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satoruxx · 2 days ago

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THE SPACE BETWEEN COMFORT AND CHAOS.

✧ PAIRING: wolf!toji fushiguro x f!reader | 9k words

✧ SUMMARY: this fic has always been 18+ but now especially I MEAN IT mdni, toji gets horny fr this time (like 2.5k words of just that), masturbation, toji gets turned on by love idk, rut/heat cycles, basically abo/hybrid mating tendencies, idk let me write my porn sigh, misogyny, um stalking, more hybrid mistreatment, talks of murder, the typical blood as a metaphor for love :/

✧ RHEYA'S NOTE: lol okay i'm vv sorry for the six month absence.. had to get that degree :33 but hopefully this chapter being 9k words and having horny toji makes up for it.. however pls do heed the warnings! i yap a lot about mating and other abo things so if that's not your thing pls scroll TT.. anyways i'm thanking you all so much for your patience !! hope you enjoy <33

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"pause."

toji's form stops abruptly, and you bite back a chuckle when he turns to glare at you over his shoulder. "what?"

you grin, rocking back on your heels even as the rest of the street continues bustling around you. "i'm hungry."

the street's lights reflect over toji's facial features, and the way his jaw drops looks extra comical. "already? we just had dinner."

you frown, affronted. "that was like an hour ago."

toji snorts, rolling his eyes, though it comes off fonder than you expected it to. "so you want dessert?"

you nod eagerly, and a muted chuckle escapes the wolf as you catch up to his side. his jade eyes scan the lively streets critically, before falling on you again. "well, go crazy."

you immediately grab his wrist and tug him along, peering at different stalls and stores despite his protests. toji ends up just crossing his arms as he waits for you to buy your dessert (ice cream, you've decided. on a cone). he watches you grin as you pay and then hurry over to him, both of your hands full.

"here," you chirp, shoving a cone into his hand. a few melted drops stain his skin, still cold to the touch. "for you!"

he huffs. "kid, i told you i don't like sweets that much."

"that's what you say at first." you point your finger at him as you lick up the dripping sides of your own cone, gaze all too knowing. "but then you try it and realize you can't get enough."

toji rolls his eyes, but still obediently takes a lick. the flavor of chocolates and some other sweet confections burst across his tongue. it's strong, almost unbearably so, but then it settles on his palate and leaves a satisfaction in its wake. he can't help the subtle twitch of his lips, almost pleased, and you give him a smug smile.

(it seems like he will always be doomed when it comes to sweet things.)

you both walk home in relative silence, save for the occasional bit of chatter when you remember something you haven't told him. the streets are still bright and bustling with people trying to enjoy their saturday night, and toji feels a little more comfortable because it's so easy to blend in.

"are you sure you don't want me to hold those?" you ask pointedly, peering at all the shopping bags he's balancing on his arms. "aren't they heavy?"

he gives you a sidelong glance—affronted. "seriously? how weak do you think i am?"

you raise your free hand in surrender, biting back a laugh as you look at him with that same spark of a challenge in your eyes. "don't you sleep with a nightlight?"

toji's glare is boiling when it settles on you. "shut up and eat your ice cream."

you chortle, nudging his side with your elbow, and he groans under his breath. his fingers itch. it would be so fucking easy to just grab your free hand that's swinging listlessly at your side. the lines of his large, rough palm pressed against your smaller, gentle one. his fingers would curl around yours so gratefully, sweet and soft and yet still keeping you attached to him.

(he can't elaborate on how pleased the thought makes him. keeping you at his side, where he can always see you. where you can always see him.)

but all he can do is clench his fist, internally reprimanding himself for taking such liberties with you to begin with—even if it's just in his own head.

when you both make it back home, you hop in the shower quick and then toji takes his turn, so used to the mundane routine. he heads into the bathroom, not before making a sarcastic jab at your choice of pajamas for the night (doughnuts, printed in all shapes and colors), to which you just punch his arm as he cackles.

toji enjoys the feeling of the searing hot water burning into his skin. psychopathic maybe, but it feels comforting. it's not like he was given the luxury of hot water back when he was underground.

(that being said, even once he'd started living with you, it's not like he took hot showers often. in fact, he'd sometimes find himself relying on cold showers. especially when you were around him. a fleeting touch here, a meaningful glance there, and he'd find himself under pelting ice, breathing heavily through his nose until he's finally got himself under control.)

even now he tries not to think too deeply about that, focusing on enjoying his warm shower. he feels a little guilty when he stops to consider that you probably have no idea that his thoughts about you are so fucking depraved.

(poor thing. you don't deserve something so unhinged breathing down your neck.)

and unfortunately that's all he truly is. unhinged. an animal that lacks self control. and you are nothing of the sort. sweetness and good all bundled up into a human being. night and day, dark and light, sun and storm.

good and evil.

toji knows this well. knows that he has no right to let his claws tear into your perfect flesh and rip you to pieces. only monsters ruin perfection after all.

and perfection you were. he knows you don't really see yourself that way, but it's hard for him not to. reminds him of statue deities the old artists left behind to stand in museums under heavy spotlights. for people to flock to, eager and awestruck as they marvel at beauty like they've never seen it before. and he'd bow front of you, knees digging into rough earth, bloody and bruised as he reaches for your marbled fingers. letting stone gently tickle the sharp curve of his jaw, trace the scar cutting over his lips. maybe when he finally looks up at you he'll only remember your smile immortalized into the stone.

but toji is selfish. he doesn't want to worship a statue. he'd rather have you as is, life thrumming through your veins the way blood does. warmth bursting from under your skin and seeping into his own. and there's a part of him that knows you'd touch him so eagerly, ready to please and give him everything that he's ever wanted. you've already been so generous—giving and giving and giving some more. if he asked to let him take you apart, would you dare say no? would you let him sort through sinew and muscle until he's found your very core? would you let him hold your beating heart in his claws no matter how many times they nick the flesh and make you bleed?

you would, with stars in your eyes. in fact, there's a greedy part of him that thinks you'd do the same in return. tear him apart piece by piece with careful fingers until he's nothing but laid bare in front of you. press your flesh against ragged scars and bruised skin, rough with use and danger. if he focuses a little harder, he can feel your touch linger on those scars. your lips will follow, pressing deep against his blood, staining you wine red. but you'll just smile, light bursting behind your silhouette (angelic; awe-inspiring), and he'll once again be speechless in front of you.

(powerless in every sense of the word.)

this is followed by yet another dangerous thought—just how much of an animal would you let him be?

it would be easy to cage you between his arms, close enough that he can count every eyelash and see every shade in your skin. it would be easy to hook his claws around the waistband of the fabric that hid you away, press a searing kiss into the stripe left by the elastic. it would be easy to reduce you to a shaking mess, quiet whimpers escaping into the space only he shares with you.

it's ridiculous, how quickly his obsession bleeds into arousal. a thin line, his toes dancing over it. but he doesn't have it in him to dwell on the shame behind it. it's instantaneous, how heat starts thrumming through his veins at the thought of you, alighting every expanse of flesh and breaking through skin.

toji bristles, tail flexing even under the weight of the water.

you have to know what you're doing. weren't you ever warned about dangers like him? wasn't it common sense not to dangle prey in front of a predator's eyes?

(though, if he's being honest, toji doesn't feel like much of predator. if anything, you're the predator, circling him with attentive eyes that makes his hair stand on end. makes him want to expose his underbelly and let you pounce.)

it doesn't make sense to him, how his mind relates someone as sweet as you to a role so unflinchingly unkind. in reality, the only one who's fucked enough to take on that role is him. the true animal—unhinged, reckless, cruel.

the only one who'd dig his fangs into your flesh and tear you apart with no hesitation. let sweet blood drip from his lips, lapping away until not a drop is left. reverent—because he knows how valuable it is.

the problem is you'd let him.

welcoming, with open arms and a warm smile that makes him want to take even more. more and more until nothing is left.

(would you enjoy it? his claws encircling your fragile wrists and pressing them into sheets. heavy body weighing yours down, scarred muscle meeting soft flesh. fanged teeth digging into the tender meat of your lips. perhaps you'd tell him as much, quietly sighing into his mouth, singing his praises and whispering a sweet combination of toji please, more.)

blood rushes south, his cock hardening so quick it's almost humiliating. this had been an ongoing issue for months now. toji never thought anyone would have the ability to drive him up the walls like this. not that you had gone around deliberately trying to give him a hard time (no pun intended), but it'd become more difficult to ignore. even just noticing little things—like the texture of your fingertips against his skin or the way your scent bleeds into the walls of the house. or the way his height towers over you and forces you to look up at him in a way that is so easy to imagine in certain other scenarios. in between his legs, gentle hands on his knees, eyes peering through lashes, and swollen lips wrapped around his—

fuck.

he's rock hard now. thick and aching in a way that makes him feel almost ashamed because there's no reason he should be acting like a whelpling who's just been thrown into a rut for the first time. no, he'd been an adult for a long time. one that had gotten through a lot worse than this.

(it's seared into his brain, the way the faceless doctor from the underground would hand him suppressant pills a couple weeks before a rut was due to hit, eyeing him to make sure they were swallowed without any issues. his body remembers scratching at the stone ground of a cell as he snarled through the pain of one of his most natural instincts being manipulated through a drug.

it was normal for them. every hybrid there had experienced being put aside for a day or two, labeled "out of commission" for a fake sick period while they rode out their cycles with no help or relief.

what would've normally been a couple weeks of rut was cruelly suppressed into two short days. in that time, toji was confined to a special cell with no outside contact. no fights, no interactions with any other hybrid.

all he had was the time to get increasingly more feral and frustratingly turned on. and no way to deal with it but ruthlessly fucking his own fist until he was exhausted.

exhausted, but never satiated. never satisfied.

after all, the suppressant pills couldn't erase the nature of his instincts. the part of him that craved not for a simple release, but for the experience of sharing a rut with someone. craved forming a connection with another being who could not only provide relief through it, but also take every bit of devotion he had to offer. the pills were effective in dulling down the intensity of ruts and heats, and shortened the length of them tremendously. but even after all that, they were still animals—there was no denying it. no, none of it could be erased; the instinctual craving for a fucking mate.)

all of those years under suppressants had made toji forget what a real rut felt like. but if it's anything close to the way he'd been feeling lately, he was definitely screwed. his mind had become increasingly more creative, able to conjure up the most inappropriate images of his most shameful fantasies. and this issue could only be fixed by jacking off until cum was dripping between his fingers and he felt even more ashamed than he did before.

which is exactly what he's being pushed to right now.

it seems almost instantaneous the way his fist wraps around his cock, throbbing flesh hot and angry. he bites back a hiss at the sensitivity, the hot water doing nothing to help his already searing flesh.

toji knew to start expecting flare ups of arousal. after all it was just a part of his nature, but a headache all the same. unfortunately, when escaping that hellhole he called a home, he didn't think about what would happen to his body now that those bastards weren't pumping his body full of suppressants.

sukuna had once said that it was their way of stripping them of their natural instructs, domesticating hybrids without them even knowing. the thought had pissed both of them off, but the tiger was right. nothing inherently natural about controlling such a significant facet of their bodies.

if he had more time to prepare his escape, he would've broken into the medical wing and stolen a few years' worth of suppressants for himself.

hindsight. instead, now he has to deal with these admittedly intense pangs of carnal desire. he knows why. how long had it been since he'd had a natural rut? definitely not since eighteen, because that's when he'd given up his freedom and they started feeding him suppressants (after all, can't have a feral wolf in rut running free throughout the barracks; bad for business; too dangerous to control). it makes sense that his body is working on overdrive now that it's finally tasted freedom.

(finally tasted a sweet scent and warm smile.)

toji isn't sure what he'll do when his rut really hits. he had thought that maybe he could get away with lying to you, passing it off as some contagious sickness and locking himself in his room for a few days until it passed. but then he got nervous thinking about just how bad this rut might be, and he figured he probably wouldn't be able to keep it from you even with the walls acting as a barrier.

there was also the option of telling you the truth. you'd probably be so accepting about it; after all, you've been nothing but understanding. and it seems like you know more about hybrids than your fellow humans, so he's sure you wouldn't judge him for something he can't really control. and yet despite all that, the thought of telling you feels strangely nerve wracking. some strange implication behind admitting just how vulnerable he'd truly be (and some sick thrill at the unspoken boundary that could end up being crossed).

a boundary line that he had scratched into the floor over and over again. so intent on denying the thought of ever being that close to you.

and yet he can't deny it. can't deny that the idea of trailing his tongue over the swells and divots of your body doesn't make him salivate. like the thought of your lips pressing into the ridges of his neck doesn't make his ribcage jump.

(like the thought of you saying yes to him doesn't make him want to lay the entire galaxy at your feet. because saying yes to him means something more than you'll ever realize. means bonding yourself to him for a lifetime. souls intertwined, the way only a mate can be—)

toji's presses his forehead against the damp tiled wall, exhaling shakily. there's a reddish pink shade crawling up his skin, spreading like liquid gold. his fist feels like nothing special, but it still offers a semblance of relief from that stupid aching feeling. the warmth of the water and the remnants of soap makes it easy for his fist to slide back and forth, and god he's so fucking hard. he's starting off fast, but he doesn't really care. all he knows is that it feels good, and it's utterly humiliating to be jacking off in the shower when you're just across the hall, so he just wants to get it over with.

but his brain? his brain lingers, cruel in its torture.

if he closes his eyes, toji can picture you doing it instead. your hand's a lot smaller, but it's softer than his—not rough with scars and callouses and danger. maybe you'd touch him slower, not as stupidly fast as he is, not with the mission to just get off and be done. no, you'd probably touch him with intention, eager to take him apart. he'd be glad to let you do as you please, so pathetically ready for whatever you want from him.

his fangs dig into the scar cutting over his lip, almost hard enough to taste blood. he thinks about sinking those fangs into the open canvas of your neck, and his dick twitches in response, eager and swollen. he tightens his grip and twists his wrist in the same way he's always done, knowing it'll get him there quick.

toji's head presses harder into the tiled walls, and he blinks the water away from his eyes as he tries to focus. his brain conjures up a strikingly detailed image of you pressing your lips against his dick, and that itself shoots a searing hot flash of arousal up his spine. but that's not all. he imagines that you'd be a lot more generous with your touches than he is. you'd touch him all over, gentle fingers tracing over the curve of his jaw and over the slopes of his cheeks. down over the planes of his chest and the ridges of his abs. gentle, the way only a lover's caress could be. chills run over his skin, the shiver so pleasurable it makes his breath hitch.

his high creeps up frighteningly fast, tingles shooting up the nerves in his body like he's never touched himself before. the muscles in his arm strain as heat pools in his lower belly, licking at his insides like an uncontrollable flame. the sound of the soapy water each time his hand moves is embarrassingly inappropriate, and he's briefly struck with the filthy thought of the type of sounds he'd be able to pull from your body if you just gave him the chance.

he wonders where to touch you to make you sing. where you'd be the most sensitive. what spots would have your voice catching on a strangled moan or have a breathy whimper escaping your throat. maybe you'd beg him for more, or perhaps you'd demand it from him. maybe you'd give in finally tell him what he's been dying to hear. in that same sweet voice, quietly sighing an earnest toji, i love y—

ropes of cum splatter between his fingers, and he's thankful that his muffled grunts are drowned out by the shower. his hips twitch, instinctual, and his dick pulses with every spurt, pelvic muscles contracting with effort. and throughout all of it, all he can think of is you.

(horrible, he is. so dirty, filthy.)

"ah fuck—" he feels messy, and hypersensitive. he stands there for a minute, catching his breath and doing his best to quell the mess in his head. it takes all but a minute to wash away the evidence of his crimes, but the thoughts of you still linger—infectious and deep.

(he thinks maybe he'll never be rid of you. you've latched onto him the way he has to you—parasitic and flesh deep. some part of him really likes that; a sick and twisted part.)

the wolf huffs out a tired sigh, standing under the pelting water like some kind of mindless idiot. what kind of freak was he? you offer him a place in your home and here he was jerking off in your shower with nothing but filth in his head. he's terrible; a dirty animal.

and yet, he feels good. feels good in the same way he feels when he sees you smile. or when you finally come back home. or when you grin at him from across the dining table as you watch him dig into his food. or when you accidentally fall asleep while watching some stupid movie.

his brain is foggy, and there's still a few aftershocks of pleasure tickling his nerves. but his guilt is smothered by that good feeling, pressed down into the deep recesses of his subconscious as he focuses on how you seem to have such an influence on his emotions.

(powerful, sneaky little thing.)

"hey toji?"

your muffled voice cuts through the pleasant haze in his head, and the panic is instant. he flinches so hard his elbow thuds against the shower wall, eliciting a yelp that he tries hard to recover from.

"y-yeah?!" he winces at the voice crack (trying to pretend he didn't just bust to the thought of you not a minute earlier), and clears his throat.

