and all that. I just... I want to be good at it. For them, and for myself." He looked down at his hands again, picking at his fingernails nervously. He needed to paint them again so he would stop doing it. His pink polish was chipped. "And that's why I was wondering…” He bit his lip, his heart racing as he tried to work up the nerve to ask his best friend a very personal favor. The most personal you could probably get.

 "Would you... would you maybe let me practice on you?” The silence lingered for a moment longer than he was okay with, panicking slightly as he continue. “I promise I'll listen to everything you say, and we can stop anytime you want. We don’t even have to! You can say no, obviously.” The man was babbling as he tried to untwist his tongue. “But I really trust you and I think you'd give me good feedback. Honest feedback." He looked up at her with pleading eyes, his cheeks flushed a darker pink that she hadn’t seen before- all the way up to his ears.

“Me?” That… was not at all what she had expected. To be fair she hadn’t been sure what to expect but that would probably be lower on the list. “You want to… practice eating pussy or something, on me? I just want to make sure I heard you correctly.” Because she sure as hell didn’t know if this was some sort of dream or delusion.

Harry nodded quickly, his ears turning an even deeper shade of red. "Yeah, you. I mean, if you're comfortable with it. I know it's a really fucking weird request and all, I swear I’m not trying to make anything weird with us but... you're my best friend, and I trust you. And I know you'd be honest with me." Y/N was known for being honest even if it wasn’t the most appropriate time to be. He looked at her with those big, hopeful eyes, his bottom lip worried between his teeth. "Please? I promise I'll do everything I can to make it good for you, if you let me. I just really want to get better at this."

It could fuck up the friendship. Y/N knew that, because it was every sort of cliche thing that tells you do not, under any circumstances, hook up with your best friend. But… it had been a while. Harry didn’t ask much of her besides her dinners and to go to some events with him so he wasn’t alone. He listened to her rants and brought her food when she was hungry and didn’t want to go out. He made her bed for her sometimes just because he was near and tidy like that. He swept the kitchen after dinner. He bought tickets to movies and concerts on his card and told her to pay him back whenever she could. He protected her if people acted weird at the rare chance they went out to the bar. Harry was a really fucking good friend, the best she’d ever had. 

She also couldn’t lie to herself and say she didn’t think he had a spectacularly pretty mouth and even better hands. They had always been really nice. Soft, long fingers, big palm. The tattoos that trickled down… Fuck. She was going to say yes. Fuck it. “Okay. I guess we can, but I’ve got some rules.”

He blinked, surprised but trying to hide it, his heart racing faster at her surprisingly quick answer. "Rules?" He nodded, leaning forward slightly, completely focused on her words. "Of course. I mean... I'll do anything you say." That came out a bit too smooth, and they both caught the double meaning. He cleared his throat, trying to appear casual and failing miserably. "What are they?" His eyes were fixed on her, his hands folded in his lap to stop them from shaking nervously.

“I mean, I’m being a little dramatic. It’s only a few.” She laughed, leaning back on the couch. “One being we don’t tell anyone. Our friends are already weird about how much time we spend together. Two, you don’t touch me and then another woman. If you find someone else that’s completely fine, but I don’t want her germs and shit on me.” That was not something she liked at all. “If you’re practicing on me, it’s me. I won’t fuck around with other people either, but I don’t fuck with STIs and all that.” It was doubtful he would need to be reminded of that. 

“I’m assuming this is going to be a couple times because the way you get good at stuff is practicing. I won’t complain if I get a few orgasms out of this.” She shrugged as if this was a normal thing to be discussing. Best friends having sex.  “But the last one is you don’t make things weird after you’re all good with your skills. Don’t make stuff weird.”

"Those are..." He cleared his throat, trying to process everything she had just said. "Those are actually very reasonable rules." He nodded, making sure to emphasize each point so she know he heard her loud and clear. "One: Not telling our friends is smart. Two: Of course, no cheating. We aren’t dating but I’m a one woman type of man. My mother raised me better than that. You know she would kill me." He managed a small smile. "Three: I, uh, plan on practicing. A lot, if you let me." His eyes lingered just a moment too long on her lips, then quickly flicked away.

“Good.” Harry was efficient in most things. It’s exactly why she understood how much it probably bothered the hell out of him to not really be able to get a woman off, or so he thinks. She was just being a good friend, right? helping him out. “So walk me through what you usually do when you bring someone home. We start there. I can tell you if something you’re doing is weird.”

He swallowed nervously, trying to collect his thoughts as he shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "Well, uh... usually I'd start by kissing them, ya know? Get them a little worked up before moving down." He gestured vaguely with his hands, as if physically trailing kisses down an imaginary body. "Then I'd kinda... kiss around the area, maybe use my fingers first to make sure they're wet and all..." He trailed off, wincing as he realized how clinical it sounded when he said it out loud.

“That sounds decent, but kind of like a routine.” Harry was like that, she knew, but sex wasn’t. “Not all women are the same, though. We’re all different. You don’t experiment at all to see where her sensitive spots are? Do you keep kissing to the lips and her cunt?” The question was blunt, but she usually was.

"Well... No, actually. I kinda just do the same thing every time." He ran a hand through his hair nervously, realizing how basic that sounded compared to how she spoke about sex. "And yeah, I guess I do stop kissing once I get down there. Why?" He was listening intently, genuinely curious about her approach. For all his perceived experience with women, he was suddenly feeling very inexperienced in this one area. Something about the way she talked about sex was... different. Confident, like it was no big deal.

“Because women are sensual creatures, Harry. Sure, we have similar biological things that happen but the way we get horny is with our minds. Teasing a little. Dirty talk, if you’re good at it, ease into it. Kissing places that aren’t just the obvious.” Shifting to face him, she grabbed one of his hands and put it on her shoulder. He was definitely nervous. It was a little cute. “I’ll give you a cheat sheet for me. I really like to be kissed under my ear, over my throat. Sometimes a lick or a suck. A bite, if I’m in the mood. I like to be kissed over my stomach, tops of my breasts, inner thighs, hips. They aren’t necessarily obvious, but the exploration is nice.” 

Taking his hand, she moved it to her neck and then dragged it down past her tits, down her stomach to the waistband of her joggers. “You can have a general path, but you need to be comfortable deviating from it when that’s what she responds to.”

"Fuck..." The curse slipped out quietly as his breath caught, noticing how comfortable she was with his hand on her body. His fingers lingered at her waistband, acutely aware of the sensitive skin just inches beneath. "I never really thought about it like that. I always just went straight for the pussy." He cleared his throat, realizing how crude that sounded coming out loud. "I mean..." She chuckled at his flustered state, finding it endearing. "So you're saying I should take my time? Like, really tease her out?" He moved his hand slightly, fingertips brushing the bare skin of her lower abdomen just beneath her shirt hem. "Kiss other places, see what makes her squirm?" 

His gaze flickered down to where his hand rested, then back up to meet her eyes. There was a new spark of understanding there, like pieces clicking into place. "And if I find somewhere she likes? I should... explore that?" 

“Yeah.” Her stomach had jumped as he moved his hand but didn’t say anything about it. “Every person is different. I’m sure you have places you like to be touched that people haven’t tried yet either. Being in tune with your body and hers, being able to read the cues that’s what could be your strength.” It was something a lot of men didn’t bother to take into consideration.