"i'm running low on period stuff so i'm gonna run down the street and grab some pads."

"i can go grab em if you want?" he replies, scrubbing his skin with a quickening pace, but then you chuckle and wave him off.

"no no it's fine. enjoy your shower. it's like two streets over, i'll be back soon."

"well…" he hesitates, but then nods even though you can't see him. "fine. be careful, y'hear?"

"yeah yeah…" your voice fades away as you head down the hall, and toji's shoulders relax. for a second he thought you might've somehow heard his less than appropriate little session, but instead you're just updating him on something he probably wouldn't have cared about many months ago. but here he is, ultimately caring so deeply.

hot water streams between toji's eyes, and he pushes his wet hair back with a tired huff. his ears fold under his palms, muffling all noises and for a second, the raging thoughts in his head subside.

(if it were up to him, he'd stay in this peaceful bubble for as long as he could. hoping, dreaming, praying that you'd join him in the space with no protests. comfort, chaos, and everything in between.)

****

the streets are a lot more deserted than they were a few hours prior, back when you were dragging toji to eat ice cream. now there's only faint chatter, the occasional squeals of laughter and excitement permeating the sounds of your slippers against pavement. normally you would've dragged toji out with you, especially so late on a saturday night, but since this is barely a 15 minute walk and you've been here countless times before, you decided not to bother him.

after all, you would grant toji as much peace as you could give him (god knows he deserved it and more).

there's some faint song playing over the speakers when you enter the store, instantly fading into muted background noise as you smile at the elderly man behind the counter. he recognizes you, a local frequenter, and smiles back before going back to the paper he was reading. your steps take you to the feminine products quickly, memorized route guiding your feet, and then you're scanning the shelves for familiar colors and brands.

the store is almost completely deserted, save for a few other likeminded individuals who needed a late night run. your fingers drift over boxes until you finally find the brand you like.

"excuse me? can you help me with this?"

the flinch that comes from you is almost embarrassing, but you're genuinely impressed by how quietly this guy seems to have snuck up on you. you glance over your shoulder carefully.

dyed blonde hair, dark roots, narrowed beady eyes. and yet a sheepish, awkward smile that makes your shoulders drop when you notice the box of pads in his head. you tilt your head questioningly, quirking a brow. he raises the box. "my girlfriend sent me out to get supplies but i have no clue what to pick for her…"

the helpless smile that crawls onto your face feels natural. at least he was trying, that in and of itself was a lot to ask for these days. "well do you know if she has a heavy flow or a light one?"

"heavy i think?" his brows furrow thoughtfully. "she says she bleeds a lot…"

"well then this is probably better for her than that." you reach for a different box on the shelf, one that's specifically labeled for handling heavy bleeding. "they're better for heavier flow. and they're longer so that should help her out."

he takes the box from you carefully, before smiling. something shines in his dark eyes. "thank you so much. i'm clueless when it comes to this stuff."

you chuckle, shaking your head. "no it's okay. at least you're trying."

"i would've been lost without your help. i'm naoya by the way." his smile gets a little more pointed, that gleam in his gaze brighter. he sticks his palm out expectantly.

warning bells start ringing in your head, but you don't know why.

"oh uh, nice to meet you…" you trail off, cautiously taking his hand. you're sure he's being polite, but you don't really understand why he's telling you his name. maybe it's paranoia, but you bite your tongue and hold off on giving him yours, something telling you that maybe you shouldn't be sharing that information.

the blonde doesn't comment on your lack of forthcoming, but something feels off. he looks like he knows something, like he's dissecting you on a surgical table. you let go of his hand, and awkwardly smile, before turning back to the shelf. his voice gets a little louder. "naoya zenin."

you freeze. the name washes over you, a brief sense of warmth, before it bleeds into something cold and jarring. you know this name well—heard it murmured from scarred lips a few times (in a voice that was filled with nothing but distaste.)

now if you think back, you can remember the same blonde hair and dark eyes being in the background of pictures you've seen on the internet. random news articles of what the head of one of the biggest companies in the country did that day. you don't know why you couldn't remember it earlier. maybe you just weren't expecting to see naoya zenin at your tiny little store so late at night. but he looks calm, as though it's all intentional, as though you should've expected to bump in to him like this.

the warning bells ring louder.

"so!" the blonde claps his hands together, brightly smiling as though he's catching up with an old friend. "how is he?"

you feel your tongue grow numb. an image of a moody scowl and twitching ears flashes behind your eyes, and you finally realize that warning bells had nothing to do with your own safety.

(too preoccupied with dedicating your care to someone else. someone who's probably patiently waiting for you back home.)

"who?" you're playing dumb, and you're sure he knows it because he just laughs and quirks his brow knowingly.

"you know who." he pins you with a level stare. "toji of course. my precious cousin."

you remain quiet, mind spinning. you're not sure if you should lie or continue playing dumb or just run and hope he isn't fast enough to follow. but naoya just continues on without a care in the world.

"let's stop beating around the bush." the blonde's smile drops, voice going serious in the same way you've seen it go on those television interviews. "i don't know how or why you're connected to him but i'm sure you know what he is by now."

"ah yes the wolf ears and tail really gave it away," you reply sarcastically, not even bothering to keep the bite out of your tone. naoya grins predatorily, making a show of leering at your blatant hostility.

"well yes, the poor beast was unfortunately born that way." naoya waves offhandedly, before his expression sours. "just my luck, he had to be born into my fucking family."

you snort out a scornful laugh, crossing your arms. "well it makes sense. i mean he might be the wolf, but it's pretty clear that dogs run in the family."

naoya pauses, before his smile returns. this time, it is icy, and yet there is spark of malice flickering in his eyes. "hah! you're more interesting than i thought. you look so boring from afar, you know?"

you glare at him irritably.

"but! you're much more entertaining than i expected. maybe that's why toji's hanging around you." naoya glances down at his fingernails with feigned interest, his voice dropping. "it's a shame he didn't teach you any manners though."

his hand drops to his side, and his expression darkens so fast it makes your head spin. "if it were up to me, i'd cut your tongue out and deliver it to him, you know?"

your bravado shatters, blood going cold. naoya seems to catch the change, so he just smiles again with that fake politeness. "but father says we should be nice and talk it out. so that's what i'm doing! i had no clue how i was going to find the time to chat with you, but i'm glad i caught you today."

you swallow, fingers creasing into the sleeves of your sweater.

"you know, when i told father i saw toji with you today, he was surprised. that freak doesn't seem like the type to get help from others, let alone humans like you and me." the blonde hums, amused. "but seems like he liked something about you. that, or you had something pretty valuable to offer."

you almost roll your eyes. clearly this asshole liked to hear himself talk.

"i mean i'm kinda surprised that you got close to that freak. don't you have any survival instincts?" he tuts, exaggeratedly pouting at you like you're nothing but a dumb child. the blood in your veins grows hot with indignation.

"he's not dangerous." your voice is resolute, stating a fact rather than an opinion. naoya observes you with mild interest. he hums thoughtfully, and you shift your weight not knowing what to do.

"you know, i saw you both being all cute on your little shopping trip." naoya's expression turns bored, almost like he's disgusted. he leans against the shelves haphazardly. "it's a shame i lost you both in the crowd as you left though. i would've stopped by at your house otherwise."

the threat is not lost on you. and something churns in your gut when you think about this man being anywhere near your house. near toji.

"i don't understand," you say, raising your head. you have no clue how you manage to keep your voice steady when your heart is beating so fast, but you'd rather not look too deep into that. "what exactly is it that you want from me?"

"you have…influence," naoya grins, peering at you. his expression is mocking. you think you might vomit. "i'm sure you can bat your eyes and convince my dear cousin."

when you swallow, it feels like rocks are sliding down your throat. "convince him to what?"

naoya's grin drops, eyes narrowing dangerously. "to go back to where he belongs."

your words tumble forth before you can even stop them, hot and indignant. "and what if he doesn't want to go back there?"

a burst of laughter escapes his throat, though it is sharp and unamused. "don't you get it? he doesn't have a choice. that's all he was born to do anyway."

you glare at him, teeth digging into your tongue so hard it hurts painfully. naoya's expression turns bright, a very dramatic flare of sick amusement filling his tone. "ohh i finally get it!"

he leans closer to you, smirking. "who would've thought my dear cousin went and found himself a girl!"

the traitor organ sitting in your ribcage gives an eager jump, getting distracted by its original threat. you steel your expression. "what are you even talking about?"

"no need to play coy. i understand!" he raises his arms like he means no harm, a greasy smile still splitting his face. "that just means you really should be able to influence him."

"you don't even know what you're saying." you roll your eyes, turning away from him, though you still keep his figure in your peripheral. "it's not even like that. we're barely even friends. the most i would say is acquaintances."

the lie bleeds through your teeth easily, molten lava. worth it if it means keeping him safe. away from the treacherous vines that seem so intent on chasing him and pinning him down.

"oh sure." the blonde chuckles, looking at you with a sharp mockery in his gaze. it's obvious he doesn't believe you, especially with how quickly his tone turns chilling. "i don't really give a damn who you are to him. let him know what he needs to do, or we're gonna have a problem."

"and if i can't convince him?"

naoya shrugs casually, but then he pins you with a stare that makes you feel like your bone marrow is turning to lead.

"well then, we'll just have to see what happens, won't we?" he says nothing more, but the implication is very clear. the blonde then glances down at the pads in his hands. his expression goes disgusted once more, and he haphazardly chucks the box back onto the shelf. "ew…" he mutters, dusting his hand over his coat. his eyes find you again, and then that same smile appears once more. "anyways, i'll definitely see you around! get home safe!"

your pulse is thudding wildly as you watch him leave, a heavy onset of nausea making your stomach churn like never before. the hidden threats were so carefully placed, but not obscure enough for you to miss, and that scares you even more because it says that this guy is just that confident. you stand in the aisle for another two mins, mind running in a thousand different directions. suddenly you feel strangely exposed, like you've been placed into a glass box for someone to observe your every movement.

(suddenly, you feel completely and utterly alone. scared and vulnerable and in real danger. suddenly, all you can think about is the brooding wolf you've left at home, and how seeing him is the only solution to making these feelings go away.)

you're out the door before you even realize it. your legs carry you back in the direction of your home, but your paranoia leads you to take as many convoluted turns that you can think of (because you can't shake the feeling of those beady brown eyes digging into your shoulder blades).

naoya zenin. you don't know how he shares blood with toji. if you squint hard enough you can maybe find some similarities in features. but still, you cannot understand how someone so outwardly horrible can be related to someone like toji. toji is not warm, not inherently sweet. but he is good, and that much is obvious to you. the same way you know this naoya is bad, with nothing but negative intentions.

when you finally reach your doorstep, you keep your head down and slip inside. your fingers double check every lock, every window. your mouth feels dry and there's too many weaknesses and he's definitely still out there and—

"hey."

the voice makes you jump, and when you look up, toji is staring at you—confused. his brow quirks as he peers at you through his wet hair. "well that was dramatic."

you sigh, quelling the thundering of your heartbeat. sweat beads on the skin of your palms, and you drag them over the fabric of your pants. "you just scared me."

"oh yeah, i'm so fucking terrifying." he sits on the couch, aggressively drying his wet hair with a towel. you snort, grinning as your eyes trail over the way his pointed ears fold under the weight of the fabric.

"shaking in my boots." toji rolls his eyes at your reply, and you pull off your coat with a quiet chuckle.

(honestly a little jarring how easy it is for you to relax in his presence. how easy it is to start smiling again.)

"i thought you went to get supplies?"

you freeze, glancing over your shoulder. "w-what?"

he motions to your empty hands. "you didn't get anything?"

your stomach drops. "oh um…" you clear your throat. "they were closed. so i came back."

it's almost laughable how quick the lie slips from your mouth; sickening, really, because it shouldn't be quite so easy to lie to someone who obviously trusted you. you've felt guilty before, but not like this. this goes past the dull surface ache and settles as a deep stinging, fraying your nerve endings. maybe it's because you know that you have no right to keep this from him; after all, it's his family. but something about the gleam in naoya's eyes makes your hair stand on end. if it were up to you, you'd stand in front of toji with a smile even with knives raining down your back.

the way toji's brow arches tells you that he's a little confused, maybe a little skeptical, but he shrugs and turns back to the tv, turning it on with a flick of his finger. "well okay then. i can grab some tomorrow on my way back home."

you inhale through your nose, forcing a smile. there's really no point stressing. naoya can't do much to you to begin with, not without starting something potentially dangerous with toji. so you just push it to the back of your mind and take a seat next to the grumpy wolf you realize you would do anything for.

(even lie.)

"thank you, toji," you say earnestly. the wolf gives you a sidelong glance, ears twitching at the sound of your voice, and he scoffs.

"whatever. it's not like i haven't done it before. quit bein' dramatic."

you grin, watching him cross his arms and sulk like an overgrown puppy. for some reason, his expression settles the chaos in your chest and you decide that whatever problem it is, you'll do anything it takes to keep it from him.

(perhaps it's silly, thinking that you could easily stand in front of a hybrid capable of tearing you to pieces and expect to be able to protect him. but you know he would do the same for you, and that's why it feels all too natural. easy.)

you think you will always be willing to offer him whatever space you have left. comfort, chaos, and everything in between.

****

toji doesn't consider himself a very intelligent person. not to say that he's dumb. no, he thinks he excels at street smarts. after all, no one survives a life like his without a brain.

but in terms of emotional intelligence.. well he doesn't feel all that confident. yet another area where he feels like you're a lot better than he is.

it scares him a little, how fast you can read him. how you can pick apart his every expression and behavior like it comes naturally to you. and then how you're able to to adapt and give him exactly the response he needs. whether it's sweet comfort or rational courses of action—it's perfect.

(you're perfect.)

but he's not like you. he cannot pick people apart, can't look at them and figure out what they're thinking. cannot read them like an open book the way you can.

but right now, he feels like something is wrong.

it's been almost a week since he's noticed this change in behavior. you've been looking over your shoulder like you're in some kind of horror movie. eyes constantly scanning your surroundings, fingers fiddling with the window locks. even peering outside through the gaps in your curtains.

you're nervous, he realizes. paranoid, like something's chasing you. whatever it is, toji understands that he doesn't like the way worry looks on you. in fact, he hates it. hates the way his ears can pick up your increased heartrate. hates the way he can smell the spikes of anxiousness in your scent.

he's trying to be a good housemate and respect your boundaries. trying not to be nosy and let you deal with your own issues like an adult. but then his mind wonders if there's something really wrong, if someone's giving you a hard time or stressing you out, and then he just gets angry.

(don't you know that he adores you? don't you know that you need only say the word and he'd kill a man for you? don't you know the amount of power you have over him?)

regardless, he's still trying to be a good housemate and respect your boundaries. but it's becoming increasingly more difficult to watch you come home everyday like there's someone chasing after you. even now, he watches you double check the door locks before you hurry over to your windows. double check the locks, tug the curtains shut, peer outside through the gaps.

only when you're done do your shoulders relax, and when you turn around, you jump when you notice him standing there staring at you. the surprise bleeds into a quick, barely there smile. "oh hey! how was your day?"

you don't even wait for his answer before you're turning around to hang your coat up, and that's enough to make him crack.

"alright what the fuck is wrong with you?" toji's voice cuts through the silence like ice, and you internally wince. defensive walls rise quickly, and then you're turning on him with fire in your eyes.

"excuse me?"

toji's bulky arms flex as he crosses them, staring down his nose at you completely unfazed. "you've been hiding something."

"i—"

"—and don't even bother tryin' to deny it. it's written all over your face."

the wolf watches you inhale heavily, and the crease in between your brows makes his fingers twitch (eager to reach out and smooth them down carefully).

you sigh, defeated. "remember last week when i went to the store that one night?"

toji nods.

"i, um, bumped into someone there." your fingers rub over your arms in an attempt to be soothing, and toji's frown deepens in tandem.

"who?"

you glance at him. guilt gnaws its way up your esophagus. "um, naoya zenin."

toji's reaction almost makes you vomit. his ears stand up straight, tail going rigid, and the anger that contorts his expression makes you shiver. "what?!"

his voice has taken on a timbre you haven't heard before, an inherently primal growl ripping through his vocal cords in a way that sounds almost painful. you wince, trying to placate by backtracking.

"i was gonna tell you—"

"what the fuck did he say to you?!—"

"he just—"

"that fucking creep i swear to god—"

"toji." your palms find his forearms in this strangely natural way that makes his stomach churn. steadying, stable, everything that he lacks. "please. can we just relax and sit down?"

his ears droop slightly, but he still maintains his heated glare. not that he's necessarily angry at you. but his palms feel too sweaty and his heartbeat feels too fast and his stomach feels too heavy. still, he forces himself to breathe deep through his nose, quelling the instinctual rise of feral panic that seems to want to burst from his veins. he lets your hands, barely able to fit around the width of his arms, maneuver him to the couch.

when you take a seat next to him, he can smell the nerves.

(spiked; hints of bitterness hiding between layers of sugary sweet.)

more so, you look guilty. it briefly strikes him that perhaps you feel bad about keeping this from him. he's then struck with a similar feeling when he realizes he's kept something from you too. this is all followed by a searing streak of anger when he remembers the reason why you both have been hiding things from one another.

(maybe it wouldn't be so bad to live up to their expectations of him. be the real curse of the zenin bloodline. they always said he was an uncontrollable animal. maybe it would be okay to finally prove them right. have his family's life force dripping red rivulets through his pointed claws. taste its metallic tinge between his sharpened teeth.)

"he came up to me at the store," you start, wiping down your palms on your thighs. "he already knew that i knew you. said he saw us walking around that night shopping."

toji's claws dig into the flesh of his palm painfully. the memory is now tinged with something poisonous. always breathing down his neck.

"he was talking about how his father was surprised that you were even interacting with another human. and then he said it was a shame he lost us in the crowd because otherwise he'd come to our house for a visit."

you watch the wolf next to you clench his fists, and your lips slant.

"what else did he say?" toji tries to keep his voice even, but it comes out strange. your teeth dig into the flesh of your bottom lip painfully.

"he… he said that since i was clearly c-close to you, i should convince you to do something."

"and what's that?"

you pause, before letting the bitter words spill. "convince you that's it's time to go back where they want you to be."

"that fucking asshole!" toji's voice is akin to a roar, and you wince as you watch him stand and snarl like he's been beaten. he pushes his claws into his hair and grits his teeth. "how fucking dare they even—"

another pained growl rips from his throat. the sound makes your stomach coil, and before you can stop yourself, you're reaching out to grab his arm. his head whips around at the contact, baring his teeth with a snarl as he ears point upright. but then he sees your expression, sad and tired, and his shoulders drop immediately.

"you know that i don't want you to go, right?" you ask him quietly. toji stares at you, long and hard. his jade eyes are bright with anger, but there's a hint of fear in there that makes you want to cry.

"… you sure?" his voice is so quiet you almost have to strain to hear it. your fingers tighten around his forearm. even with the way he is standing over you, you think he looks smaller. like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"i'm sure." your voice is resolute, like it's always been when it comes to him. his exhales slowly, and you smile at him in this tragic way that makes him want to rip his eyes out.

(you're too good. too trusting. too confident in the fact that he won't lead to your downfall.)

"kid," he calls out, voice strained.

"hm?"

"i gotta tell you somethin' too."

you frown, but then you're pulling him back to the couch (right next to you; close enough that your scent wraps around him once more—warm, blanket-like), and then you're looking at him earnestly. "what is it?"

he tells you all about his run in with naobito zenin. details the angry confrontation in which his stupid uncle had warned him to go back to where he belonged, tired of the wolf's running game. how the old man had been close to calling his men to come get him before toji had resorted to nearly crushing his windpipe in retaliation. how naobito had warned toji that hurting him was a punishable offense that would lead to him being locked up again. and how, at the end of it all, toji had told him that it would be worth it if it meant being rid of the stupid zenins once and for all.

and then he finishes by telling you that his uncle was so convinced toji would end up back there on his own anyway, because he was nothing more than a mindless animal.

(he carefully leaves out the threat naobito made about putting him down. and he also leaves out how none of that scared him more than the idea of his family's clutches ultimately reaching you.)

you sit there and listen with an expression that bleeds horror. the divot in your brow is so deep toji worries it may become permanent, and your eyes shine with a sadness he's never seen before. when he's done speaking, you exhale shakily.

"kid, i'm never gonna be rid of them," he says quietly. "they're always gonna be breathing down my neck. which means they're always gonna be breathing down yours too."

you nod slowly, eyes distant as you stare at the edge of the coffee table like it's got all the answers in the world.

"there's nothing i can really do." he finishes with that final statement.

you chew on your bottom lip quietly. something is working behind your eyes, calculating, evaluating. "you threatened him?"

toji scoffs. "of course i fucking did. threatened to kill him and his brat son."

you turn to him, eyes alight. "would you?"

toji's heart leaps into his throat. he will never deny the amount of times he's thought about it. since the day he was old enough to realize his own brute strength. every day he was thrown into that damn cell. every fight where he would scratch and claw just to live another day. and every day since the old man stopped him in the streets.

the thought has lingered in the back of his mind, poisonous. rotting. because he knows that it is the only way. he knows that they deserve it. he knows that it is the one path that could lead him to peace.

(that could lead to him wiping the worry from your eyes.)

it's always been there. and now you…

"you can't be serious?"

"toji, answer the question. would you do it or not?"

"of course i would!" he fires back quickly, before taking a steadying breath. "you don't get it, kid. i got no love for them. been dreaming about ripping those bastards apart since the day i was smart enough to realize they only saw me as an animal."

you nod slowly, still chewing on your lip. something settles behind your eyes, and the thrill it sends up toji's spine is almost sadistic. your voice is flat when you speak, but it does not waver. "toji… if there was something that came into my life that was threatening me and my loved ones. our livelihood, our safety, our security… i wouldn't really be thinking about morals anymore."

toji stares at you mutely, and you continue. "so… if there's an unwelcome guest showing up at the door, and we've asked them—no, begged them—to leave us alone and they haven't listened… then maybe the only thing left to do is force them to leave."

his mouth runs dry, and simultaneously, his ribcage jumps. you're looking at him with all the conviction in the world, and something in his deep complicated web of feelings for you shifts on its axis.

(you are sweet. you are peace and comfort and good. you are innocent and untouched by the horrors of the world in the best way. you are completely humane and understanding and you give nothing but kindness. you've offered him the world and he's gratefully cradled it in his palms. which is why this deeply root loyalty, this protectiveness, this affection—it has all come so naturally to him.

he would show mercy if you wanted him to. he would rip apart limbs if you wanted him to. he would dig a knife into his own intestines if you wanted him to.

but this. this is something he's wanted; dreamed about for as long as he can remember. cursed himself for thinking about because it makes him evil and wrong and horrible. but here you are—giving him support. telling him that you want it too.

this utterly wrong and animalistic thing that makes him the monster.

maybe you aren't all that pure. maybe he's the one who corrupted you. but then he thinks back to the fire in your eyes, that same resolute determination in your tone. and then he thinks that it couldn't have been him. it had to have come from within you, this desperate and complicated decision.

and then toji realizes that the reason it appeared is because you value him so highly. because on your moral scale, it is worth it to sin if it means keeping him safe. it is worth it to be animalistic if it means having him by your side.

he wants to envelop you in his arms. find your lips and breathe his own soul into you because he knows you'd keep it safe. knows you're willing to do whatever it takes for him.

the same way he is for you.

he loves you, he thinks. it's just that simple.)

and that's all the confirmation he needs.

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skzophreniic · 2 days ago

Text

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni

notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.

You almost don’t answer.

Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.

Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.

It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.

And now he’s calling.

You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.

Then you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.

You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”

A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”

You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”

He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”

Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.

So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.

“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”

Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.

“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”

You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”

You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”

You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.

Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.

The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.

And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.

Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.

He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”

You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”

A beat. Then—“Yeah.”

Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.

You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t even seen me since—”

“I know.”

He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.

“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.

His home.

It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.

But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.

You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.

It never was.

And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.

You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”

“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”

“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.

He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”

Right. The dog.

You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.

Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.

You don’t bring it up either.

Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you say I missed you.

Neither of you say This is weird.

Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?

Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”

“For the dog?”

“For you.”

You close your eyes.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.

And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.

But the silence stays.

And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.

You wonder if it’s still there.

You wonder what else of you is.

The building hasn’t changed.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.

His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.

“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.

You roll your eyes and open the door.

It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.

You hear the growl before you see him.

Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”

He growls again. Louder.

You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”

He barks.

You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect.

“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”

Kkami doesn’t find it funny.

You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.

You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.

Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.

“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.

A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.

Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.

“Truce?” you offer.

He sneezes. Well then.

You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.

Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.

You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.

And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.

You don’t sleep well that first night.

Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.

You get it.

You feel it too.

In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.

Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.

“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.

He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.

The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.

At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.

You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:

12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.

The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:

12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3

The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.

You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.

That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.

When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

He whines again. Low and pitiful.

“Me too,” you whisper.

You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.

You haven’t opened it. Not yet.

You slept on the couch.

Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.

So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.

The second night is worse.

Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.

You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.

Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.

And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.

You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.

12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.

You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.

But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then answer.

And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.

Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.

The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it. In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.

“Hi,” he says, quiet.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”

You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.

Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.

“God, he’s dramatic.”

“He gets it from you,” you mutter.

Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.

You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.

Then, gently:

“I left you something,” he says.

You swallow. “I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”

“I did.”

“You gonna open it?”

You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.

“Not yet,” you say.

And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”

Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.

“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.

“I’ll hang up,” he offers.

You don’t say no.

You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”

And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:

“Goodnight.”

You don’t sleep much better that night.

But Kkami doesn’t cry again.

The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.

Kkami still hates you by daylight.

He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.

But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.

Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin’s voice in the room.

You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.

He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.

“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”

“I never hated your work,” you say.

Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:

“You hated what it did to me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You did.

You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.

But you don’t say that.

You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.

“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”

Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.

He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”

You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”

“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”

“I almost didn’t.”

His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.

You look at him. Really look.

And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.

“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”

The silence after is different this time.

He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.

“Fuck.”

You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”

“Every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”

His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Another pause. Then—

“I dream about you,” he says.

And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.

You blink. “Hyun—”

“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”

You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.

Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.

You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.

Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?

None of it would come out right.

So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.

Hyunjin stills.

On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”

Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.

You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”

“I know,” he replies, just as soft.

“I want to. But…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I need more time.”

“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”

You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.

“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.

A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.

Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.

Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.

Just you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”

“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.

“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His smile softens into something quieter. More real.

“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”

You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”

Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.

And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”

You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

His jaw works. “Neither have I.”

The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.

Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.

“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”

But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.

Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”

You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.

“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”

You blink. “And tomorrow?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.

“That’s for you.”

It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.

But you know you’ll answer.

And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.

“You’re on the bed.”

Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.

You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.

You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.

But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.

You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”

“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”

You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.

Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.

“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.

You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”

His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”

You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.

Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”

He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”

Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. Right now.”

You hesitate.

But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.

“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.

His breath stutters through the speaker.

“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”

Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”

Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”

Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.

You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.

The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.

Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.

“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”

You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.

Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.

“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”

You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.

He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”

You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.

“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”

You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”

You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.

“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”

You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.

He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”

Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”

He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.

“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”

You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.

“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”

Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”

You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.

“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.

“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”

You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”

You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.

“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”

That breaks you.

You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.

“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”

You whimper, still trembling.

He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

You nod, dizzy.

He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.

“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”

You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.

“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”

And then, through gritted teeth:

“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”

Your legs tremble again.

“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.

The silence after is sharp. Breathless.

Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.

Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.

Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”

You don’t.

You just stare back.

And then you hang up.

You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.

It takes less than a minute for him to call back.

Then again.

And again.

You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.

You don’t answer.

The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.

[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up. [Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.

You don’t respond to those either.

You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.

The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.

You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.

You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.

[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.

[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.

[You]: when’s your flight again?

You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.

How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him.

How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.

You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.

You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.

But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.

And it’s giving you vertigo.

[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Not because of what it says.

But because of what it doesn’t.

And what you don’t know is this:

Hyunjin’s lying.

His flight lands at 3:10.

He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.

He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.

And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.

You open the door and nearly collide with him.

You freeze.

The air catches.

Time does something strange.

Hyunjin’s just… there.

Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“Hyun—?”

Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at you.

And says, low, quiet, steady:

“You were really gonna leave.”

You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”

“I lied.”

You swallow. “I figured that part out.”

His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.

Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.

All of him is focused on you.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.

Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”

You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.

For him.

“Hyun—”

“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”

His voice breaks.

He swallows it down.

Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.

“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.

“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.

Not this time.

“Go get the note.”

His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.

You blink. “What?”

“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”

You freeze.

“I know you haven’t opened it.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”

You hesitate.

“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.

You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.

You open it, and—

It’s not a letter.

Not really.

It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.

You glance up. He nods again.

“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”

You hesitate. Then you read.

“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”

You swallow hard. Keep going.

The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.

Your voice wavers.

“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”

Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”

Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric.

He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.

“I lied,” Hyunjin says, voice low, rough. “The sitter didn’t cancel.”

You blink. “What?”

“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”

His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.

“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.

“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”

Your breath falters.

“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”

He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.

“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“And I love you now.”

You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.

All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.

Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.

Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.

You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.

You don’t care.

His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.

Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe.

He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.

He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.

Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.

“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”

Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.

His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.

You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.

And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.

Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.

He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.

The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.

When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.

You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.

Hyunjin goes still.

Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.

You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.

“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”

You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”

You nod, gasping. “Okay.”

But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.

“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.

Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”

You clench again, on purpose this time.

He snaps.

In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.

Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.

“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”

He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.

You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.

“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”

You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.

He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.

You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.

Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”

contine this: His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”

He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.

“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”

You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—

A tear slips down your cheek.

Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”

He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:

“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”

You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.

Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.

“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.

“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”

That last word shreds him.

He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.

A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.

He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.

The kind of silence that feels like safety.

His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.

The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.

He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—

He kisses you.

Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.

Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.

And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.

The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.

It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.

You weren’t supposed to come.

He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”

But now you’re here.

Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.

Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.

Then he glances up.

And freezes.

You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.

A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.

He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.

And then he’s moving.

Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”

He kisses you.

Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

You giggle against his mouth.

It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”

He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”

You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.

And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.

His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.

Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”

You nod.

You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.

You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.

You only watch him.

And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.

You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.

The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.

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dark-night-hero · 2 days ago

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Imagine being Rafayel's non-mc significant other.

Imagine being his fiancé, one he was long destined to be with. The one he may have not chosen for himself but grew to accept and loved as time passed by. The two of you were perfect for each other even thought it did not started with love. The two of you have found peace and contentment with each other.

Imagine for years, you had believed that his silence was strength, his distance a habit, and lastly, his loyalty was none other than yours. Rafayel have always been some kind of distant to other people that does not capture his interest. Sassy to those whom he find troublesome and annoying. To yours, he was soft, he treated you with care and gentleness. But lately, something has changed.

Imagine trying to find Rafayel within the island, strange shape seashell all nested in your arms as you try to show it to him. It looks like he was need of a inspiration so you took the chance to give him the things that he often looked for, something you often saw him do as you trail behind him, letting him to all the work as he please. He looked down these past few days, often catching a glimpse of him staring at nothing. "No no no, not that one, this." "You really have a strange taste, Rafayel." He was with his bodyguard, MC.

Imagine you never really find it weird that he was in need of a bodyguard, after all the recent event, it does seemed valid that he needed someone to look after him in a more safely way. But then again, something was changing. "Shall I accompany you-?" "No, there is no need for you to be there. Ms. Bodyguard would be there with me." There was something, "Will you be visiting this week?" "Hmm, this week? I have a meeting with a client." "Will Thomas be with you?" "No, but Miss Bodyguard would be there with me." Something was changing. "Have you eaten yet? I have cook-" "Miss Bodyguard and I have already eaten out on our way home- is that my favorite?" "Well... yes, but it's alright, I'll just take it home with me." No, something had changed.

Imagine the way you notice things had changed. The way he laughs more with her, the way he relaxes in her presence, the way he reaches out to her without thinking. He never does that with you. You never thought in the first place he was capable of laughing like that. Nor could he let his guard down like that. And the way... The way he looks at her, he never looks at you like that. He never looks at you with such fondness, with such adoration, with such...

Imagine the way you tried to deny it. But the truth is, deep down. The moment you saw the two of them together you had already begin to piece it together. The quiet observation from afar, half finished sentences and moments you were never meant to witness. In the first play they aren't even trying to hide it, or maybe, they aren't even aware of what was going on between the two of them as if it was natural.

"Are you sure you don't want to see him before you go?" "Would that change anything?" There was nothing but silence. "I thought so.." You replied to yourself and look around the island for the last time. This house no longer feels like home. "You cannot heal in the same place you got sick." You added, looking into your friend. "Please don't look at me like that, I know what I'm doing." You smile sadly at her. "Then, shall we go?"

Imagine, once upon a time, you always thought you have found the right prince for your fairytale. Turns out you were trying to hold on to a love that was never truly yours to begin with. Because if it was yours to begin with, why does it felt like you meant nothing to him? After all this time? You were no longer the one his heart answers to... and maybe never was. In the end, you left. You left because sometimes, the right way to love is to leave.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: I wrote this on my notes while doing my research paper. Ngl, i don't think I'll be making a part two for any of the non mc imagines but we'll see.

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forresttfirre · 2 days ago

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— the “informant” (jason todd x reader)

Summary: You mark up one of Jason's case files, and it slips both of your minds the next day. So, when Jason brings the file with him to the cave, everyone quickly catches on to the fact that Jason is working with someone. He's able to pass it off as just an informant, but one sibling stumbles upon the truth. Word count: 1.1k

Jason lands as quietly as possible on the fire escape attached to his apartment — top floor corner, adjacent to an alley with almost zero lighting and a building with no windows. Great for a vigilante at least.