"Like, if she makes a certain noise or tenses up?" He was genuinely intrigued now, his mind racing with possibilities. "What if she pulls my hair or digs her nails into my back?" He shifted his hand lower, fingers splaying out on her stomach curiously. "Does that mean she likes it?" He was so focused on the hypotheticals that he almost missed the way his hand resting on her stomach made her stomach muscles twitch slightly beneath his palm.

“Yes, exactly that. Sometimes you’ll be able to feel her pulse if you’re holding her wrist, or.. Well, if you’ve got your hand around her throat. We’ll talk about proper choking another day, but you can see if her pulse jumps from that.” His hands were perfect for that, honestly, and she shouldn’t let her mind wander. Nope. “The noises she makes, if she pulls you further in, bucks her hips, those are all good signs. Not everyone is extremely vocal, but checking in to make sure she likes it, if she wants you to give more, it can help.

"Checking in?" He repeated, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he tried to wrap his head around the idea. "You mean like... asking her if she likes it?" He shifted his hand lower still, fingertips brushing the hem of her joggers. "Like, 'is this okay?' Or 'do you like this?'" He could see how that might be helpful, especially with quieter partners. "But wouldn't that ruin the moment?" He looked up at her, genuinely curious and seeking approval.

“You don’t have to ask in such a sterile way. You can just say something like ‘does that feel good?’ or ‘that’s nice, baby?’ and see her response. You’ve got a nice voice, Har. Use it.” She gave him the compliment easily. He did need a bit of confidence boosting, that much she could already tell. “Checking in shouldn’t ruin the moment. It’s safe, it’s a sign of a good partner. You’ll figure out how to check in in a less… abrupt way.”

"Right... fuck me." He muttered under his breath, actually feeling slightly embarrassed about how little thought he'd put into this before. "I've been a clueless fuck, haven't I?" He sighed, running his fingers along her waistband more deliberately now, testing how she responded. His heart stuttered slightly when she complimented his voice."So like..." He traced patterns on her lower stomach with his fingertips, almost unconsciously. “Feels good?” Testing out the way she had suggested.

Y/N swallowed, feeling a bit of a shift. He had seemed to be having a good time touching her stomach, the light tracing on her skin making her heat up a little bit. She wasn’t blind- Harry had most definitely gotten hotter over the years, and he was just attractive in general. Though she hadn’t allowed herself to look at him as anything but the quirky best friend he was, getting to see a different side of him was something she was intrigued by.

 “Mhm.” She tilted her head slightly to the side. “See? It doesn’t have to be straight into it. Just touches like that can get a girl wet.” It was starting to get to her, weirdly enough. “Tell me about kissing. How do you usually start it?”

"Kissing..." He trailed off, his mind briefly distracted by the way her skin felt beneath his fingers. "Uh... well. I usually start with a simple peck, just to see if they're into it." His other hand came up to gently tilt her chin, exposing her neck to him. "If they seem like I have the go ahead, I'll press my lips to theirs more firmly- it’s kinda hard to explain with words." Being a little bold, he let his thumb brush over her bottom lip absently as he spoke, his gaze fixed on her mouth.

“Well if you’re going to eat me out, I don’t see why you can’t just show me.” Kissing Harry had not been something she had anticipated actually doing, really ever, but she can’t say she hadn’t thought about it. The man had an incredible mouth. Soft looking lips, deep pink, the cute little birthmark, all of it was appealing- it was just that it wasn't a possibility for her prior. “Show me how you do it with them.”

His thumb brushed her bottom lip again, his breath hitching slightly at the idea of kissing her. It was just an exercise, he reminded himself firmly. This was just a dry run, to help him figure out his technique. But as he slowly leaned in, his heart rate picked up, eyes flicking between her lips and onto her eyes. "Like... this." He whispered hoarsely, sliding his hand back into her hair to tilt her head further. His lips pressed to hers gently, just a soft brush at first to test the waters. His lips were soft and warm against hers, the kiss gentle at first. He waited for her to react, to see if she would pull away or lean into it. As she didn't, he took it as his sign to keep going, slowly increased the pressure, his lips molding to hers in a soft, sweet kiss. 

Feeling emboldened when she began to press her lips back to his, Harry peppered her lips with a series of short, sweet kisses. His lips brushed against hers once, twice, three times in rapid succession, each kiss a little firmer than the last. He could feel her starting to relax into it, her lips softening beneath his own. Encouraged, he let his tongue flick out briefly, a teasing taste before pulling back slightly to gauge her reaction. She tasted like the lemon lime soda she’d had with dinner, a sweet surprise. All of this had been. He hadn’t been sure if she would say yes and if this would potentially make things weird, but thankfully Y/N seemed at least a little receptive to it. His hand remained in her hair, holding her gently as he studied her face for any signs of discomfort or approval. “Okay?”

Y/N knew he would be a good kisser, but he was playing it safe. However, even with the safety still on, she knew he had it in him. He wasn’t as shy as he had been before and that had surprised her a bit when he had gripped her to keep her in place. That had been exceptionally hot. At least to her. “Yeah. You did well.” She cleared her throat to rid herself of the rasp. “You’re playing it safe, though. Here.” 

Swinging her knee over his lap, she pushed him back against the back of the couch so his posture was more relaxed. “You’re stiff. Pun not intended.” She snickered, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You’ve got to relax a little bit. I don’t know if it’s just me or you get anxious when you kiss other girls too. The thing you did holding my face still? That was hot. It’s gonna depend on the girl but you seem to have an idea on what to do.” Placing her hands on his broad shoulders, she settled her weight on top of him. Hm.. he really had been doing well at the gym. “You okay with me on your lap?”

Harry blinked in surprise, trying to catch up to the fact that she was currently in his lap. Closer than she usually got to him, voluntarily hopping on up. “Y-yes! I mean, yes, please. Go on." His voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying his nerves. He wasn’t sure if it was from the unexpected closeness or just the sudden shift in dynamic between them. Her weight felt nice on his lap, but besides a cuddle or two this was definitely the closest they’d ever been. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be nervous.”

Y/N nearly cooed. His frown was precious, really. He was precious. Sliding a hand over his jaw, she tilted his head to meet her eyes. “It’s okay to be nervous, but it’s just me. I’m not going to judge you. You asked for my help, and I’m gonna give it to you.” Slipping her fingers in his hair, she made herself familiar with touching him. They hadn’t been super touchy to begin with but she knew Harry liked physical touch. He was clingy with their other friends physically, but he had always respected that Y/N typically wasn’t the type. Now though? It was free game. “You can touch me how you want. Get familiar with me.”

Y/N wasn’t the type to truly judge if you really needed her and he knew that. Hell, that was why he had come to her in the first place- but she was intimidatingly beautiful. It set him off to be even more nervous. His mind briefly wondered if this was how he was in bed- overthinking everything- maybe that was why he didn’t get calls back. 

“Shit.” He muttered softly, then snapped back to attention as she told him to touch her. He wanted to do that, he had always wanted to but Y/N only really liked to be cuddled when drunk. When she was, she would be giggly and happy, hold on to his hand and swing them back and forth, especially when he helped her get into the car. It had always made him feel special, but this? It was a privilege to touch her. Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms loosely around her, testing the waters. “Like this?” He spread his fingers out slightly on her back, his thumbs nearly brushing the bottom of her bra strap under her top.

“Yeah, that’s nice.” Leaning into him, she let her fingers run over the rims of his glasses. “These are cute. I like them.” His new glasses suited him. They were a little bit thinner than his old ones and it was a tad bit more modern. She hadn’t been lying to him when she said he had the hot n’ nerdy advantage. “You’ve got really nice hands, Har. Use them.”

He blushed slightly at the compliment on his glasses, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist possessively. "You really think?" He asked softly, tilting his head to the side to give her better access to his face. He liked when she did little things like that, adjusting his glasses or messing with his hair. Maybe it was because he felt touch starved, particularly from her, but the simple brushes of her fingers made him feel that heat in his lower stomach. It was so simple but the air felt a lot thicker than it had before. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves to be more bold as he slowly dragged his hands over her hips.

“Mhm.” She nodded, gently running her nails over his scalp. “See? I’m not too scary.” Though she had to admit that the feeling of his big hands pawing at her and running over her hips and waist made her feel a little bit giddy. Maybe she could attribute it to the fact it really had been a while since she had been touched in a way that wasn’t friendly, but her body liked the way it felt. “You’re being polite, which is nice. But as cute as your little gentleman thing is, I know you want to grab my ass, Harry. You can do it.”

Harry's breath caught as she said that, his eyes darkening slightly behind his glasses. He had definitely been thinking about it, doubted there was anyone who saw it and didn’t want to, but he hadn't wanted to overstep. Hearing her give him permission was like a green light and he couldn't help himself. His hands squeezed her hips before slowly sliding down to grip her ass, his fingers spreading out to knead the soft flesh. "Fuck..." He muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse. "You're so soft."

His grip on her ass tightened reflexively as he pulled her more firmly against him, a low groan escaping his lips. The heat of her pressed deliciously against his hardening cock, and he couldn't help but roll his hips slightly, seeking friction. "Shit, Y/N...Sorry. I don't want to get carried away." He breathed, his face flushing darker. Here he was, rock hard with his best friend in his lap, from a little ass grab. It was embarrassing how quickly he had gotten worked up- But God, it felt good.

There was a sigh out of her mouth as she felt him start to relax and do what he wanted to do. This was closer to where she wanted him to get, but she hadn’t expected it to feel as good just being rubbed over his lap. “There you go- it’s okay.” She whispered. “That’s hot. You want to show her that you’re eager for her.” With her grip in his hair, she tugged his head back slightly to look at his pink cheek. “You’re a faster learner, I know. But you remember what I told you? Try kissing my neck. I told you the spots I like.”

His eyes fluttered shut as she tugged on his hair, his throat exposed to her. "Yeah. I can do it. S’long as you feel good, m’happy..." He whispered, his voice rougher than she had ever heard it. Leaning into her touch, he let her guide his face into her neck and followed instructions quickly to press open mouth kisses to her skin. He started at the spot just below her ear, as she had told him about, sucking gently on the soft skin. His hands continued to grab at her ass, pulling her flush against him as he kissed and sucked his way down her neck.

The kisses trailed lower, his lips hot and damp against her neck. Each press of his mouth made chills rise on her skin, his stubble lightly scratching her sensitive skin in the most delicious way. As he sucked gently on a particularly sweet spot, she couldn't help but tip her head to give him better access, a soft gasp escaping her lips. None of this had been expected, but liking his mouth on her skin hadn’t been. Maybe it really was just the fact it had been a while but… it felt better than her last hookup. 

Harry was her friend and she trusted him. She felt safe, and that probably made her feel a lot more comfortable, just as it probably did for him. But having his hands all over her was something her whole body was responding to.  A quick learner, he had realized how much she liked feeling the friction and did something about it. His strong hands gripped her ass harder, pulling her over his lap and letting feel the throb of him through their clothes.

He could feel her getting heavier in his lap, her breath growing shallow as he continued his adoration of her neck. It felt amazing, yes, but he was in a bit of awe. Harry really should have known that Y/N didn’t half ass anything. She was thorough in everything she did- apparently it extended to teaching him how to please a woman. His hands roamed freely as he adjusted, taking a risk in spreading her legs wider over his lap to better fit her between his thighs.

 "Am I doing okay?" He mumbled into her neck, his voice muffled. "Is this warming you up enough? Or should I be doing more?" His fingers flexed on her hips before sliding down, spreading out to rest on her thighs.

“You’re doing good.” The thickness in her throat made her voice a bit raspier, unsure how she had managed to let herself get to this point. It felt really fucking good. His hands strong and so fucking big, splaying over her thighs. The heat of them seeming to radiate through her skin and down to her bones, she wanted to lean into that touch.

 God, she was touch deprived. 

He had done a good job in making her panties damp and it felt almost embarrassing that a little bit of heavy petting and kissing on the neck had her pussy throbbing, but she couldn’t exactly deny it. Lightly rubbing herself against him again to get more of the friction her body was demanding, she closed her eyes and let her head lean back before she admitted it to him. “You’re making me wet.”

His whole body seemed to tense up at her whispered admission, his hands flexing on her as he took a breath. "You are?" He whispered back, his voice not able to contain his surprise. He had hoped he was doing something right- especially after all the apparent failures he’d had- but hearing that she was wet from just his touch and kisses was... something else. He wasn't used to being this effective. His ego swelled slightly, making him bolder. "Can I... touch more?" He asked hesitantly, his fingers inching higher up her thighs. "Can I feel what I’m doing to you?"

His words had her gritting his teeth. Where the fuck did that come from, and why did it made her throb? Letting out a breath through her nose, she opened her eyes to look at him. It shocked her a little, seeing his lips swollen and eyes a little hazy, glasses a tiny bit crooked. He looked disheveled in a way he usually didn’t. Of course he had always been hot but this look in particular, knowing it was caused by her specifically? It fueled her ego too. 

“Y-Yeah.” She nodded, clearing her throat. “Yeah, you can. That’s what I’d tell you to do next. You have good instincts.” It was a mystery to her how Harry, who was good at almost everything, had struggled to make a girl cum- but she was the teacher now. “You can slip your hand into the waistband.”

"Fuck. Thank you." Harry muttered under his breath. He couldn't believe he was actually about to touch Y/N intimately, after all these years of being just friends… It was insane. He wasn’t unable to see how insanely fucking hot she was, that had never been an issue. He’d had a few questionable wet dreams about her- but the actual idea of ever touching her hadn’t come up until recently, and he was liking it a bit more than he probably should be for a lesson.

 With trembling fingers, he slowly slipped one large hand down the front of her joggers, sliding it along her stomach until he reached the top of her panties. "Can... can I? Under them?" His breath was warm against her neck as he asked permission, albeit a bit jumbled, waiting for her nod before slowly slipping under the final piece of fabric that kept him from her most intimate place.

At her nod, he released a deep breath through his nose. His heart was racing as he slowly pushed his hand under her panties, the back of his fingers brushing against the soft, damp fabric. He could feel the heat emanating from between her legs, his own body responded accordingly. His cock was pulsing in his briefs, surely starting to make a bit of a mess. "Holy shit." Harry breathed, his voice shaking slightly as he explored her with his hand. His fingers dipped lower, feeling the slickness coating her folds. “You really are fucking soaked.” Tilting his head up with an awed smile, he met her eyes. “I did that t’you?”