He crouches down by the window, pressing a disguised button to disable the alarm attached. After the soft popping sound, he pushes up the window and steps through into his apartment. His boots land on scuffed hardwood with a thud and he quickly shuts the window, turning the alarm back on while doing so.

The apartment is silent besides the soft rush of air coming from the air conditioner. As he moves into his kitchen, he hears a mug be placed on the counter gently, then the scratch of a pen against paper. A small fond smile forms on his face, hidden by his helmet, which he takes off as he passes through the archway.

You're sitting at the counter, a cup of tea to your right and a file in front of you. "You snoopin' through my stuff now?" He teases. You pick up your head the slightest, and he can make your sheepish smile. "You seemed a little stumped, thought I could offer my expertise." Jason is reminded of the past you once held, following your "mentor" around the world as they battled assassins and the like. You had a similar life to him, but you left your cape behind for a new start in Gotham of all places. He got lucky meeting you.

Jason watches as you twirl a glittery, purple gel pen in between your fingers. He silently removes the rest of his getup as you return to making small notes in the margins of the case profile. Being with you is easy, because sometimes his presence in the room is enough. No words have to be exchanged even as time passes.

He peels off his mask and washes away the 'glue' on his face. Jason can feel your eyes on him, watching as he shrugs off his leather jacket, then his gloves. "You joining me?" He asks when he turns around, tipping his head toward the hallway that leads to the bathroom. Sometimes, when he arrives home and you're awake, you'll join him in the shower. It's never anything sexual, but relaxing nonetheless; with your hands gentle as you run the soap through his hair, and your soft words. "Mmm...sure. I'm about done, anyway." You slip off the stool silently, closing the file before stretching your arms above your head.

A moment later, Jason is in front of you, placing a kiss on your temple, your cheek. "I think they might be selling to Scarecrow, some of the chemicals are similar to what he's been using lately." Jason groans at your statement and his head falls to lean against your shoulder. "Not now, I do not need more motivation to go back out there."

"Later, then."

Later never comes; Jason picks up a shift at the auto shop near the edge of Park Row, and you go into work as you usually do. He completely forgets about your 'annotations', so he brings the file with him when he visits the cave later that night.

"Since when do you own a glitter pen?" Tim teases from his spot by the computer, Jason's file open in front of him. "What— Gimme it." Jason springs forward, memories from the previous night coming back to him. Tim quickly grabs the papers, holding them in the air and leaving the manila file folder on the desk.

"What's going on?" Steph questions, eyes narrowed as Tim stands on his chair to get a height advantage over Jason. "Todd uses a glitter pen." Damian rolls his eyes before going back to sparring against a hologram.

"It's purple," Tim grins and laughs as Steph gasps dramatically. "You do like purple! I knew it!"

"I do not! Give me the file, replacement. I'm serious." Jason wraps his arm around Tim, pulling off the chair and into his arms. Tim squirms, then falls to the floor with the papers still in his hands. He scrambles up quickly, and extends his staff. "This isn't your handwriting...you're working with someone!" Tim exclaims, poking Jason away from him as he quickly reads through the top paper.

"Jason, we should talk before you let anyone else read our case files," Bruce comments as he easily grabs the papers from Tim's hands. "I'm not working with anyone," Jason grumbles, rolling his eyes behind his mask. However, his cheeks are red hot, thankfully hidden by his helmet.

Dick peers over Bruce's shoulder, reading as well. "Tim's right though, this isn't your handwriting," He grins brightly, walking over to Jason with a giddy smile. "Did you make a new friend, Little Wing?" Jason can hear Steph and Tim laugh in the background as he groans.

"It's— They're just an informant, I did background checks and I've known them for a bit. I trust them." Everyone goes quiet for a bit, staring at him like it's hard to believe that he'd let anyone else get that close. "That's good," Dick comments, and everyone murmurs their agreements. It's awkward, because they still step around like he'll snap at them any second.

"I'm leaving." He stomps over to his bike, the engine roaring loudly as he starts it up. There's eyes on his back until he's out of the cave.

After Bruce and Tim read through the papers annotated by Jason's informant, Cass grabs them. Tim had taken pictures to try and analyze the handwriting, and she could see Bruce's silent questions about who the informant could be. Whoever Jason gave the file had insight even Tim missed the first time, and they added funny little comments on the side. When she goes to put the papers back in the file folder, she finds a sticky note on the inside in the same glittery purple pen. You're welcome Jay; I <3 U :).

Cass smiles softly, taking out the sticky note carefully and putting the papers back. When she goes out, she starts in Crime Alley first, even if it's Jason's territory. He finds her quickly.

"What're you doing here, Bat?" Jason asks, arms crossed over his chest. Cass opens one of the pockets on her belt, and pulls out the sticky note. She unfolds it before handing it to Jason. He reads it, then quickly looks at Cass again. "You didn't show anyone, did you?"

She shakes her head and Jason sighs in relief. "Thanks." Cass nods before leaving the rooftop just as fast as she came.

Jason folds the note back up with a smile. He'll have to delete some of his mask footage tonight.

my first time writing for jason, i hope you enjoy ☺️

#ff: jason todd/red hood #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd imagine #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #red hood imagine #jason todd fluff #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fic #jason todd one shot #red hood fluff #red hood fanfiction #red hood fic #red hood one shot

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anglbunny · 2 days ago

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NOT FOR FREE

♡. plug!nagi, college au, smut mdni, blowjob

Maybe you were failing, or maybe you just couldn’t bring yourself to come to this fuckass class. You weren’t even sure why you decided to major in this, but now here you are, staring at all the missing assignments, pulling at your hair. Everything’s due next Monday, plus a final project worth over 30 percent of your grade due on Tuesday. It’s Saturday right now. So basically, you’re fucked.

You called your friend who’s also in the same class. She picked up on the second ring. “Hey babe, what’s up?” you could hear the smile in her voice.

“Can… do you have notes?”

“For what?”

“Everything.” You rubbed your temple.

“Ouhh… it’s that bad, huh? Well, I have this guy who can hook you up. Nagi Seishiro. I’m assuming you’ve heard of him?”

“THE CAMPUS PLUG?? I’m asking for notes, not fucking drugs,” you scoffed. The audacity of her hooking you up with a dealer.

“No, no, not for that. His notes are pretty good… well, they’re not really his — he pays people, but he’s topping the class right now.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and agreed.

You never expected to end up on your knees for some game-obsessed burnout in sweats — but here you are.

Desperate times.

That’s how you ended up in his dorm, dimly lit, the faint smell of smoke lingering in the air. He didn’t even pause his game when you came in — just nodded toward his bed and said, “Make it quick.”

You really thought he’d give you the notes for free, but in this economy, you can’t even get water for free, let alone notes.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, legs spread, leaning back on his palms. He didn’t say anything, just watched you with red-rimmed eyes.

“Na—”

“Hey, speed it up, I have a game to finish.” Okay, wow, attitude. His eyes dropped to your lips, then lower, to where your hands were already working the waistband of his sweats. When you pulled him out, your mouth went dry.

He was huge. Thick, heavy, flushed deep at the tip — way bigger than you expected. Your fingers barely fit around him, and he wasn’t even fully hard yet.

“Shit,” you breathed. “Nagi—”

“Yeah?” He looked down at you, tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip. “Too much?”

You shook your head, hand stroking slowly as you leaned forward, lips brushing the head. He groaned, low and raw, thighs tensing beneath your hands. He was a lot more vocal than you expected.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, keeping your eyes away from his. He looked too intimidating.

You swirled your tongue around the tip, and he cursed. One hand went to the back of your head, not pushing — just holding, fingers curling in your hair.

“Shit,” he murmured, hips twitching as you took him deeper. He gently pushed your head down, making his tip hit the back of your throat. You gagged, your throat constricting around him. He moaned louder than necessary. Heat pooled between your legs.

When you glanced up at him, tears in your eyes, lips stretched, hands trembling slightly from effort — Nagi exhaled like he was high off you.

“I can give you more than my notes… If— fuck— if you want,” he groaned, yanking your head back by your hair and cumming all over your face. You gasped as thick white liquid splattered over your lips, cheeks, and eyes.

“Sorry, didn’t know if you were okay with me coming down your throat.”

TL: @samm1e13 @demiitria @syleepy @chaoslibra @bontenxo @pinkymangacaps @riinniies @samthesimp1 @sapphireluv @s4turnx1 @nevvynev @cookiesandcreammy @rinniebinniebay @ravenbc @kamelika @luvsymai @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @silverwings920 @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @yanderebluelockfan @valexqpt @bigclownshoes @rinniewinnie787 @satorella @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @mihyas-dieehefrau @ravenbc @greekyoghurtwithberries

A/n: haven't written for my bae, snow leopard, so i had to write sum for her

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

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heartyluv · 9 hours ago

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note: i’m just sharing this thought, but still—!!MDNI!!

nobody come in here arguing about this because it’s canon and i don’t care what anyone says…

caleb ABSOLUTELY loves bigger women.

have you seen how big that man is..? he needs a girl who can TAKE HIM!!!

he knows how to cook too, so he always makes sure you’re fed and don’t play none of that “i’m gonna get bigger, caleb. i need to ease up on my eating.”

girl he’s going to fuck you upside down, left, right, on your side, back—in the sky if he could—and he’s holding you up with nothing but pure strength while he does it. one way or another, he’s gonna make sure he gets it through your pretty little head that you are EXACTLY what he wants.

you’re concerned he can’t lift you? not only will he prove that he can time and time again, but he’ll just continue to ensure he stays consistent in the gym so that he’s always strong enough. he can never have you stressing about something he loves way too much.

the way your stomach sits right over the waist band of your panties? GOOD GOD, IT GETS HIM HARD EVERY TIME!!!

one of his favorite things is backless dresses on you. he becomes equivalent to a caveman LOLLL!! a clear unobscured view of your plush body? LET YOU WEAR IT IN PUBLIC?!? you’re walking around with his cum in your panties for the rest of the day.

he adores your pussy because she’s just so plump and perfect. his favorite pastime is cupping you in his hand when you guys are just chilling or something. sometimes he’ll even press kisses to it—which ends up with your panties pulled to the side, his nose buried deep in between your lips, and his tongue in your hole. (and yes, his spit and your slick is EVERYWHERE!!! HE IS A MESSY EATER!!!)

your tits are his personal pillow. he hates when you wear bras, btw. he’s not able to hold your boobs in his hands properly when you do.

his strong hands and arms are always around and on your stomach. LOVESSSS to get a hold of you. he wants to bite you so baddd LOLLL!! it’s his love aggression, he can’t help it.

he doesn’t compare you to any goddess because you’re HIS deity. the only one that matters to him, in fact. baby, than man adores you. he wants you naked everywhere, all the time, 25/8.

he’s too hard of a man to not have his other half be his soft side. MHMM MHMMMMM!!!!

(i have so much more i could say, but then i’d just be yappin)

tags 🏷️: @innergardentoadpony @teacupwaifu @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @inutrasha94 @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deespace smut #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb smut #caleb x chubby reader #love and deepspace x chubby reader

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oscopastry101 · 2 days ago

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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗TROPHY

lando norris x actor!male reader

synopsis: little lando norris is in love and has fully soft launched. too bad the internet doesn't believe he's in a relationship

smau, fluff, honestly no clue what else!

warnings: pinterest guys as fc.. was going to do more andrew garfield but forgot as soon as i started, lando kinda being shit on tbh

REQUESTED!!! request is here

author's note: uhmmm yay, idk if i did the request totally right but i have major headache! soz guys, and i would've done football player reader if i knew shit about it but i dont so!

1hr lando posted a story ! 10m oscarpiastri posted a story !

[caption: hehe yum] [caption: lando was the one who invited me btw]

user1 replied: now hold on! thats yn ln.

carlossainz55 replied: i'm surprised people believe this one ↳ lando replied: me too, i think ive posted enough they finally believe it! ↳ carlossainz55 replied: i doubt it, amigo

user2 replied: that hoodie has been in landos vlogs before?

charles_leclerc replied: HES ACTUALLY WITH YOU?

user3 replied: everytime u post one of these i just assume u pretending to have a man 😭

user4 commented: WHY IS IT ALWAYS A HOODIE?? WE NEED FACE PROOF LANDO

user5 replied: he invited you and hes asleep first?? 😭

georgerussell63 replied: holy, is he actually dating him

user6 replied: IS THAT NOT YN LN??? LANDO WAS TELLING THE TRUTH?????

user7 commented: this guy could always be oscars cousin

user8 commented: lando could have a whole husband and u guys still wouldn't believe him 😭

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55 and 492,145 others lando.jpg long night before he goes ;(

user9: oh we're making men up again and using pinterest pictures huh

user10: u got separation anxiety from an imaginary bf??

user11: he's real guys that arm IS yn lns??? LIKE SPIDERMAN?

oscarpaistri: this is my roman empire 😂 ❤︎ by author

comments are limited

3m lando posted a story!

[caption: he bought ice cream :(]

user12 commented: do you guys actually believe oscar would do ts with him??

user13 replied: LANDO WHOOOOOOOOO

oscarpiastri replied: mcdonalds ice cream is goated, good choice ↳ lando replied: thank you mate, i agree, so does yn

carlossainz55 replied: why is he driving? ↳ lando replied: he likes driving, always makes me be passenger

georgerussell63 replied: wow so he actually is ln 😲 ↳ georgerussell63 replied: happy for you mate

user14 commented: i still don't believe it

user3: STOP PLAYING W US.

user8: IS THAT THE BF???

justaninchident: ik they were giggling under there

smoothoperator: this is a good angle hahah

user15: TELL ME THAT IS NOT YN LN. ↳ user11: I BEEN SAYING?? ↳ user16: and so has lando, maybe we have to stop thinking everything lando says is fake...

8m oscarpiastri posted a story ! 3m oscarpiastri posted a story!

[caption: they did it again :(] [caption: uhm you didnt see that]

user17 replied: WAS THAT THE BF

user18 replied: WE SAW THAT OSCAR U HARDLAUNCHED THEM!!

user11 commented: OHHH THATS YN LN WHO TOLD U SO!!! ↳ user20 replied: u did... ↳ user11 replied: EXACTLY! never doubt me, i told u ↳ user21 replied: but lando also told us?? like ages ago, nobody believed him because its YN LN? ↳ user11 replied: details

user1 replied: are we in the wrong..

user22 commented: its yn ln, i went back and matched the ears!! ↳ user1 replied: pardon..? ↳ lando.jpg replied: oh...😥

charles_leclerc replied: i thought we were SOFT launching? ↳ oscarpiastri replied: i panicked okay? ↳ charles_leclerc replied: YOU panicked??

user6: this is so insane

user23: lando norris and a spiderman varient.. is this even real.?

user24: i like how lando said this all the time in the beginning and nobody believed him but now yall do??

smoothoperator:🤦🏻

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။ lover - live from paris taylor swift

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 1m others

ynlnofficial✓ you guys always need so much proof.. 😓

tagged: lando

lando: and even now i bet they won't believe me ❤︎ by author

carlossainz55: tell them your favorite color next lando ↳ lando: it's actually brown lol ↳ oscarpiastri: NO ITS BLUE ↳ ynlnofficial: its both, depending on the day

user4: ARE YOU GUYS.. RESPONDING TOGETHER?

user25: THE HOLD, THE HANDS, IM SICK. VOMITING, DYING.

user9: it's all real.. 😲

maxverstappen1: i've been knowing but cute ig. ❤︎ by author

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။ till forever falls apart ashe, FINNEAS

liked by ynlnofficial, lando and 921,322 others

oscarpiastri sorry guys! at least i can post all this now

tagged: ynlnofficial, lando

ynlnofficial: oh this is cute :( ur forgiven ❤︎ by author ↳ lando: UHM NUH UH ↳ oscarpiastri: papa y papa? ❤︎ by ynlnofficial ↳ lando: uh no but funny

lando: yn is right this is adorbs osco ❤︎ by author ↳ oscarpiastri: i am sorry but about time

georgerussell63: best trio ig. ❤︎ by author, ynlnofficial and lando ↳ oscarpiastri: thank you george 😂

BONUS 1!!

MCLAREN BOYS QNA (FT. surprise guest!!)

Q: who is the better driver? oscar: me. lando: absolutely not! oscar: statistically lando: only barely for this year! lando: besides i win vibes wise, always yn (in background): he got lost on a track once oscar: SEE lando: WHY IS HE HERE?