“Mhm.” It felt slightly harder to breathe as she looked at his eyes, seeing the pride in his face, feeling his fingers cupping her wet pussy and giving a little squeeze. It had her inhaling sharply, fingers on his shoulder digging into his shirt. “You did. I- I want you to show me what you do when you get to this stage with the girls you hook up with.” It was taking everything in her not to rock against his hand, staying still as she tried to ground herself.

His fingers trembled slightly as he tried to mimic what he thought he had seen in porn or heard from his friends. He had forgotten what to do. Another symptom of his damn nerves taking over. He roughly spread her lips apart, his thumb pressing against her clit as his middle finger pushed inside her soaked pussy. "Shit... I'm... I'm not really sure what to do..." He admitted, his voice shaking as he started to rub her clit in slightly sporadic circles while thrusting his finger inside her. It was clumsy and a bit rough, but he was trying his best.

“Okay- alright. Stop.” Making sure to keep her voice soft and not like she was scolding him, she held his face in her hands. “You’re jumping right into it a bit too fast, Honey.” The nickname fell from her lips a bit too easily but she decided to ignore that. “You need to ease into it. Find a rhythm. Pull your fingers out.” She instructed, gently stroking over his cheekbone. It was obvious he was embarrassed from his flushed cheeks, and she didn’t want that. He wasn’t doing too badly, but he’d asked for a lesson. That’s what she was going to give him.

 “Hey… Look at me.” Tilting his chin up, she gave him a soft smile. “S’okay, Har. You came to me for help. I’m gonna help you. You didn’t do anything inherently wrong.” Still, she could see he felt some type of way about it, and she knew he needed a bit more comforting. Leaning in, her lips pressed against his in a soft peck. It was more intimate than it should have been, but she was again, going to ignore that. “Hi.” Smoothing the skin under his eye, she gave him a giggle. “Okay, so… You’ve got incredible hands. They’re so nice… and I know you can be good with them. So let’s start slow, okay? Do slow circles over my clit with your thumb. Nice n’gentle.”

His shoulders had dropped slightly after her small kiss, ignoring the flutter he’d felt in his chest from it. He hadn't realized how tense he had gotten, like he had failed the test- but this was Y/N. Y/N was safe, she was kind despite how blunt she was, and she was helping him. There was no evidence of her making fun of him in her tone, simply sweet. Unusual, maybe, but it seemed like she knew what she needed. 

"Okay." He mumbled softly, his cheeks slightly less red. Her compliments helped a bit- He had always had confidence issues when it came to this. "Like this?" He asked shyly, his large thumb slowly making small, loose circles over her clit. He was careful to keep his touch gentle like she asked, watching her face for any signs that he was doing it wrong again.

He felt her body tense pleasantly at his touch, a soft exhale escaping her lips. Encouraged by her response, he maintained the slow circles, his thumb brushing over her clit with deliberate gentleness. Her hips gave a tiny involuntary roll against his hand, seeking more of the pleasant friction. Harry's fingers twitched slightly, wanting to increase his pace but remembering her instruction. He resisted the urge, keeping the rhythm maddeningly slow.

“Yeah. That’s so nice.” She whispered. It was experimenting, letting him explore and get the hang of it. “Every woman is different. Some people will want it faster, some will want it rougher, but I like this to start.” She admitted, leaning into him. “Here.” Dragging the cropped top off of her body, she exposed the lacy bralette she had heard good reviews for to him. It was quite nice, holding her tits up in a way she hasn’t expected- but she’d chosen correctly today, unknowing that a man would be able to see it firsthand. “When you’re doing this, you keep kissing her. Licking. Sucking her nipples, if she’s into it.”

His eyes roamed over her bralette-clad breasts, the delicate lace contrasting with her soft, smooth skin. He felt his mouth watering, the urge to taste her growing stronger as he watched them move as she breathed- but thankfully, thank god, she had given the go ahead to touch. To taste. "Okay. I definitely can do that." He murmured, his thumb continuing its slow circles on her clit as he leaned in to press open-mouthed kisses to her collarbone.

His lips trailed lower, his kisses growing more intentional. The lace of her bralette tickled his lips as he worked his way down. He could see her nipples hardening beneath the fabric, making his mouth water. His thumb continued its steady, slow rhythm on her clit, causing her to shift slightly in his lap. It was surreal to feel her breathing, hear it so close up as he kissed over her pounding heart. 

He was doing this to her. Harry was making her wet, making her squirm. The confidence the breathy moan she let out had him pushing for more. With one hand, he gently pushed the lace down to expose one breast fully, making her gasp softly. His lips immediately found her hard nipple, surrounding it completely and sucking gently.

“Oh, Jesus.” The words were pathetically, a mewl that came from the back of her throat as his hot tongue lapped over her swollen nipple. The suction was light, soft, just like his thumb on her clit- and it was enough to make her feel like she was going insane. “T-That’s really fucking nice.” She praised, raising her hand to card it through his fluffy curls. He must have just washed them, they always looked pretty when he did.

Hearing her moan like that, praising him so freely, sent a jolt straight to his cock. He hummed around her nipple, the vibrations deliberate this time. His tongue flicked over the hardened bud before he switched to sucking harder, desperate to elicit another gorgeous noise from her.

“Yeah- like that.” Rocking her hips slightly into his hand, she pulled his head closed onto her breast. It felt too good, too hot to stop. Yeah, this was a lesson, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t enjoy teaching him. “Some girls won’t get much enjoyment out of this. Their nipples aren’t sensitive to it as much. If they aren’t responsive, you can keep it moving- or a-ask them if they want you to keep going.” Her voice was higher in pitch than she had meant for it to be but it wasn’t possible for her to control that right now. “I really like it, though. So it’s doing the job. You can rub my clit a little harder- give it more pressure.”

Her words had him nearly purring around her nipple. The little thrill went up his spine as her hips rolled into his hand, knowing that now he had a decent idea of what he was doing and could feel less nervous about it. Listening to instructions like he had promised he would, Harry added more pressure to his thumb, rubbing it harder over her little bundle of nerves. It was impossible not to feel her getting slicker against his palm, her breast filled his mouth perfectly, his tongue swirling around the peak before sucking it back between his lips. Almost overstimulation for his mind, but he wanted to keep going. He was trying his best to be good with his hands- he really was- But damn. Her body was so responsive.

Y/N wanted to continue this as long as she could. She wanted to feel him get more and more confident with it, but he seemed to have a grasp on it. There would probably be… a few times where they’d get to do this, and if she was honest? If they kept this up, she was going to cum and be too sensitive for his mouth. And by the way he kissed? She wanted to feel his mouth. 

“Mmmm.. Har, Honey.” She whispered, gently tugging his mouth off of her tits with a gentle tug of his hair. “Hi. Hello.” It was stupidly cute, the slightly lost look on his face. “S’okay. You were doing good. A bit too good actually. I just think that we should get to teaching you how to eat pussy. I’ll cum if you keep going.”

He blinked rapidly, a slightly dazed look on his face as he tried to process why he’d been pulled away when he’d obviously been making her feel good. It felt incredible to have her nipple in his mouth, hearing her soft noises of pleasure. The haze of lust in his mind slowly cleared at her words, realizing she was probably right, even if he selfishly wanted to keep going. "Oh..." He murmured softly, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. "Right. Okay." He adjusted his glasses, trying to regain some semblance of focus.