Q: who takes longer to get ready? oscar: lando lando: me, but only because im in love and want to look nice oscar: oh my god. yn(in background): thats kinda cute oscar: i hate this

Q: are you guys roomates?? oscar: no. lando: basically, he sleeps over all the time yn: he invites himself over, actually oscar: because you guys forget to feed yourselves and im SCARED youll die? lando: thats love oscar: how are you a driver

Q: who's the messiest roommate? oscar: lando lando: me yn: him lando: OSCAR YOU'RE NOT EVEN MY ROOMATE? oscar: and yet we agree

Q: icks? oscar: probably people who swallow their water super loud lando: people who don't like oat milk yn: you've actually called it "nut water". oscar: he did. i have it on video

Q: is yn dating lando or both of you oscar: i WISH it was both lando: hey! oscar: shut up yn: im legally obligated to say lando. emotionally, its complicated??

Q: do you all sleep in the same bed? oscar: not by choice yn: he tucks himself in like a victorian child and sleeps against the wall lando: hes warm though :( oscar: IM LEAVING

BONUS 2!!

groupchat: nut water lovers😽

1:16 am lando: i miss him he's only been gone 3 days this is hell

oscar: what the hell its 1am and he's literally filming, not dead and you facetimed like twice yesterday

lando: HE LOOKED SO HANDSOME im spiraling

oscar: he said "be back on monday" and you said "ok" and now you're laying on the floor and listening to taylor swift

lando: how do you know that...

oscar: i can hear it through the walls, mate

5:34am yn: hello. hi. im alive

lando: DO YOU MISS ME?😭😭😭😭

yn: i miss you like a fork misses soup

5:41am oscar: that's beautiful write that in the vows

lando: what are you doing :(

5:46am yn: filming a stunt they said "do not text while hooked up" so naturally, i texted you guys!

oscar: I SWEAR TO GOD

yn: also one of the stunt guys said i "looked familiar" so i think he knows we're dating or he just watches a lot of f1 either way i panicked and said im oscar

oscar: IM SORRY YOU WHAT 😕😕

lando: NO THATS SO FUNNY you're gunna ruin his PR rep 😭 👎by oscar

yn: anyways im safe and good they're feeding me snacks and letting me nap lots im basically a dog

oscar: you've always been one

lando: pls take a picture, i miss your stupid little face

yn: stupid and little?? do i look like a lego man to you??

lando: a really hot lego man🙂

oscar: okay im gone. this relationship is giving me a headache 👎by lando and yn

lando: hey wait oscar

oscar: what

lando: if yn was a lego man would you build him a house

oscar: im going to bed

yn: he didn't say no! ❤︎ by oscar

lando: HAHA I WIN 👎by oscar

authors note!! that's a wrap! second time around i think i like it more, idk if i really displayed trophy husband well but i still think its cute guys, and dont mind the random oscar addon in the end, in my heart they're roomates.. or worse! thanks for sticking around :)

to everyone who will like, comment, or just read quietly: thank you!!

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thirteenheavens · 13 hours ago

Note

how about scoups fucking reader with a dildo/vibrator? thank you :3

What’s this thing? || Choi Seungcheol

Word count:1.2k

Notes: thank you for the request anon hope you enjoy <3

Seungcheol was helping you clean your room when he stumbled upon something unexpected - a long, pink dildo hidden under a pile of clothes. He holds it up, his eyes widening in surprise. "What's this, baby?" he asks, a smirk playing on his lips. "You've been hiding this from me?"

You feel your cheeks flush as you try to snatch it from him, but he holds it out of reach. "Come on, don't be shy," he teases. "I'm not mad, I'm just... intrigued." He turns the dildo over in his hands, inspecting it closely. "How big is this thing?" he asks, his voice low and husky. "Did you ever use it on yourself while thinking of me?"

"Maybe I did," you admit, biting your lip as you watch him examine the toy. "And maybe I thought about you watching me use it." Seungcheol's eyes darken with desire at your confession. "Is that so?" he says, taking a step closer to you. "Well, now I'm even more curious."

He grabs your waist and pulls you against him, the dildo still in his hand. "Why don't we put this to good use?" he suggests, his breath hot against your ear. "I want to see how you look getting fucked by it while I watch." You brush off his suggestion, pretending to be busy with the cleaning, but Seungcheol isn't deterred. He follows you around the room, the dildo still in his hand.

"Come on, baby," he coaxes, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Don't act like you don't want to. I know you're curious." He sets the dildo down on your bed and walks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Let me take care of you," he murmurs, his hands sliding down to your hips. "I'll make you feel so good, I promise."

"Seungcheol..." you say hesitantly, leaning back against his chest. "I don't know..." He turns you around to face him, cupping your face in his hands. "Trust me," he says, his eyes filled with desire and tenderness. "I want to see you come undone, completely lost in pleasure." He kisses you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth as his hands roam over your body. "Let me take control," he whispers against your lips. "Just this once."

"Okay," you finally agree, your voice barely above a whisper. "But you have to promise to be gentle." Seungcheol smiles and kisses your forehead. "I'll be gentle," he promises, leading you to the bed. "At first." He gently pushes you down onto the bed, crawling on top of you and capturing your lips in another kiss. His hands roam over your body, teasing and caressing as he prepares to give you an experience you'll never forget."

Seungcheol takes his time, slowly pulling your pants to the side to reveal your bare skin. He runs his fingers along the edge of your underwear, his touch light and teasing.

"You're so wet already," he murmurs, his eyes darkening with lust. "And I've barely even touched you." He kisses down your neck, his lips trailing over your collarbone as his fingers continue to tease you through the fabric. "I'm going to make you feel so good," he promises, his voice rough with desire.

Seungcheol grabs the dildo and slowly slides it up and down your wet folds, coating it in your arousal. "Look how much you're dripping for it," he says, his eyes fixed on your pussy. He circles the tip of the dildo around your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm. "Are you ready for this?" he asks, his voice low and commanding.

"Yes," you gasp, your hips bucking up towards the dildo. "Please, Cheol, I need it." He pushes the dildo inside you slowly, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. "Good girl," he praises, his free hand rubbing soothing circles on your thigh. "You're taking it so well."

"More," you moan, arching your back as the dildo fills you completely. "I want more, Cheol." Seungcheol smirks and begins to move the dildo in and out of you, his pace increasing with each thrust. "You're such a greedy little thing," he says, his eyes locked on your face. "But I love it." He leans down and captures your nipple in his mouth, sucking and biting gently as he continues to fuck you with the dildo. "You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs against your skin. "Completely at my mercy."

Seungcheol is completely mesmerized by the sight of you taking the dildo, his eyes never leaving your body. "Fuck, you look so perfect," he groans, his hand moving faster. He adds a second finger to your clit, rubbing it in tight circles as he continues to thrust the dildo. "I could watch you like this all day," he confesses, his voice thick with desire. "You're driving me insane."

Seungcheol's movements become more urgent and erratic, his breathing heavy as he watches you come undone. "You're so close, aren't you?" he asks, his own arousal evident in his voice. He leans down and kisses you hungrily, swallowing your moans as he pushes the dildo deeper. "Cum for me, baby," he growls against your lips. "Cum all over it like a good girl."

"Cheol, I'm gonna..." you gasp, your body trembling as your orgasm approaches. Seungcheol doesn't slow down, his fingers and the dildo working in tandem to push you over the edge. "That's it, let go," he encourages, his voice rough with need. "Cum for me, now." You cry out as your orgasm hits you, your body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you. Seungcheol watches with intense fascination, his eyes dark and hungry.

"Beautiful," he whispers, slowly removing the dildo and setting it aside. "Absolutely beautiful." As you come down from your high, you notice Seungcheol's pants are undone and he's still hard. "I already came," he admits, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. "Just from watching you." He pulls you into his arms, holding you close as he tries to calm his racing heart. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen," he confesses, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I didn't even need to touch myself."

"You're so easy to please," you tease, cuddling closer to him. Seungcheol chuckles and playfully pinches your side. "Only for you," he says, nuzzling your neck. "You're the only one who can get me that worked up."

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hcneymooners · 3 days ago

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✸ TRITWWISIYTSTICS ⤷ chapter iii. to lie on your chest for years.

read on ao3.

synopsis: here.

cw: discussions of familial death, discussion of grief, mentions of injury, paige's allergy to physical intimacy, azzi's growing affection for this strange little blonde woman.

notes: hello, my doves. i hope you enjoy this. i didn't even know people really cared about it until i received asks about an update. i would love to know anything you would like to tell me about this chapter. my inbox is always open. i love you.

azzi woke to what she thought was a fox’s scream, but it was only paige's scream ringing out next to her.

it had been three weeks now, three weeks of falling asleep in a man-made field of darkness and waking with a sliver of sun singing against her skin and igniting the blonde flame of paige’s hair. despite the time, which was nothing to laugh at, azzi found herself hesitant to shake paige awake.

she tried to think of what she might do if this were a patient, but a mysterious source of tenderness rose and compelled her instead. gently, azzi shifted so that she rolled atop paige and held her limbs down bodily so that she could not hit herself accidentally.

with one hand, azzi softly scraped tendrils of hair away from paige’s cheek so she could better cup the fat of it, her infantile history still clinging to the bone, though she was older now.

“paige,” she murmured. “paige, you’re dreaming.”

a dream implied something pleasant. paige was jerking beneath her, hands clawing into the sheets as if to hold on to something or someone. so, azzi tried again.

“paige,” she said, more firmly now. “paige, it isn’t real. paige, can you hear me?”

nothing. paige's breathing came in sharp, ragged bursts, her body rigid with terror that belonged to another time, another place. azzi felt the weight of her own helplessness settle in her chest like a body on a slab. beneath her, paige began to twist, and azzi could feel the salt streak of tears.

clumsily, she lifted herself and lilted to the side so that she could yank the curtains apart and let the weak daylight stain them both. then she fled back to where she had been lying before and resettled.

with gritted teeth, she did what she had to do.

the slap wasn't hard, just sharp enough to cut through whatever held paige captive. but paige jerked awake with such violence that her forehead cracked against azzi's, stars blooming behind both their eyes. azzi let out a perfectly wounded cry, a hollow reverberation against her throat that reminded her of grief strangled and unrevealed, and she clutched at her head with rigorous hands.

before azzi could even properly register the pain, she was on her back, pinned. paige's weight settled over her with the precision of someone trained to kill, one hand flat against azzi's sternum, the other drawn up around her throat. both points of touch trembled with restraint.

for a heartbeat, they stared at each other. paige's eyes were wild, blue, and unfocused, still half-lost in whatever nightmare had claimed her. the dawn made them seem glazed like ice over water. then recognition dawned, and the horror that replaced it was almost worse.

"drew," paige whispered, the name escaping like a prayer. then another, this time fully screamed. "lauren, no! i—"

azzi spoke before she could stop it. “paige, it’s azzi. you’re having a nightmare. can you come back to me?”

the sound of azzi’s voice seemed to topple paige out of her mind’s eye. she watched as paige’s pale face contorted with horror, her hands lifting as if she had been pressing them to fire. she scrambled off azzi as if ejected by some external force, pressing herself against the headboard with her knees drawn up to her chest.

azzi opened her mouth to ask—who are they? who is drew? who is lauren?—but the questions caught in her throat like a stone. instead, she found herself saying, "hey, i'm sorry. i didn't mean to—"

"don't." paige's voice was hoarse, scraped raw. “please.”

she rolled off the bed and sat at its edge, her spine curved like a question mark. her hands were shaking, and so were azzi’s when she reached out to place a hand along her back.

"just don't."

the mattress dipped as paige pushed herself up, her bare feet hitting the floor with more force than necessary. she didn't look back as she padded toward the bathroom, shoulders rigid with mortification.

azzi lay there for a moment, staring at the canopy above her. her forehead throbbed, and she prodded it, urging the pain to resurface in all of its glory so that she could be properly punished. she lingered along the arriving bruise, committing to memory the place where paige's skull had connected with hers.

she could still feel the phantom weight of paige's body pinning her down, the controlled violence in the way she'd moved. professional. practiced.

from the bathroom came the sound of running water, violent splashing.

eventually, azzi rose and sat on the edge of the bed. she leaned forward, using the momentum to push herself up. the pain followed her forward.

she made her way to the kitchen.

azzi moved through her morning ritual with more care than usual, as if precision could somehow smooth over what had just happened. she woke the house, coaxing heat through the water pipes. she realized belatedly that this meant paige had doused herself in ice-cold water.

she shook the thought off, tugging distractedly at the hem of her nightgown as she wandered into the stomach of the kitchen. from the pantry, she pulled a small jar of honey and set it beside a tin of oats she'd been rationing. it was real, woven and housed by the bodies of bees. a luxury that quickly dwindled if she didn’t exercise self-control.

she'd found wild blackberries two days ago, their skins still taut with juice, and had been saving them. now, she wondered if the bruise growing a home on her skin would be the same color. most likely not; she had such a tendency to be dramatic.

the stove flared to life under her touch. she heated milk in a small saucepan, milk traded from the commune's goats in exchange for a rash poultice, and whisked the oats in slowly. patience.

her mother would have called it an affectation, all this care for something that would be gone in minutes. but her mother wasn't here to disapprove of the cinnamon azzi ground fresh, or the way she arranged the blackberries in careful spirals atop each bowl. the thought made a deep sadness crawl up her throat, and azzi raised a hand to her hair, which she had left loose.

if things were as they used to be, her curls would’ve been corralled into a thick braid. if she closed her eyes, she could delude herself into feeling her mother’s hands.

she was ladling honey in golden ribbons when paige emerged, dressed in yesterday's clothes. her hair was damp, still dark with water, and pushed back from her face. her eyes were carefully blank.

"i have visits today," azzi said without preamble, not looking up from the white mass of her work. "at the commune. medical rounds."

paige nodded once, accepting the bowl azzi slid across the table toward her. azzi settled into her chair, feet curling beneath her body. paige’s eyes flickered upward and then away, shame clouding around her mouth.

"i'll be gone most of the morning." azzi sat across from her, watching as paige's spoon cut through the oats with surgical precision. "you can—"

"i want to come with you."

the words came out rushed, graceless. paige's cheeks flushed pink. it reminded azzi of a strawberry’s shadow.

azzi paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. she studied paige's face; the tight line of her jaw, the way her free hand gripped the edge of the table.

"it's not exciting work," azzi said carefully. "mostly checking on the elderly. some children with coughs."

"i don't care." paige's voice was quieter now, but no less urgent. "i can't—" she stopped, jaw working. "i don't want to stay here alone today."

the honesty of it hung between them with an odd fragility. azzi swallowed down the pool of honey and blackberries, then nodded once.

"alright."

they ate in silence after that, the only sounds the soft clink of spoons against teeth and ceramic and the distant call of morning birds. azzi watched the way paige's shoulders slowly unclenched as she ate, the way color returned to her cheeks with each bite of sweetness. she hid a smile at the way paige sucked on the spoon longer than necessary, desperate to lap up every tendril of honey draped across the metal.

when they finished, azzi disappeared into her room to change, leaving paige to clean up the memory of breakfast. she emerged wearing olive-colored scrubs, frayed at the edges and soft with age, her medical bag slung over one shoulder. it was uncomfortably bulky, but azzi had long learned how to shoulder the weight.

the transformation was subtle but complete: from the woman who tended gardens and cooked elaborate breakfasts to the healer the commune relied on.

paige was waiting by the door, fully dressed, her rifle slung across her back despite the short distance they'd be traveling.

"old habits," she said when she caught azzi's questioning look.

azzi said nothing, only tilted her head. she understood old habits. about the weight of things you carried long after you needed them.

they stepped out into the morning together, the air crisp with the promise of autumn. the path to the commune wound through stands of pine and oak, leaves just beginning to turn at their edges. azzi paused, turning her head just over her shoulder.

paige was already looking at her.

“you have to leave it outside, or hide it, when we’re with them.”

paige let out a long breath, then gave a short dip of her chin. neither spoke again.

as they walked, azzi found herself glancing sideways at paige's profile, at the way morning light caught in her hair and softened the hard lines around her eyes. she studied her jaw and thought of the names that had fallen from paige's lips like a confession.

drew. lauren.

she thought of nightmares and the weight of a body trained for violence. she thought of paige’s clear restraint, how, while she had been trapped deeply in her mind, she had still hesitated to puncture the wound that was azzi’s life.

just as an odd, buzzing warmth rose into azzi’s stomach, the commune buildings appeared through the trees ahead of them, smoke rising thin and straight from morning fires. azzi felt paige tense beside her, that soldier's alertness returning.