“Good.” She stroked his hair back with a tender smile, pulling him to kiss her again before taking a look at his face. “I’m gonna lay back, like this.” Sliding off his lap, Y/N settled against the arm of the couch pulling a pillow to rest her head on. The position had her sitting up slightly, but gave a more relaxed vision. Hopefully that would have him feeling calmer. “And you’re gonna lay between my legs once I get these off.” Her bottoms needed to get off immediately. 

When he sat back, she tugged on the waistband and squirmed to get them off, haphazardly kicking them to the floor- along with her panties. There wasn’t much hesitance in showing her body to him. Y/N liked her body, she felt proud of it, and she embraced it. There was always those nerves though, being intimate with someone new- even if it was for a lesson. Spreading her thighs, she placed a hand over her cunt and motioned for him to lay down. “Do you remember what I said, Honey? About teasing?”

He nodded slowly, trying to remember all the instructions she had given him. "Tease first..." He murmured softly, adjusting his glasses nervously as he positioned himself between her thighs. Using his elbows to keep him up a bit, he swallowed the lump in his throat as he watched her spread them wider for his body to fit between. "Kiss, lick, don't go straight for the... the main event?" He asked hesitantly, his hands resting on her inner thighs.

“Very good.” Her face lit up as he looked at her for reassurance. “It’s the little things that get me. You know? The soft brushing of fingers on the thighs, the stomach, right above my pussy…” She trailed off with a sigh. “Kiss my thighs, Har. Can you do that for me?” Taking her hand off her cunt, she properly revealed it for the first time for his eyes to see.

Harry felt the breath catch in his throat as the sight of her bare pussy caught him off guard. It wasn’t lost on him that he was very lucky to be able to experience this. Y/N was beautiful and he adored her, but there was a new appreciation in him for how kind she was being. This wasn’t something you could just ask anyone. "Fuck..." He whispered, his hands squeezing her inner thighs gently as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to the delicate skin. "Like this?" He murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her sensitive skin, his lips brushing over the crease where her leg met her hip.

“Mhm.” 

He could see her body relax into the touch, her thighs parting a bit more to give him better access. Her skin was so soft and warm under his lips, and he could smell her scent growing stronger the closer he got to her center. Harry took his time, pressing gentle kisses along her inner thighs, his hands brushing along the skin in a featherlight touch. He could hear her breathing growing a bit shallower, her chest rising and falling a bit faster. It emboldened him to continue, to keep teasing her like she had told him to.

"You're... you're doing so good." Y/N breathed out, one hand coming to rest in his hair as she spread her legs wider, hooking one over his shoulder. She could feel herself growing wetter with each kiss, more aroused knowing he was taking his time to learn her body. Such a good little student. "Lower. Just a bit..." she whispered, guiding his head with gentle fingers. Her other hand drifted down to her breast, plucking at her nipple as she watched him between her legs. "Kiss right above my cunt.”

Eagerly following her guidance, he moved up to press a soft kiss just above her pussy, his lips brushing against her soft curls. He could feel the heat radiating off of her, smell her arousal. It was intoxicating, and he found himself nuzzling into her a bit, his nose pressing against her. "Fuck, you smell so good..." he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin. He pressed another kiss right at the top of her slit.

“Oh fuck- that was good.” She gasped in surprise. “That’s filthy. Rubbing yourself against me but… it’s so hot. Showing how eager you are to make the person you’re gonna pleasure, it’s really sexy.” Brushing his hair out of his face, she felt the heat of his breath over her cunt. “Tell me you want to eat me out. Talk to me.”

"I do..." His voice came out huskier than he'd planned, his eyes flicking up to meet hers briefly before focusing back on her exposed pussy. "Fuck, Y/N... I really want t’taste you." Without waiting for further instruction, he used his fingers to spread her open for him and pressed a gentle kiss directly to her clit, making her gasp loudly. "You're so fucking wet… Can’t believe I did this." His finger traced down her slit slowly, as if showing instead of telling how aroused she was.

"Your cunt is fucking glistening. I can already tell your pussy is sweet..." He muttered against her skin, his tongue peeking out to give her one soft lick. Tasting her for the first time, savoring the flavor on his tongue, he was proving that fact. She was perfect to taste- a pussy like this deserved the best of the best, and he wanted her to show him exactly what she liked. Y/N moaned loudly, her hips rolling slightly, a clear indication that she liked what he was doing. "Yeah? You like that? S’good for you?" Harry asked, his voice encouraging as he licked her again, this time a bit slower, applying a bit more pressure.

“Uh-huh… Shit.” She cussed, feeling his tongue swipe up and over her clit. “D-Do what you want. Let me see where it’s going wrong because right now from my perspective, you’re doing perfectly.” Why would he even need help? Was it a ploy to fuck her? That was doubtful considering Harry really, really wasn’t like that. The worst part was that she was liking it a lot more than she was supposed to. If she was training him on how to pleasure how she liked it, it was going to be hard not to lose it.

Harry smiled slightly at her words, feeling a bit more confident in his actions. He started slowly, his tongue flicking out to lap at her gently, his fingers keeping her open for him to fully access her. He could feel her wetness spread onto his chin, and he couldn't help but push himself, wrapping his lips around her clit and sucking softly. He looked up at her, checking her face for any signs of discomfort or pleasure.

He was learning, trying to remember how she had said she liked it. His tongue swiped up again, swirling around her entrance slowly before pushing inside slightly. "Like this?" He mumbled softly, his chin wet with her juices. He kept his movements slow and unhurried, his touch soft. He was tentative, like he was scared of messing up. "Is this good?"

“I.. Normally would say that’s a bit fast to push your tongue in but fuck, that felt nice.” She giggled breathlessly. “Here…” Her fingers were careful as she took his glasses off and tossed them further down the couch so they wouldn’t get in the way- or worse, crushed. “Wanted to see those pretty eyes.” Her fingers kept the hair out of his eyes as she felt a few kisses over her mound, in the thatch of curls above her cunt. His face was slightly wet, but it was erotic. “That feels so nice. The kisses…” She hummed. “You have the instincts. Don’t think too much about it. Doing things like that- That’s good. Just make me feel good. See what I respond to.”

Harry blinked owlishly at her, surprised by the sudden loss of his glasses but pleased when he realized she liked his eyes. His face flushed slightly at the praise, his tongue darting out to lick over her clit hesitantly. "Okay. You’ll tell me if y’don’t like it, yeah?" He asked, his breath ghosting over her sensitive flesh. He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her pussy, the sound drowning out the tv playing at a lowered volume.

She nodded slowly, watching him between her thighs. He was almost shy like this, his face buried in her pussy as he kissed around it sweetly. His lips were soft, his kisses unhurried. He spread her wider with his thumbs, his tongue poking out to give her one slow lick from bottom to top. Her hips shifted slightly, chasing the feeling.  "You taste so good." He mumbled softly, his voice sending vibrations against her. “I didn’t expect you t’get so wet for me. Soaking my chin. I love it.”

His words seemed to have struck a chord in her, judging by how sharply her breath hitched and her legs involuntarily tried to press around his head. She visibly flustered, clearly flattered by his filthy compliments- and shocked. Had he always had that in him? "Harry..." She whimpered, the sound of his wet mouth against her flesh combined with his sweet, dirty words making her pulse against his tongue. "You... should be careful with that mouth." She whispered, her hand tangling in his hair again, guiding him slightly without putting any pressure.

He chuckled softly, the vibrations traveling pleasantly through her core. "Why's that?" He murmured teasingly against her skin, his tongue darting out for another long, slow lick. He could feel her practically melting under his mouth, her thighs quivering slightly. This was how it was supposed to be. Maybe it was because he didn’t feel as anxious with her, they had repor, he truly trusted her- but it felt like he had a better sense of her body and what she liked. 

She’d given him clues and tips, but he was finding out on his own what she liked. It was something he was enjoying the longer he did it, feeling more eager to bury his face in her pretty pussy and never leave. Especially when he felt her hand tighten in his hair and her body shift to get more. "Worried I might make you cum too hard?" His tone was playful, a little more confident now, and that was dangerous for her. Feeling him nipp gently at her clit, soothing it with a flicker of his tongue immediately after was enough proof of that. Looking up at her he tried to see if that was okay, but the noise she let out had him feeling fairly sure it was.

"Fuck, Harry... You smartass.” The giggle turned into a pitched moan very quickly after though, her back arching as he sucked on her clit in retaliation, her hips rolling against his mouth. Harry could feel her getting closer, her pussy getting wetter. He knew the signs, she was teaching him. His hands gripped her hips tightly, holding her in place as he licked into her eagerly. She was so responsive, her body reacting to his every move. He felt powerful, in control- and it was a heady feeling.

"Jesus, your pussy is perfect." He mumbled between kisses, not caring if she could hear him. He could see her getting close- her thighs trembling, her breathing quickening, and the way her fingers were now tight in his hair. That was his goal. He wanted to make her cum so fucking bad it hurt. His cock was a mess in his trousers but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to make her cum, hard. He wanted to clean it up as he made himself messy. "Do you want my fingers inside you?" He whispered, not missing a beat with his mouth returning to his suckling. He kept the pace steady but increased the pressure just slightly, wanting to hear her response.

"Yes..." Y/N  breathed out the single word, squirming helplessly against his face. His mouth felt incredible and he obviously felt better about what he was doing now, taking more risks that only worked out in her favor. "So good, honey. You’re doing so good, your mouth is perfect." 

How had he been bad with these other women? All it took was a little bit of instruction with a soft voice and he was licking into her like she was his last fucking meal. 

She gasped, her nails nearly digging into his scalp as he slipped one finger inside her easily. "Your fingers are so big. Holy shit..." She panted, grinding down on his hand. "More..." She begged, knowing damn well she hadn’t wanted to be this needy for it but god damn. He was a good student. A very fast learner. "Please." The woman’s voice cracked with need. "Harry, please..."

He curled his fingers slightly inside her, hitting that spot he’d read about but had never actually found on a woman before. He must be doing it right, because she was practically sobbing his name, her hips bucking against his hand. He added another finger, stretching her slowly but surely, his tongue never stopping its slow, deliberate lapping. 

It was obvious what she liked, what made her feel good, and he wanted to keep doing it. Memorize it so he knew how to do it perfectly next time- or continue practicing until he had it down. His head felt fuzzy with the need to get her there, to make her feel hot under the skin like he had been clueless about before. "Look at me." he mumbled against her, his voice muffled but insistent. He wanted to see her face contort with pleasure, wanted to watch her get closer.

It felt like her entire world had narrowed down to his fingers inside her and his tongue on her clit. It really had been far too long since she’d been touched and even longer since she had been eaten out with this amount of vigor. Maybe it hadn’t ever happened prior to him, but her brain wasn’t fully working. She was so close, teetering on the edge and he just... he just kept pushing her. Adding more, curling just right, licking and sucking in a rhythm that seemed designed to drive her insane. 

Y/‘ couldn’t see him fully, not with his face buried smugly between her thighs, but she managed to lift her head, her eyes finding his own as he had demanded. The intensity in his gaze, the desperate need, it was too much. “Just like that, you’re going t’make me cum. Just like that, keep it like that- fuck.” Her groan seemed angry but it was anything but. She was worked over and sulking at how good it felt. “Shit, you love eating pussy. Don’t you, Harry? Just needed s-someone to show you how they like it.”

"Fuck yeah." He breathed against her, his eyelids drooping with pleasure at her accusation. He loved this, every fucking second. The slick sounds of her arousal, the way her pussy clenched around his fingers, the taste, how she grabbed at his hair, the sounds she made, the changes in her breathing, her squirming, the way her words slurred a little bit, the pulsing against his tongue. 

God. Harry fucking loved it- he just didn’t know it could be this good. Addicting.

The vibrations as he groaned happily between her lips had to be adding something extra. "Knew I'd love it. Jus’ want to be able to make you feel good."

"Cum on my face baby, okay? Just let go. I wanna taste you." He whispered hoarsely, pressing a sloppy kiss to her clit before sucking it back into his mouth. His fingers curled again and again inside her, hitting that elusive spot over and over as she dripped all over his fingers and down the back of his hand. He wanted to make her shatter, wanted to feel her cum all over his face and fingers like he had been working toward.

There was no way she could even respond properly. The constant stimulation to her g-spot, his repeated sucking on her clit, the way he sloppily ate her cunt with little regard of the mess she was making on his face- the only thing he seemed to give a fuck about was making her cum. Who was she to take that from him?

 Her body tensed, her back arching as she let out a long, drawn-out moan. It was a sound of pure pleasure, her entire being focused on the overwhelming sensation of him working her over. She came hard, her pussy clamping down on his fingers as she gushed all over his face and hand. Her hand was tight in his locks, tugging as a garbled moan left her mouth and she attempted to writhe. He kept her held still as he moaned loudly against her.

In fact, Harry didn’t stop. Even as she came, he kept eating her, his fingers still curled inside her as he lapped up her cum, cleaning her up. He was fucking starving for it, for the taste and the sound and the feeling of her losing control. He sucked and licked her pussy, feeling it spasming occasionally, until he was certain he had cleaned up every last drop- And her weak push of her hand against his head. Only then did he slowly pull his fingers out, his face and hand coated in her.

She was a goddess, slumped back against the cushions with a flushed, dazed expression. Harry couldn't help but kiss her inner thigh as it twitched before wiping his mouth. "Fuck, you’re amazing." The man murmured. Crawling up her body, he claimed her lips in a messy kiss, letting her taste herself. “Thank you.” It was mumbled between lazy kisses. “Thank you, Thank you.”

His hands roamed over her as he continued to kiss her sloppily, his body heavy on top of hers. He was still fully dressed, his erection painfully trapped in his pants. "Y/N... I’m sorry, but can I?" He asked softly, his fingers already working at the button of his jeans, his intent clear. "I gotta cum. Can I cum on your cunt? Please?” If he wasn’t so horny he would be embarrassed for doing this, but he was losing it. When it died down, he would definitely be embarrassed for how insane he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. Maybe the lack of blood flow to the head, it was going directly to the other.

“Shit.” Y/N laughed weakly, her body feeling like pins and needles as it came down from the orgasm. The idea was one she had considered, especially with how good he had listened- a reward. “Yeah, Honey. As a reward.” She sighed, leaning her head up further. “I wanna watch.”