"it's just routine," azzi said softly. "nothing to worry about."

but even as she said it, she wondered if that was true. there was something in the air this morning, something that felt like change approaching. maybe it was just the season turning, summer giving way to fall.

maybe it was the two of them.

the first few visits went well, almost beautifully.

azzi fell into her role, her face creasing into a calm, genuine smile that never ceased despite the varying conditions of her patients. she threaded ivs into veins, big and small, and pushed small faces away to spare them the trauma of seeing their blood drawn.

eventually, it grew to be a routine. the same thing, the same questions, the same press of a hand against a back as she listened to someone else breathing. the only difference was the steady placement of paige’s gaze upon her. watching, reading, noting.

she had two left, another elderly woman and a young girl by the name of kittredge. she also happened to be azzi’s favorite.

kit was last.

she lived on the edge of the commune, closer to where the world began to warp into azzi’s isolated living. azzi always came to her at the end because it was a better way to return home. kit was fairly healthy, the only signs of her youth being mottled by the state of the world being the burn scars swimming across her nose and left cheek.

she had quickly become azzi’s favorite due to her stubbornness, her adamant attempts to hide so that she didn’t have to have a doctor’s hands touch her. azzi spent hours dizzying herself inside that house, running and ducking as she followed kit’s elusive shadow from corner to corner.

as they approached the home, azzi could hear the silent rise of paige’s curiosity. the home was bundled into a thicket of trees, the wood bright and brown and coming together to form a one-level rectangular structure. there was glass everywhere.

the house urged the average passerby to look in, to look out. the sun streamed through, the rain pelted; the world never hid its injuries and changing ways. it was an open home, an odd welcoming of sensory overstimulation in a frail and failing world.

it was good for a child. it bestowed a sense of wonder, of everything being fantastical and larger than life. azzi even felt its effect despite her adulthood.

as they stepped on the path, azzi slowed and turned to paige.

“leave it here,” she said, eyes locked onto the rifle, and her tone left no room for negotiation.

paige eyed her, body straightening in opposition. there was a tense moment where azzi thought paige would disagree and decide to stay there, but she was pleasantly surprised by the ease with which paige laid her weapon on the ground.

“come,” azzi said, surprising herself by extending an outstretched hand.

another moment, another pause. paige took it. azzi’s eyes fluttered at the delicacy with which paige dragged their palms together. she tightened her hold, interlacing their fingers, and resumed her pilgrimage to kit’s house.

once she got to the front door, she slipped off her shoes and urged paige to do the same. absentmindedly, she handed paige the full weight of her back and then pushed the glass door with the tips of her fingers so that it swung in on itself.

“hello?” she called out. “is anyone home? it’s azzi.”

the house echoed her voice back to her, and azzi stepped further inside.

“mina? kit?”

again, only a firm hush. azzi stilled, angling her body so that she could see through the foyer straight down the hall. she gave it a few minutes and then saw a shadow flit across the wooden slats of the wall. there.

azzi moved toward the shadow with the practiced stealth of someone who had learned to make this into a game. behind her, she could hear paige's careful footsteps, lighter than air against the wooden floor.

"kit," azzi called in a sing-song voice, "i brought someone to meet you today."

a thump echoed from somewhere deeper in the house, followed by the soft patter of bare feet. azzi smiled despite herself, following the sound through the sun-drenched hallway. the house was a kaleidoscope of light and shadow, every surface touched by the golden afternoon streaming through the glass walls.

she found kit in what had once been a living room, now transformed into a wonderland of blankets and books, scattered toys, and drawings taped to every available surface. the child was crouched behind an overturned armchair, only the crown of her curls visible.

"i can see you," azzi said gently, setting her medical bag down with deliberate slowness.

kit's head popped up, dark eyes wary and assessing. she was small for her age, maybe seven or eight, with muted brown skin that swallowed the light like sand. freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like half-drawn constellations, and her hair formed a perfect halo of tight curls around her face. there was something guarded in her expression, something that spoke of too much understanding for such a young face.

"you're late," kit said, her tone flat.

"i know. i'm sorry." azzi knelt, making herself smaller, less threatening. "where’s your mom?”

“went to the kitchens.”

azzi hummed. i brought someone with me today. this is paige."

kit's gaze shifted to where paige stood in the doorway, studying her with the careful attention children learned when survival depended on reading adults correctly. she said nothing, just watched, her small body tense and ready to bolt.

paige tracked her eyes over her, coming to a quick understanding about why azzi had requested that she leave the rifle so far away from this illuminated fortress. her light blue irises scanned the puckered scar just beneath kit’s elbow.

bullet wound.

paige’s stomach rolled.

the negotiations began wordlessly. kit retreated further behind the chair when azzi approached with her medical bag. azzi sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting, letting kit set the pace. eventually, curiosity won over wariness, and kit crept closer, drawn by something in azzi's bag—a small kaleidoscope azzi kept for exactly this purpose.

azzi kept her breathing measured, slow, and unassuming, and after a few moments more, kit crawled closer until she was coiled into azzi’s lap with her head bent against her chest. azzi stroked her back, thumbing against the cornucopia of her ribs before she rose gently to her feet.

the examination was conducted mostly in silence, kit's small body rigid with tension against the makeshift medical table (the dining room table covered by a thin, pink sheet) even as she submitted to azzi's gentle hands. azzi worked carefully, checking kit's pulse, her breathing, and the healing of the burn scars that would never fully fade. she'd learned to read kit's moods in the set of her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes.

quiet was paramount for both of them during these sessions, the key to the ease with which the check-ups could be conducted. though no one interrupted the silence, kit had been stealing glances at paige throughout the examination, her dark eyes full of questions she couldn't articulate. finally, as azzi finished checking her reflexes, kit spoke.

"why does she keep staring at me?" she asked quietly, not looking at either of them.

azzi's hands stilled. she followed kit's gaze to where paige stood frozen in the doorway, her face a mask of barely controlled emotion. the recognition in paige's eyes was so raw, so devastating, that azzi felt her own breath catch.

kit shifted uncomfortably under that stare. "she looks scared," she whispered.

that was when azzi truly saw it, the realization of resemblance that had struck paige like a physical blow. she was seeing someone else in those wide, dark eyes, in the halo of curls catching the light. paige was entrapped by a ghost made flesh in a strange child's face.

she had gone completely white, her face drained of all color except for two bright spots of red high on her cheeks. she was staring at kit with an expression of such raw, devastating anguish that azzi felt her heart stutter.

"i have to—" paige's voice cracked. she backed toward the door, one hand reaching blindly for the frame. "i need some air."

she was gone before azzi could respond, the door swinging shut behind her with a whisper. through the transparent walls, azzi could see her stumbling toward where she'd left her rifle, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.

"did i do something wrong?" kit asked in a small voice.

azzi turned back to her patient, forcing her voice to remain steady. "no, sweetheart. you didn't do anything wrong." she pressed her stethoscope to kit's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of a young heart. "sometimes adults get sad about things that aren't anyone's fault. it’s just the way it is."

“mommy gets really sad and quiet sometimes. is it like that?”

“yeah, baby. it’s like that.”

she finished the examination with practiced efficiency, her mind already following paige outside. kit's resemblance to someone important enough to shatter paige's careful composure was too pointed to be a coincidence, too specific to be dismissed.

when she was done, kit hugged her tight around the waist, and azzi kissed the top of her curly head, breathing in the scent of sunshine and childhood that still clung to her despite everything.

"will you bring her back?" kit asked. “to wait until my mommy comes home?”

"i don't know, sweetheart,” azzi answered honestly. "but i'll come back. i always do."

she found paige sitting on a fallen log about fifty yards from the house, her rifle across her knees but her hands empty, staring into the trees. the sun caught the tear tracks on her cheeks like silver thread, dyeing them golden and turning her into a modern saint.

azzi sat beside her without speaking, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. she waited, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"his name was drew," paige said finally, her voice rough and distant. "my little brother. he would have been—he would be nine now."

azzi said nothing, left space.

"the resemblance is fucking—" paige shook her head, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap. "she looked just like him.”

"what happened?" azzi asked gently.

paige was quiet for so long that azzi thought she wouldn't answer. when she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. still, it found azzi.

"minneapolis. three years ago. there was a bridge—the 35w—it was one of the main evacuation routes when the infighting reached the city." she paused, her breathing suddenly shallow. "someone decided it was strategic. decided that stopping refugees was worth more than saving them. wanted to prove a point.”

azzi felt her chest tighten. she knew the story, had heard fragments of it from others and the news, when it was still reputable. the bridge bombing that had killed hundreds of civilians trying to flee an urban combat zone.

"drew was with my step-mom and my dad," paige continued, staring straight ahead. "i was supposed to be with them, but i got called back to base at the last minute. some emergency that turned out to be nothing." her laugh was bitter, broken. "lauren—my sister—she went with them. said someone should be there to help with drew, make sure he doesn't get scared. the plan was to follow that evening with my other brother, ryan, and my mom.”

the names from the nightmare suddenly made terrible sense.

"the bridge went down at 3:47 pm on a tuesday," paige said, each word precise and careful, as if she'd memorized them. "two hundred and thirty-six people died. including a six-year-old boy with curls just like that little girl’s and almost all of my family.”

azzi reached for paige's hand, finding it cold despite the warmth of the morning. she pressed her thumbs into it, tried to coax the blood back into flow.

“my mom and ryan were in service with me. i was one of our country’s best shooters, so i got recruited to special operations. they were sent out to the site to see if there were any survivors, and the group that did it the first time? well, they did it again.”

azzi’s body shuddered with the realization, the horror. she gave up on improving paige’s circulation and just held her hand instead.

“paige—”

"i dream about it," paige whispered. "every night. every fucking night. i dream that i can save them, that i'm fast enough or smart enough or just there. but i never am."

her voice cleaved straight in two, and azzi couldn’t take it anymore. she dragged an arm up and pulled paige down, arranging her so that she was hidden from her reality in the crook of azzi’s neck. they sat in silence for a while, bodies linked and twisted, watching the light shift and drill through the leaves above them. finally, azzi spoke.

"i can’t begin to imagine how you feel," she said quietly. "but i do know something about being the one who should have been there and wasn't."

paige said nothing, only blinked and pressed harder into the jut of azzi’s collarbone.

"my family had oil interests," azzi continued, her voice steady despite the hard pulse in her chest. "refineries. before the collapse, we were what you might call obscenely wealthy. hoarders, guardians of a level of wealth that makes you a target when resources become scarce and people start choosing sides."

she paused, remembering the weight of her family's name, the way it had once opened doors and later marked them for death. she hadn’t said her last name in years.

"when the war started, my parents tried to stay neutral. thought they could negotiate with both sides, keep the oil flowing to whoever could pay. they were naive." her smile was sad and small. paige closed her eyes, focused on the rumble of her voice through her chest. "i was pre-med at johns hopkins when it happened. had been fighting with them about the business, about staying out of the conflict. i'd refused to come home."

paige's hand dropped, found her stomach, and tightened its grip. she was full and warm. paige held on.

"they were flying to a neutral meeting zone. somewhere in chicago, i think. it was intended to be a safe passage, white flags; the whole diplomatic spiel." azzi's voice hardened. "they were shot down anyway. my parents, my brothers, and six other people who thought they could find a peaceful solution to an ugly war."

"azzi," paige breathed. “jesus.”

azzi thumbed at her temple. paige had the sudden thought that this was yet another occurrence where they were far more intimate than they should be.

"i was supposed to be on that plane," azzi continued. "but something in my chest felt immovable whenever they talked about the trip. so i stayed, fought, and cursed them. saved my own life by being stubborn. by being selfish."

she pulled back and looked at paige. her eyes were blown out with pain. two large, dark stars.

"my life ended. it has ended. for so long, i was kept alive by someone else.”

“the girl,” paige murmured, “in the photo.”

azzi nodded.

“inês. she was there when i walked away. never finished medical school, but learned enough along the way to be useful. liquidated what i could, donated most of it to refugee camps and medical charities, and then kept enough for the two of us to be comfortable. then, we disappeared. i disappeared. became just another displaced person with medical training, trying to do some good in a world gone mad." she gestured toward the house where kit lived, toward the commune beyond. "this is what i chose instead of my family's legacy."

there was silence. then,

"what do you do with the guilt?" paige rasped.

"it lives in my chest like a second heart," azzi admitted. "i wanted to die for so long. i think it was less about no longer living and more about wanting to be somewhere where everything i loved kept its promise to stay alive. every single day, i wonder if i could have saved them somehow, if i'd come home for christmas, if i could’ve tried harder to change their minds.

“and i can’t. even if i went back, i couldn’t. people are—people are who they are. that’s the fault line.”

her vision blurred, and she tried to breathe but found her throat had closed. carefully, paige shifted them so that they were switched. this time, azzi was the one hidden and cared for.

the afternoon had grown cooler, but neither of them moved to leave.

"kit's probably wondering where we went," azzi said eventually, pulling back and wiping her face.

"i can't," paige said, her voice devoid of any malice. "i can't look at her again."

"i understand." azzi squeezed her hand. "but maybe someday you can.”

paige nodded, though her eyes remained distant. "maybe. no promises."

azzi rose to her feet, looked down at paige. “not ones you can't keep.”

paige’s mouth twitched, and she shifted the rifle back to where she had left it before.

they walked back toward the house together, moving slowly, neither quite ready to return to a world that demanded normalcy. but kit was waiting, and the commune needed its doctor, and grief, no matter how fresh or familiar, couldn't be allowed to stop the necessary work of staying alive.

as they approached the house, azzi saw kit's face pressed against one of the windows, watching for their return. she waved, and kit waved back, her smile barren of misery and bright enough to shame the sun.

as her foot touched the porch step, azzi paused.

“you can go home. i’ll meet you there.”

“mmm,” paige said, noncommittal. “how much longer do you think you have left?”

“it’ll probably be about an hour until mina, her mother, gets back. she works in the kitchens during the week.”

paige nodded. “i’ll be back, then, to come get you. walk you home.”

azzi felt her chest expand, the pink of her lungs growing darker with a full-body blush.

“you could come inside,” she said, lowly.

paige smiled then, the curve pale but real. “you always push.”

azzi’s eyes softened.

“i have to.”

she turned back to the house.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi dystopia au.#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #dallas wings

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headdinthewall · 2 days ago

Text

TAPED TEMPERS ── g.clarke ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

summary : in which your lost-tempered ‘argument’ is caught on george’s stream, and his viewers have something to say about it a/n : next post will either be INSIDE part three or a tiktok trend post ! this is not proof read it’s also 3AM so there might be an abundance of mistakes, sorry if it’s really bad! content : established relationship ,, arguing ,, a lot of swearing on readers behalf ,, hate comments ,, a little bit of angst & comfort ,, family planning at the end

─────── YOU’D HAD A terrible day. You were late for work, though it wasn’t a big job and George was constantly reminding you that you didn’t have to work, it was nice to have your own thing to do. On top of that, it seemed to be ‘treat customer service like shit’ day, because you’d had an abundance of horrible people come up to you, when all you were trying to do was serve them coffee. The third thing that ruined your day? Some arsehole thought a good way to ‘flirt’ with you was to bump into you while you were holding a hot cup of coffee. And just to put the cherry on the cake, your bus was late, it was raining, and George was too busy filming to be able to come and pick you up.

To put it simply, you were in a very, very sour mood when you got back to the apartment.

You slammed the door shut behind you, locking it with much more force than necessary. You grumbled curses under your breath as you tried to run your hand through your hair.

Key word, tried.

A frustrated whine/cry/groan left your throat as your fingers got tangled in the wet, knotted strands of your hair.

It was quiet, and there were two pairs of shoes missing from the entry ways shoe rack, but you could hear George talking in his room, so that meant Arthur and Chris were the ones out.

As you walked towards the kitchen, you stumbled over a pair of trainers you recognised that had been carelessly strewn across the floor and you lost it.

“George, how many fucking times do I have to tell you to either keep your shoes in your room or put them on the fucking rack?!” You shouted, picking them up.

You took note of the sink full of dishes and wanted to rip the hair out of scalp and peel the skin from your bones.

“And the fucking dishes too! I did them for you last time it was your turn, but I’m not fucking doing it again! You’re 25, wash the fucking dishes!”

You practically threw his bedroom door open and slapped his trainers on the floor, an expression on your face that was nothing short of absolutely livid.

“Chat, I’m gonna have to cut this stream short, apologies—“

“Oh yeah, ‘sorry chat’ ‘sorry chat’ how about ‘sorry reader, for leaving the house a fucking mess’?!” You yelled.

He cut the stream short, “Okay, I’ll do it, I’ll do it.” He said softly, tucking his chair under his desk and making his way into the kitchen to do the dishes.

“Honestly, I’m tired of coming back to a shit tip of an apartment, George. And you’re talking about us wanting to move out and get our own house? Well not if this is how you’re treating an apartment!” You lectured him, almost like a mother would her son.

The crash out was entirely unneeded, but the stress and constant fuck-ups of the day had finally caught up to you and were just spilling over your tongue.

“Okay, well if we lived together there wouldn’t be half the mess there is here, because Arthur and Chris make half of it themselves!” George argued while washing the plates.

“I’m not talking about their mess! I’m talking about your mess! The trainers on the floor were yours, it’s your turn to wash the dishes and you’ve been procrastinating it like a fucking year 11!”

“It’s not even that deep, reader! It’s a couple of dirty dishes!”