He almost whined at her words, practically tearing his jeans open wide enough to pull out his stiff cock. He pushed his pants down towards his calves, staying there between her spread legs. His hand gripped his dick tightly, squeezing as he looked up at her face from his spot between her legs. "Yeah- yeah, please watch. I love being watched.” His hips moved forward unconsciously as he ran his cock over her, the head of his dick smearing pre-cum all over her cunt.

“Cute little exhibitionist.” Y/N cooed, running her hand over her stomach. “Go ahead. You’ve got such a pretty cock, but it looks like it hurts.” Her lips formed a soft pout. “Stroke yourself and cum all over that pussy, Harry.”

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He chanted under his breath, his hand moving faster over his shaft. With his tip pressing against her clit, he ran it up and down her slit. "You're so pretty. Your cunt is beautiful- all of you, so fucking gorgeous." He complimented her, his words coming out in short gasps. It was so hot, the way her lips spread around him, how she looked all fucked out and messy from his mouth. "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum all over you, baby."

Y/N looked up at him with a soft, encouraging smile, her eyes staring into his with that tinge of desire. "Cum for me, Harry. Cum all over my pretty little pussy. I wanna see it, I wanna see you lose it." Her hand moved down to spread herself, holding herself open for him. "You've been so good, so obedient. You deserve it. Such a good student, a fast learner… You can have it. Cum on my cunt." Her voice was gentle but commanding, the perfect blend of sweet and dirty that had him right on the edge.

"Fuck, Y/N..." Harry whimpered, his eyes fluttering shut as her words pushed him over the edge. With a final thrust of his hips, he came undone. He felt the first spurt of his hot, sticky cum hit her pussy lips, coating them in his release. He groaned loudly, his body shuddering as he pumped out rope after rope of cum, covering her cunt completely. "Oh my god... Oh my god."

Even as he finished cumming, a few last spurts dribbling out to make a mess across her lower stomach, he couldn't look away from where his cum coated her pussy lips, right in her thatch curls and the surrounding skin. It was obscene, filthy, and he loved it. Y/N had made him lose his mind a bit, but he didn’t really want to find it.

Breathing heavily, he finally met her gaze with a slightly embarrassed but mostly pleased grin. "Holy fuck, that was hot." He murmured, swallowing hard. "Never done that before. Came so fucking hard..."

"Good, cause you made a mess." She giggled, watching him as his chest heaved. The sight of his stomach and abs glistened with a light sheen of sweat- his hair was ruffled and he looked like he’d had a workout instead of jerking off on her body. "You like that, I think. Making a mess." She asked softly, watching as he continued to stroke himself slowly, milking himself. Her eyes were drawn back to his dick. It really was beautiful- and really fucking big. “Where the hell were you hiding that? God damn.”

He couldn't help but chuckle at her comment, glancing down at his slowly softening dick with a smirk. "Guess I just needed the right inspiration, huh?" He teased lightly, finally releasing his grip on himself and leaning forward to rest his forearms on either side of her head, caging her in slightly. His face was mere inches from hers now, his glasses gone and his hair disheveled in the sexiest way possible. “Just need t’do this before we clean up and act normal again. Don’t yell at me.”

His mouth claimed hers slowly, lips moving softly against hers. He licked into her mouth slowly, like he was savoring her taste, his body half covering hers. His hand cupped her cheek as he deepened the kiss slowly, like he was trying to imprint himself onto her. Just as quick as it started though, it was over. She shouldn’t have been so sad about that. He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes opened slowly to find her watching him softly, their lips still wet and swollen from the kiss. He grinned slightly, licking his lips again. “See? Not so bad.”

“Yeah.” She laughed, feeling dazed. Who the fuck was this? And why did he kiss so good it made her toes curl? Who was this and what had they done to her best friend? “I think your problem isn’t that you don’t have skill. Naturally you seem to get it. I think you’ve just gotten into your own head and you think too much.” She had been a safe person and it was easier for him to lose that anxiety with her, knowing she had already agreed to teach him. 

“It can be hard to perform if you’re not able to properly get into it. Your dick can be hard as nails, but your mind not being in it will be a mood killer and they’re gonna know.” The smile on her face was slightly sad but she knew it was what he had to hear. “Because honestly? I haven’t orgasmed like that in ages. All it took was a few tweaks and you had it down. Maybe you just aren’t a hookup guy. Did that feel a lot different than the other people?” Maybe he needed someone who could openly communicate. The expectation of someone just knowing wasn’t always fair. 

"Yeah." He hesitated, shifting slightly to prop himself up on one elbow next to her. His other hand traced patterns on her stomach absentmindedly. "It was... different." He seemed to struggle with the words for a moment. "With those other girls, I was always nervous. Overthinking every single fucking thing. Like you said." He glanced at her face, a slight blush forming across his cheeks. "With you... it felt natural. Real. And fuck, listening to you moan like that… Where did those lungs come from?"

“You freak!” She laughed, pushing his shoulder to get him to sit up. Adjusting her bralette back over her breasts she didn’t bother with the bottoms yet, because she really needed to go clean up. Secretly she was pleased that she had been different. It was so cliche to say it, but she wanted to be different than them. She just… wasn’t quite sure why yet. Her brain hadn’t come back down to earth fully and she couldn’t be bothered to truly question it. “You won’t need many lessons on how to pleasure a woman with results like that, I’m telling you that. Good job.” Reaching out, she squished his cheeks with a soft coo before he shot her a look.

"Oi!" He laughed, swatting her hand away playfully but with a big smile on his face. "Don't treat me like a puppy. And..." He hesitated, reaching up to cup her face gently, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "Did it really feel that good? I mean." His voice dropped to a slightly embarrassed whisper. "Am I actually good at this stuff?" For someone who had just made her orgasm so hard, he suddenly seemed insecure again. Like he needed validation. "I know you don’t lie like that, but it just feels weird. Cause everyone else seemed disappointed… I thought I’d be completely awful.”

“Oh, H.” She frowned at his vulnerability. “It was really good for me. I think maybe you just need some lessons on how to let go and relax when you’re being intimate. And I’m happy to teach you that.” Brushing her hand over his stubble she gave his chin a pinch. “Trust me. I’d tell you if you needed a lot of work. It can be hard for women to cum from oral sometimes too. It’s hit or miss for me, and you had me cumming so easily so, I would say it was probably a mix of feeling safe and you having some good natural instincts you couldn’t tap into before because you were anxious and your brain was in overdrive.” Pulling him into a hug, she squeezed him lightly as she inhaled his scent. He smelled like mint and sex, with a tinge of laundry detergent. Appropriate. 

“When I’m done with you, we’ll have it all squared away and figured out. Okay? Don’t think about those times. Think about the fact you’re gonna get to fuck your really hot best friend.” Standing up from the couch with a laugh and a pat to his head, she walked to the bathroom to get herself clean- and take a minute to breathe. Her chest was doing a weird thing it hadn’t before and she didn’t want to think about it. “Hey, can you order something from that cookie place to be delivered while I shower please? Use my phone, my card is already in the app. Thank youuuu.”

He watched her leave, a small smile on his face at her words. It was a relief to hear that he wasn't completely incompetent. Flopping back against the cushions, he stared at her ceiling fan as it whirred around with a content sigh. 

As requested, he ordered a batch of her favorite cookies from the nearby bakery, adding a special request for extra chocolate chips with a small chuckle. She had ordered quite a few times recently, so he had tried to replicate it while adding white choc macadamia for himself. A classic, even if Y/N would wrinkle her nose for them sharing a box.