“Yeah, exactly! A couple of dirty dishes, so why cant you fucking take five minutes to clean them?!”

George sighed, knowing to just nod at your words when you were in this state. You let out a loud huff and slumped down on the couch.

After 10 minutes, the water stopped running and the sound of ceramic clattering together stopped. There was a dip in the couch beside you and George was there, arms open with a sympathetic look on his face.

You bit your lip, tears brimming in your eyes as you just fell not-so-gracefully, sideways into his embrace, tension dissipating from your body upon contact. His arms enveloped around you and he rested his chin on top of your head.

“What happened, hm?” George asked calmly, “Why are you in a bad mood, my lovely?”

“Everything that could’ve gone wrong today, has gone wrong.” You croaked, sniffling as tears traveled down your face, rolling over the hills of your cheeks. “Everyone I served at work today was a fucking arsehole, my bus was late, it rained on the way home, some wanker bumped into me and spilt coffee all down me. God, it was fucking dreadful today.”

“Oh, my darling, I’m sorry.” He mumbled into your hair, kissing it softly. “Think about it like this, yeah? Not everything that could’ve gone wrong today has. You could’ve lost your keys, but you didn’t. A car could’ve driven in a puddle while you were going past, but it didn’t.”

You nodded, wiping your cheeks with the backs of your hands. George shifted you, lifting your head with his hands on your cheeks.

“Also, an old witch could’ve cursed you to be an ugly bastard forever, but that never happened. You’re still beautiful.” He joked, kissing you softly.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, “I shouldn’t have shouted and sworn at you like that.”

“It’s alright. I probably deserved it. Especially if we’re going to be moving in together soon, need to make sure I’m on my best behaviour.” He smirked, kissing your forehead, practically smothering you with affection, trying his absolute hardest to rid you of any negative thoughts and feelings of the days events.

“I love you.” You mumbled.

“I love you too, my darling.”

a combination of tweets & comments on youtube

user1 anyone else mildly concerned about the way reader spoke to george during last nights stream?

user2 🚩 🚩 can’t believe she spoke to him so violently

user3 i could never let my partner talk me like that, i’d just walk out on them

user4 massive ick the way reader shouted at george last night!

user5 now imagine if he had shouted at her like that… it would be a whole different story

user6 the fact that she portrays herself as a cutesy girl online but speaks to her boyfriend like that behind closed doors is just… ugh

user7 nah… her audacity. he literally pays her bills, pays for her clothes and got her half the fame she has

user8 you’d never catch me staying in a relationship like that.

─────── THE NEXT MORNING, George was setting up his phone against his monitor on his desk, ready to film a tiktok as he sat in his gaming chair.

“Um, hello everyone. I don’t normally do a video like this, so … apologies for the weird switch up, but I’ve seen a lot of comments circling on youtube and twitter about my girlfriend, and I just want to clear a few things up. One, yes, she did yell at me last night. Did I deserve it? Kind of. I— I will admit that I did commit a bit of an oopsie last night, but we’ve had our own conversation and settled things, what you saw in the stream was just … her shouting at me. You guys are acting like I was just getting an onslaught of verbal abuse, which didn’t happen. Two, please don’t involve yourselves in my relationship. I appreciate each and every one of you for your support, but … yeah. I promise that our relationship is 100% healthy, and it has been for a year now. Me and reader don’t need any sort of … advice, if you will, about how to communicate. The odd argument will happen in a relationship, but what matters is how you deal with it, which we have done.” George held two thumbs up.

“Also, please stop sending her hate. We woke up this morning and a number of you have sent her DM’s claiming that she’s a ‘horrible girlfriend’ and that she doesn’t deserve me. Again, please stay out of my relationship and my private life and just … appreciate what I do share with you and the content that I do put out. I think reader actually wants to say something …” He looked over at you off screen.

You shimmied out of bed and appeared on camera, wearing one of George’s shirts that came down to your upper thigh.

“Hi everyone! Um, leave me alone, please and thanks.” You shrugged, “No, but seriously, please stop sending me messages saying ‘apologies to George now’ ‘you shouldn’t speak to him like that’ and whatever else you guys — for some reason — think is acceptable to text me. I can assure you that me and George spoke and it’s all been dealt with. Another thing is, I’m not apologising to you guys. Why? Because I’m not dating you guys. I don’t owe you guys anything apology or a reason as to why I behaved like that, but I did owe it to George, and—“

“The owe has been made.” George interrupted, putting on a fancy voice. “El Clarko is pleased and happy.”

“Exactly, so … yeah. But thank you to those who were defending me in the comments. Love you all!” You blew a kiss to the screen.

“Yeah, sorry for the weird post, just thought this was necessary to put across because reader was getting hate and it was making us both quite upset, and I wanted to address the whole situation. Thanks guys, see you later.” George finalised before ending the video, rewatching it over and then posting it.

Once he had done that, you got back into bed with each other, legs entangled with your head on his chest and his fingers dancing along your bare thigh.

“Do you want to look at houses online today?” George muttered, using his spare hand to comb through your hair.

“Sure.” You hummed, your throat vibrating against his chest. “Two bedroom? Or one?”

“What would we need two for?”

“I dunno …” Lie. “Maybe … I dunno, just in case … y’know …”

“Just in case what?” George frowned, completely oblivious as to what you were trying to get at.

“In case we get a baby Clarkey.” You mumbled shyly.

“You want a baby Clarkey?” A smirk slowly sores across his face.

“Yeah— No— I dunno, I was just thinking … What if it happened?” You shrugged, looking up at him. “What are you smirking at?”

“Oh, nothing.” He chuckled, coming forward to kiss your forehead, “We can look at two bedroom houses if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not a free pass for you to cum in me.” You spoke quickly before he got any ideas, but you both knew you were treading lightly on the topic, quite open to the idea of kids, especially now you were both mid-20s.

“Okay, okay.” He said with a dramatic sigh.

You stared at each other, sleepy eyes looking at sleepy eyes. Eyes full of love and adoration, the idea of starting a family together being a blossoming thought in both of your minds.

#ukyt #george clarke #george clarke fanfic #george clarke fics #george clarkey #george clarkey x reader #ukyt fanfic

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popcornpoppypop · 1 day ago

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Promises, Promises Part 3

Summary: Callie's fate is revealed and Jack finds himself wrapped around his daughter's finger already.

Warnings: Blood, Childbirth, Birth Trauma, Panic Attack, talk of death

A/N: The final part! Thank you for following along! I really liked this story and it's nice to have it out in the world finally.

Mel walked into Callie’s room, the lights dimmed and monitors softly beeping. Dana was curled in her chair, running her fingers through Callie’s hair.

“Dana?” Mel’s voice was small and fragile.

“Hey, Kid.” Dana smiled, her eyes tired and red.

“Can I sit with you?”

“Yeah, course.” Dana nodded to the chair on the opposite side of Callie. Mel sat in the chair, trying to be quiet as if she could wake Callie.

“You need to get rest too.” Dana noted.

“We all do, none of us will.” Mel sighed.

“Good point.” Dana gave a sad chuckle. They sat in silence for a while. Mel’s leg bouncing as the thoughts raced through her mind.

“She’s a good person.” Mel stated.

“Yeah. She is.”

“She’s kind. She’s funny and she takes care of us. No one else takes care of us. Not to mention her patients at the vet clinic. She’s a really good person.” Mel’s voice cracked.

“Aw, Kid. Don’t go there.”

“I just…I don’t understand. She deserves to be with her baby. She wanted that baby so much. She held her for thirty-seven seconds. I counted. I had to take her baby from her.” Mel stopped trying to hide the tears.

“There is no reason. There is no way to know why good people have bad things happen to them. But she’s strong and she’s fighting right now. We have to keep fighting for her.” Dana sighed, none of her words felt comforting enough.

“I wish I could do more.”

“You can talk to her. I think she can hear us still.” Dana smiled. Mel nodded, taking a shaky breath.

“Callie, I’m going to keep fighting for you. That means you have to too.” Her lip trembled and her face scrunched in pain. “We need people like you. I need people like you. I remember when you made me take the night off and go to your house. We watched that new romcom, I can’t remember the name, and we put on face masks. We made Dr. Abbot put one on too and he hated it.” Mel gave a wet laugh. “You taught me that taking care of myself was important. You teach me so much.” The tears stung her dry lips. “I’m taking care of them. We all are. We’re looking out for Jack and Pippa. If…if you have to go, we’ll hold them for you.” Mel sobbed.

“Oh, Mel.” Dana sobbed. She got up and went to the other side of the bed, wrapping Mel up in her arms.

“She’s too important to leave.” Mel sighed as she tried to regain her composure.

“She’s not leaving.” Dana told her with conviction. They sat with Callie, feeling her breath and life bringing some comfort. They both knew that if Callie didn’t make it, it would send the whole department into a grief-stricken whirl.

The monitors suddenly picked up their rhythm, sending Mel and Dana to their feet.

“BP is getting stronger, heart rate elevating.” Dana noted.

“Get Dr. Abbot. I think she’s trying to wake up.” Dana ran faster than she ever had. She burst into bay 7, Jack and Robby turning to her with terror in their eyes.

“I think she’s waking up.” Dana was out of breath, but they both heard her.

“Perlah-” Jack started but was cut off by the nurse taking the baby from his arms and shoving him out of the room.

They ran back to the room, the monitors signaling that she was trying to come back to them.

“Stats are improving, her breaths are stronger and she’s exhibiting purposeful movement.” Mel informed them. Jack ran over to Callie’s side, his hand smoothing her hair away from her face.

“Baby, Callie, can you hear me?” Jack’s voice was breaking again. He held her hand like it was the only thing keeping him together. “Squeeze my hand, please Honey.” He begged. He paid no attention what anyone else in the room was doing, he eyes were glued to Callie. His chest felt like it broke open when he felt her hand squeeze back. “Thank you, Baby.” He kissed her forehead.

Her eyes started fluttering as she tried to gain control of her body. Her hand clamped down firmly on Jacks, desperate for something to ground her. Her eyes finally opened and she was looking at Jack and he felt like he might collapse again.

“Hey, there you are. There’s my girl.” He sobbed. The tears fell down Callie’s temples as she gasped around the intubation tube.

“Easy, Callie. We’ll take it out, just relax for a minute.” Robby said as he grabbed his gloves. Jack could see the pain in her eyes, not just physical but the emotional. She would need time to heal, they all would.

“Okay, Callie. Take a deep breath in,” Robby took hold of the tube. “ And blow out, that’s it.” He pulled the tube from her throat, Callie coughing and hacking.

“You’re okay, you’re alright.” Jack supported her neck as she took deep breaths.

“Good to see you again, Callie.” Robby smiled as he checked her over.

“Fuck…you…” Callie rasped, sending the room laughing.

“You scared the shit out of me.” Jack sighed. Callie raised her hand to hold his face.

“Scared myself.” Callie’s lip trembled. “I’m never doing that again. One and done.” She nodded.

“Oh you’ll get no fight from me.” Jack chuckled.

“We’ll give you two some time.” Robby nodded. Callie reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Thank you. I trusted you and you fought for me.” Callie smiled.

“We’ll always fight for you.” Robby nodded.

“I think there’s someone that’s been waiting to see you.” Perlah came wheeling the warming crib into the room. Jack helped move the bed upright for Callie. “You tell us if you need anything.” She smiled and ushered everyone out of the room.

Jack picked the baby up and brought her over to Callie, placing them on her chest.

“She’s so perfect.” Callie sobbed.

“You both are.” Jack kissed her cheek as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“I can’t believe your ginger genes beat mine.” They laughed.

“It may be recessive but it’s stubborn.” He sighed, content with their peaceful moment.

“I can’t believe we get to take her home. Feels illegal.”

“Like we were supposed to get a license at some point and forgot.”

“Yeah. Oh my god. The car doesn’t have a car seat.” Callie looked up to Jack.

“Honey, you’ll be here for a while. I’ll get the car seat sorted, don’t worry about that.” He laughed.

“I need to ask you a question and you cannot laugh.” Callie adjusted herself on the bed.

“I’ll do my best.”

“It feels like there is a balloon in my uterus, is there a balloon in my uterus?”

“Yes. There is. It’ll be there for about a day.” Jack stated.

“Thought I was crazy.” She sighed. She nuzzled her cheek against her baby’s head, that sweet newborn scent sending a rush of endorphins to her brain.

Jack pulled his phone out, snapping a quick picture. It would be his screensaver on his phone, laptop and it would be hung up in his locker.

“How’s the pain?” Jack’s hand was resting on her arm, he felt the need to be touching her at all times, needing to be sure this wasn’t a dream.

“Well, not great. But it’s not like I can have pain meds.” She shrugged. Jack took a deep breath, readying to break her heart a little more.

“Honey, you had to have a lot of medications. You were out for a while. She needed to be fed.”

“But…we had a plan.” Her voice shook.

“I know, Callie. None of this went to plan. She’s going to be okay on formula. You need to rest.” Jack cupped her cheek in his hands.

“I wanted…I wanted to have that connection. I was supposed to-” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

“I know. We’re good at pivoting and improving. We can handle this. You can handle this. She is not going to love you less.”

“What if it messes her up? What if all of this does something to her?” Callie sobbed.

“She’s okay. She is doing everything she is supposed to. She’s hitting the milestones. APGAR is perfect.”

“But, like, down the line? Like, what if it causes some complication?”

“Honey, there is nothing that would suggest any complications.” Jack wiped the tears from her face.

“T-take her, my arms feel weird.” Callie sobbed.

“What do you mean?”

“Take her, Jack!” Callie was panicking.

“okay, okay.” Jack lifted the baby into his arms. “Breath, honey. You’re okay.”

“I failed her, I failed her already.” The sobs wracked Callie’s body. Jack could see the panic in her eyes. He put Pippa back in the crib, she was getting fussy with the commotion.

“Callie, you haven’t failed anyone.” Jack tried to console her, squeezing her hand.

“I did, m-my body failed her! I don’t care if it fails me, but not her! Not her!” She was delirious.

The baby started crying, the sound of Callie’s panic disturbing Pippa. Jack felt stuck between a rock and a hard place, he was starting to panic. He popped his head into the hall, spotting Princess he waved her over.

“Take the baby, she’s okay. Just keep an eye on her.” Jack pleaded as he wheeled the crib into the hallway.

“Yeah, we got her. She okay?”

“It’s all hitting her. Robby still here?” Jack looked back into the room, Callie was sobbing, her body unsteady and rocking with the effort of her cries.

“Yeah, he’s still around.” Princess looked to Callie, her face crumbled at the sight. “Just…she might need to be sedated. I don’t-I don’t fucking know.” He shook his head as he went back in.

“Callie, you need to breathe. You’re going hypoxic, you need to slow down.” Jack sat on the edge of the bed, holding her shoulders.

“I can’t do this! I can’t do this!” She sobbed.

“Yes, you can! You were going to give her your life, you would sacrifice everything for her! Callie, you’re already a great mother. Please, take a breath.” He held her head in his hands, her face red and lips purple and twitching.

“She deserves better than me.” She looked more broken than Jack had ever seen her, it made his heart drop.

“There isn’t anyone on this planet better than you. You have no idea how incredible you are. I failed you if you truly think that.” Jack shook his head, fighting the tears. “You didn’t see how many people were shattered today, the thought that you…we might lose you brought this hospital to its knees.”

“I’m so scared!”

“I know. Me too. We have so much to lose now. But we can do this together.” Jack brushed her hair from her face.

“I can’t stop this! I-I can’t…” The monitor alarms started going off.

“Callie, Callie you have to breathe. Baby! I need you to breathe!” Jack begged, her chest heaving with each panicked breath. Her eyes were distant, he couldn’t reach her anymore. She barely had the strength to be conscious let alone be rational. Jack slammed the call button.

“Callie, try to listen to me, Baby I’m right here. You are okay. Pippa is okay. I’m okay, everyone is okay.” Jack tried to reason with her primal, panicked mind.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Robby came into the room.

“I can’t get her to calm down. She’s hypoxic, her sats are going down. We-we need to sedate her.” Jack’s heart broke. He’d been there. When his mind tortured him to the point he couldn’t fight back and had to be sedated. It was a terrible feeling. One he thought he could keep from Callie.

“Princess-”

“Got it.” She said as she administered the drugs into the IV catheter in Callie’s arm.

“You’re just going to sleep, Honey. Just a little rest, okay? I’ll be right here when you wake up. Everything is okay.” Jack talked with her until her eyes finally shut and her breathing evened out. Her vitals going back to normal limits.

“Fuck.” Jack sighed.

“Princess, sit with her for a minute. Jack, let’s walk.” Robby put a hand on his shoulder.

“No, I-”

“She’ll be okay, I’m not going to leave her. Go.” Princess nodded.

“Come on. You need to get some air.” Robby pulled Jack to his feet. Jack stumbled out of the room.