After submitting it for the delivery, he found himself humming softly, a warmth spreading through his chest at the thought of learning more from her. That had been so good, he felt so relieved that he wasn’t defective- but he did have to wonder how he was going to be this comfortable with anyone else. Y/N was easy to unwind around. It was hard to imagine him getting as comfortable with anyone else in the way he was with her.

Getting closer to her in a vulnerable and intimate way was sure to grow their friendship. He couldn’t really see it backfiring. Their friendship was too strong.

 Right?

[callsign-fox]

Closing the Distance - Bob/Robert Reynolds

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

Warning: 18+ / Foreplay

I hope you guys love it! xo

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The floor creaked for the third time in five minutes.

Y/N cracked an eye open, sleep still heavy in her limbs, and peeked over the couch at the large figure sprawled on the floor. A mess of brown hair caught the faint streetlight, casting soft shadows across the wood and the sharp line of Bob’s jaw.

“You doing okay down there, Boy Scout?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

A groan came from the floor. “I’m six-foot. This blanket’s a napkin. And I’m lying on Bucky’s freshly refinished hardwood. So yeah, living the dream.”

Y/N smirked. “So you’re fine then.”

His laugh was low, genuine—enough to make her lips twitch despite herself.

“You know,” she added, “you could’ve had the couch. I would’ve given it to you.”

“I was trying to be a gentleman,” he said, stretching with a grunt. “Didn’t know chivalry came with lower back trauma.”

She chuckled softly, warmth spreading through her as she lay in the quiet of the apartment. It was too late to be awake, too early to get up—but sleep wouldn’t come. Not with him there. Not with everything unspoken hanging between them.

Silence lingered, charged with something neither dared name. Then she cracked it with a sleepy grin. “You always suffer this loudly in silence?”

Another soft huff. “Only when there’s an audience I’m trying to impress.”

She glanced down again. He looked ridiculous—arm flung over his face, blanket tangled around his legs—but somehow, he felt like home. And maybe that was the problem.

“So,” she said lightly, “who’s the lucky audience?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he dropped his arm and met her eyes through the dim room, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Take a wild guess.”

Her stomach did a slow flip. That fluttering, electric kind that always meant trouble.

“Careful,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Say something sweet like that again, and I might actually let you up here.”

A beat.

“You sure that’s a threat and not an invitation?” His knee shifted closer, just enough to make her breath catch. “Because the way you’ve been tossing and turning—I think you want me closer.”

Her breath caught, sharp and shallow. She rolled onto her back, the couch creaking beneath her. The silence wasn’t empty—it pulsed, heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

“Bob…” she whispered, voice fraying with everything she felt.

But he was already moving. Slow, deliberate. He pushed the blanket aside and knelt beside the couch. Her heart raced as he braced one hand on the armrest, climbing over her until he hovered, just close enough to feel the heat of him—but not touching.

“You shouldn’t,” she breathed, even as her body arched toward him.

“I know.”

He stayed there—suspended—waiting. Then, his voice came, rough with honesty. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you. And you’re not exactly helping.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Not when his knee slipped between her legs. Not when his nose brushed hers, their breaths mingling.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he murmured, voice a vow. “Not unless you ask me to.”

Her fingers curled into the couch, pulse thudding in her ears.

“And if I don’t?” she whispered, barely a challenge.

He smiled, soft and aching. “Then I’ll stay right here. Close enough to hear you breathe.”

It unraveled her. She reached for him, fingers trembling as they curled into his shirt—not pulling, just needing him closer. And when she looked up, voice barely a whisper, she let it out.

“Then kiss me.”

Bob didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance in a breath, his mouth brushing hers in a kiss that felt like reverence—soft, savoring, as though he’d been holding back for too long.

Her sigh cracked something open between them. The kiss deepened—slow, then urgent—his hand sliding beneath fabric, skin to skin. He groaned, pressing against her, his knee anchoring between her thighs.

“God,” he breathed against her jaw. “I want to feel every inch of you.”

She tilted her head back, giving him space. He kissed along her throat, slow and deliberate, tasting her. When he reached the curve of her chest, he paused, breath catching. His nose brushed the soft skin as his hands trembled, cupping her breast.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispered, voice frayed at the edges.

His hand drifted lower, tracing the lines of her body—ribs, waist, hip—until it settled there, warm and steady. Then, lower still, fingers grazing the edge of her underwear. He stilled, forehead pressed to hers, waiting.

The space between them pulsed with tension. Her body ached for him, heat coiling low. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, trembling. “Please… touch me.”

His breath hitched at the plea. Slowly, his fingers dipped lower, the air between them electric. Their breaths synced—fast, shallow, building.

She leaned into him, heart pounding. “I want this… I want you,” she said, voice raw. “Don’t hold back.”

Her hand traced down his chest, guiding him closer. Still, he held on to restraint, every muscle tight with control.

She slid her hand to his waistband, pulling him in. Their lips met again—soft, urgent, desperate.

He hovered, fire in his veins, brushing his lips over hers in silent question. She answered with another kiss, deeper now, her hands slipping beneath his waistband to feel him.

Bob exhaled shakily, his control unraveling under the feel of her hand on him. He buried his face in her neck for a breath, grounding himself, before lifting his head again—eyes dark, focused entirely on her.

His fingers slid between her legs with purpose now, parting her gently. Her breath caught in her throat, hips rising instinctively to meet him. He watched her face, every flicker of pleasure reflected in his own expression as his touch grew bolder, more sure.

Y/N gasped, her hand tightening in his hair, hips rolling into his palm. He found her rhythm and matched it, teasing, coaxing—until she was panting, her body strung tight with anticipation.

“Look at me,” he whispered. She did, eyes wide and glassy. “I want to see you fall apart.”

She bit her lip, but didn’t look away, even as her body began to tremble under his touch.

Bob groaned, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching forward into her hand. His grip on her faltered, only for a second, before he returned the pressure with renewed intensity. They moved in sync—hands exploring, learning, taking.

Their moans tangled between kisses, each touch more urgent than the last.

Y/N’s body arched as tension coiled tighter and tighter, her breaths breaking against his mouth. Bob’s name left her in a desperate gasp as his fingers pushed her higher, each stroke pulling her closer to the edge. She clung to him, her body trembling, eyes locked with his.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, her voice wrecked.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, kissing her again—slow, deep, like he wanted to swallow her whole.

Her hand on him grew more purposeful, matching the rhythm he gave her. His jaw clenched, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as she stroked him, the pleasure nearly breaking his composure. Still, he held on—for her. 

“I can’t hold on much longer…” Y/N whispered.

His lips crashed against hers as her body shattered beneath his hand, a soft cry breaking in her throat. She convulsed against him, hips grinding as the waves of pleasure rolled through her, long and all-consuming.

Bob followed a heartbeat later, his release torn from him with a groan that vibrated against her skin. His forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged, every muscle drawn tight before he finally melted into her.

For a long moment, neither of them moved—just clung to each other, sweat-slicked and breathless, hearts pounding in the same frantic rhythm.

He kissed her again, softer this time, brushing hair from her face with reverent fingers.

She let out a shaky laugh, voice barely above a whisper. “If that was you holding back... I’m in trouble.”

He smiled, lips brushing hers again as he murmured, “I guess you’re in trouble, because the night’s only just getting started.”