“We’ll get Kiara to come see her in the morning.” Robby noted. “We’re getting a recliner sent down for you. Ideally, she’d go upstairs but ICU says there won’t be room for a while. Nothing new there. I would tell you to go home and we’ll watch them but I know better than that.” Robby chuckled.

“I keep thinking about what I should have done different. Maybe if I had put my foot down and we’d gone to Presby she’d have gotten the c-section and she wouldn’t feel like this.” Jack shook his head.

“She would still be traumatized by an emergency c-section. She’d still be laid up in bed, not able to move. We know this is, unfortunately, what happens when birth goes awry. There wasn’t any way to spare her from this, Jack. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I just can’t stand the fact that she thinks she’s a failure after all that. After how hard she fought.” Jack rubbed his eyes, they were sore and irritated.

“I know. It doesn’t make sense. But the human brain is a scary place. She’ll get through this. You all will.” Robby patted him on the back.

“Jesus, this is not how today was supposed to go.” Jack walked out the ambulance bay doors, the cool night air washing over him, offering little comfort.

“No. But did you really think you and Callie would have a normal anything? You two are constantly getting thrown curveballs.” Robby huffed.

“True. But, this was too close. Her heart stopped. I can’t stop thinking about it. I know she can’t either. I have half a mind to keep them both locked in the house and wrapped in bubble wrap.” Jack sighed.

“Oh, I think I won the bet!” Robby pumped his fist in the air. “Knew you’d say that at some point.”

“Not funny.”

“A little funny.” Robby nudged his shoulder. “Dana’s at your house getting it ready, by the way.”

“What?” Jack looked up at him confused. “When did she get a key?”

“Callie gave her one when you guys moved in. She’s making sure the fridge is stocked and all your baby equipment is prepped and ready. She didn’t feel like she could go right home but didn’t want to be in the way here. She’s grieving in her own way.” Robby nodded. “She said something about lasagna.”

“Callie loves her lasagna.” Jack let out a long-held sigh.

“Who doesn’t?” Robby smiled. The two men stood in silence for a moment. The events of the day running through their heads. Had it been anyone else, they would have been able to work through it and move on. But it was too close.

“Fuck. She almost died.” A sob ripped from Jack’s throat. “I almost lost her!” He broke, his hand grabbing Robby’s shoulder as his knees threatened to give out again. Robby held him upright.

“It’s okay.” He told him as Jack clung onto him. “She’s okay. She made it.” He reassured him.

“I’m sorry.” Jack coughed as he stood up.

“You never have to apologize to me. Especially about this. Jack, we’re family. That woman is the closet thing I have to a sister. I was feeling all of it too. We’re all going to feel this.” Robby nodded.

“Dr. Abbot, Princess says the sedation is starting to wear off.” One of the nurses shouted from the doorway.

“I can barely keep myself together. I don’t know how to keep her from breaking.”

“Then don’t. She just needs you to be there, Jack. Not solve everything.” Robby nodded. Jack gave him a slap on the arm and ran back inside.

“Dr. Abbot, she just started to wake up.” Princess stood up. “I’ll be just outside.” She left, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.

Callie’s brows furrowed as she fought the sedation. She groaned, rubbing her eyes. She looked up at Jack, her bloodshot eyes still made his heart flutter.

“Hey.” His voice quiet and soft.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what the hell that was.” Callie sighed, her cheeks blushing with embarrassment.

“You don’t have to apologize. Callie, what you’ve been through is more than enough to throw anyone for a loop. It’s going to take time to feel normal.” Jack’s thumb traced along her cheekbone.

“You went through it too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, but I don’t have the physical reminder.” He said, her hand in his as they both clung to each other for dear life.

“Where is she? I must have scared the shit out of her.” Callie sighed.

“She’s…I actually don’t know. Princess probably handed her off to one of the nurses.”

“So you’re going to look me in the eye, after I just had a panic attack so bad I needed sedation, and tell me you don’t know where my baby is right now?” Callie raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, find our child, please.” Callie chuckled. Jack scrambled out of the room and up to the nurses station.

“Hey, where is my baby?” Jack asked Princess.

“Oh, sorry! I forgot to tell you! She’s okay, Donnie brought her into the break room. It was quieter.” Princess said. Jack nodded headed into the break room. Donnie was bouncing the baby in his arms as he stirred his coffee, talking to her.

“…and then you mom made me go to brunch and tried to set me up with the waitress because I said she was hot one time. She’s a good wingman, your mom. Then there was the time she brought me sweet potato pie because I missed my grandma’s pie and she could tell how sad I was. Your mom takes care of us, she’s really good at it too.” He hummed to the baby. “I’ll tell you the really good stories when your older.” He laughed as he turned, surprised to see Jack standing in the doorway. “Geez, you scared me. We were just chatting.” Donnie nodded to the baby.

“Thank you for looking after them, Donnie. You’ve always taken good care of Callie when I couldn’t.”

“They’re family. You’re family. It’s what we do.” Donnie shrugged. “Anyway, she’s a cute baby so it’s easy to be nice to her.” He chuckled.

“Alright, let me get her back to her mom.” He smiled taking the baby into his arms.

Jack walked into Callie’s room, the baby gurgling and stretching in his arms. Callie had fallen asleep already, but they had gotten the recliner to her room for him. He made himself comfortable; the baby settled on his chest.

“We’ll be alright.” He murmured into the top of Pippa’s head, kissing the soft curls. Pippa yawned, Jack gave her his finger to hold. She held it tight. He felt like he could explode, he loved her so damn much.

Four days in the hospital, and Jack and Callie were both ready to scream. They were grateful to have so many people helping them, but there was no privacy. The ICU never had a bed open up, and Jack preferred the doctors he knew over ones he only occasionally interacted with, so it wasn’t fussed over much.

“You three ready to get the hell out of here?” Robby came in smiling.

“I never want to see this place again.” Callie gave a sarcastic smirk.

“Not sure how possible that will be. But I hope it’s only to pick up Jack and bring us donuts.” Robby handed her the discharge papers.

“Well, you won’t see me for two months, try not to burn the place down.” Jack huffed.

“I think we’ll manage.” Robby rolled his eyes. There was knock on the door that broke their attention.

“Come in.” Callie called.

“Stop letting everyone in here. We’re trying to get out of here.” Jack groaned.

“Oh, stop being so grumpy.” Callie smacked his chest.

“Hey, just wanted to see you guys before you left.” Donnie came in, a gaggle of people behind him.

“Oh please. You’re here for her and we all know it.” Callie crossed her arms.

“Yeah, but I was trying to be polite about it.” He shot her a snotty look as he went over to the crib.

“What are you going to do without all the nurses fawning over her?” Robby chuckled.

“I will miss that.” Callie sighed, her head resting on Jack’s arm.

“You call me, I’ll be over any time you need.” Perlah noted.

“Same.” Donnie smiled down at the baby.

“Alright, get the hell away from my baby before you get your nasty ER germs on her.” Jack shooed everyone away.

“Text me once you get home.” Robby put a hand on Callie’s shoulder. “Call if you need a break. I mean it, both of you.” He shot Jack a look.

“Thank you, Robby. For everything.” Callie’s eyes started to water.

“Oh stop all of that.” He wrapped her up in a tight hug. “I can’t cry in front of the med students. Get those hormones out of here.” He chuckled, rubbing his eyes.

“Let’s go home.” Jack said as he got Pippa settled in her car seat. Callie stood up, getting ready to leave before Dana came rolling in with a wheelchair.

“What do you think you’re doing? Sit the hell down!” She barked, hand on her hip.

“I can walk!”

“Can and should are two different things. Policy. Get in the chair.” She ordered.

“You care aggressively.” Callie chuckled.

“Not the first time that’s been said.” Dana patted her shoulder as she got in the chair. They finally left the room, the weight started to feel bearable.

“Now. I’ve got all the bottle ready for you. Full stock of formula ready to go for you. I made sure the fridge is stocked for the week and the freezer has plenty of food. When that runs low, call me.” Dana instructed.

“I think we can make our own food.” Jack snorted.

“You two will forget to feed yourselves the second you don’t have food in front of your face.” Dana scolded.

“Fair point.” Jack nodded.

“Thank you, Dana. You didn’t need to do all that, but it’s appreciated.” Callie smiled.

“My daughter is coming by to take care of the lawn and the garden, don’t worry about any of that. My husband is cleaning the gutters after the rain tomorrow. Don’t panic when there's a random man on a ladder in the front yard. They are under strict instructions not to ring the bell or bother you.” Dana parked the chair next to the car.

“You really don’t need to do that.” Callie knew it was a useless battle, but fought it out of politeness.

“Stop it. If you need a minute to yourself and want some adult interaction, call me. Call Robby. Call anyone. We’re here.” She smiled, her eyes glassy.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you all.” Callie sighed.

“Oh, Sweetheart.” Dana wrapped her up in hug. “We love you. God, feel nervous not having you here anymore.” She gave a breathy laugh.

“You have control issues.” Jack laughed as he came around the car to help Callie into the car.

“I’m a charge nurse, of course I have control issues.” She smacked Jack’s arm.

Jack closed the door to the passenger side. He took a deep breath.

“Got your girls all settled.” Dana smiled, seeing the nerves starting to bubble up on Jacks face. “You got this. You’ve already taken such good care of them.” She put her hand on his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Yeah, just us now though.” Jack nodded.

“Enjoy it. You’ll blink and be back here.” Dana patted his arm and shoved him toward the car. “Make sure she doesn’t overdo it! You’ll answer to me if she’s back in here.” Dana laughed as she walked off.

“Ready?” Jack got into the car, adjusting the rearview mirror so he could see the car seat.

“So ready for my own bed.” Callie chuckled. Jack chuckled as he pulled out of the parking lot. He had never driven so cautiously in his life. 30 mph felt like 70 mph. He was so relieved to be home, the driveway never looked so good as he pulled in.

“Let me get her out and then I'll help you.” Jack said as he jumped out of the car and undid the car seat. He looked up to see Callie climbing out of the car.

“I can manage some things, Jack.” She said as she limped towards the door. Jack shook his head as he followed her inside.

“My god, she cleaned the whole place.” Callie looked in shock at the now pristine home before her.

“She’s deranged. At least it’s to our advantage.” Jack laughed.

They sat on the couch, the TV playing something for the noise, the baby asleep on Jack’s chest.

“What do we do now?” Callie asked.

“Try and figure out what normal looks like now.” He shrugged. Callie looked over to him. He was rubbing soft circles on Pippa’s back, humming under his breath.

“I think I like what the new normal looks like on you.” Callie cocked an eyebrow.

“Down girl. You got six weeks before you can talk like that to me.” Jack scolded.

“Can’t help that my boyfriend is a smoking hot DILF.” She chuckled.

“You know you’re the most fertile just after having a baby, right?”

“Oh that did it. Yeah, no I’m good.” Callie shook her head.

“Thought so.” Jack laughed. “This feels right. The three of us.” He smiled. “Yeah. This was how we were supposed to be. Just the three of us. Our team is complete for sure.” Callie ran her hand through his curls. “This is perfect.”

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbot x reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x oc #jack abbot x reader #dana evans #dr. robby #tw mention of death #tw birth #tw death #tw blood

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myownwholewildworld · 3 days ago

Text

a man called joel (part 3)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | follow @arranupdates for notifs! | AO3 summary: it's been four weeks since your patrol with joel. and while you try to forget about him and settle into your new life in Jackson, there's an inside voice screaming at you. one that you can't ignore and, thankfully, you don't. author's note: i, uh... well. part 3 is here! this is the scene i envisioned when i first thought of this series. not gonna lie, i'm nervous about posting this one. i hope you guys enjoy it (as much as angst can be enjoyed, that is). as always, please heed the warnings and if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post or come yap at me! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. ANGST. ellie makes an apperance and she's ruthless with joel (i'm sorry). joel breaks. suicide attempt. vomitting. tiny mention of blood. wound tending. a load of angst yes, but this time there's some angsty comfort too! dual pov. quotes from "a hundread years of solitude" on joel's pov; quotes from "chronicle of a death foretold" on reader's pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is 61 and reader is 46. wordcount: ~8.6k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

Hurt wouldn’t even cover it. Disappointed was more like it—not with Joel, but with yourself. For allowing yourself to care too much about a stranger, for worrying over those who didn’t bother to at least be nice in return.

Should have learnt this was not how the world worked anymore, decades ago. The apocalypse had changed humanity, brought out the worst of people. And yet again, every time you encountered someone in need, you’d lend a hand. Only to have it bitten off by the harsh crudeness of this new reality that had been haunting you since the beginning of it all.

Time and time again, you had stumbled with the same stone—the stone of hope. When the virus took hold of what little remained of societal decency, you told yourself people were only scared, that was why they were cruelly acting out. When your partner became bitter and erratic, you again told yourself it was only because of desperation. When havoc caused division within your group, you tried to assuage them.

You’d always tried—it was in your nature, part of who you were. And if there was something you were proud of, was that you never let go of the values your parents taught you. Perhaps you were too kind-hearted for this vicious world. But you refused to allow the circumstances to change who you were at your core.

Despite the conviction, it was terribly hard to constantly extend a hand to others. You were drained. Not of purpose, but because of rejection. Having lost everyone who had accompanied you since the beginning, finding yourself alone now in this decrepit world… It was taking a big mental toll on you. And when you saw the pain disguised as bluntness in Joel, a piece of you reached out to him—the fixer in you had clung to the last dregs of him. Perhaps you didn’t know him but knew his harrowing agony. Knew what being the outcast felt like, what loneliness was. Knew the torment of what if, the misery of why didn’t I.

You were drowning in your own thoughts, overthinking the situation until you worried yourself to sleep. And in a moment of weakness right after your patrol with Joel, you had asked Tommy if you could move to a different house. Not your proudest moment.

“Anything wrong with the one you are in now? Pipes all good?” Tommy had asked you when you approached him in the community hall after ensuring Joel was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, no. Yeah, pipes are good now, thanks,” you had lied, still feeling guilty about having to block one to match the excuse you’d given him. “It’s just, uh… It’s too big of a house for just me, I’m sure a family would make good use of it. I’m happy to live somewhere smaller.”

And somehow, he’d seen through your lie this time around. The way his brows had furrowed as the inner working of his brain put the pieces together was eerily familiar—a shared mannerism between the Millers.

“Has Joel done or said something stupid?” When you didn’t reply, trying to hide your betraying expression, he had huffed. “Such a fucking prick. Is that why you’ve asked Maria to change your patrol shifts too? I swear, when I catch him!”

You reassured Tommy over and over again that neither of those two asks had anything to do with his older brother. Theatrics was never your forte, so whether he bought it or not, you didn’t know.

Now you just felt silly for letting Joel doubt yourself, what you stood for. His rejection shouldn’t set you back.

He doesn’t want my help? Fine then. I’ll help someone else.

But as that thought formed, your mind drifted away to that fateful patrol day. How you found him, frozen in front of that clicker. How the despair and regret flickered in the brown bark of his eyes. How the knife slipped from his hand—Wait, or did he drop it? Did he mean not to put up any fight? Did he mean to give up? Did he mean to let the infected kill him?

Did he mean to commit suicide?

No. He wouldn’t. He’s got a family, you thought, your mind jarring and struggling with the daunting idea of someone ending their life.

But did having a family really mean anything? Did having a family mean you didn’t feel alone? You knew it didn’t.

Perhaps I didn’t see it right, perhaps the knife did slip.

But if it did, why would you find him crying? Looking down at your hands, you rubbed your fingers together—you could still feel the dampness of his tears, the wetness of his desperation, from when you cradled his weathered face and brushed the tears away.

Your mind drifted back to your conversation with Tommy three weeks ago, the unsettling feeling returning to your belly.

“Have you checked in on him lately?” The question had slipped before you could refrain yourself from asking. Because despite how rude he’d been, you still worried about him, especially after what you thought you saw with the clicker in the outbuilding.

“Who? Joel? He’s fine. He’s always been this grumpy, don’t worry about him,” Tommy had said with a laugh and a wave of his hand. “Why you ask?”

You did really consider mentioning what you had witnessed on patrol, but didn’t want to cause any more trouble between the brothers if you were wrong. Besides, it was obvious Joel wasn’t seeking any help.

Are you fucking stupid or are you just pretending to be?

Your muscles stiffened suddenly, the disrespect of his words rummaging in the fresh gaping wound in your chest. How some simple sentence almost had you folded—a slap in the face would have hurt less. The despise in his eyes, how he backed up like a cornered animal when you reached for him again—as if the mere thought of you was disgusting, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you putting your hands on him again.

Your heart stirred uncomfortable in your chest, a heavy, surrendered sigh escaping from your lips. How could a stranger’s rejection have such a big impact on you?

Just let it go. He doesn’t want your help. Move on.

A knock on your door startled you. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you untucked your legs from underneath you before throwing the blanket aside and standing up off the couch. It was almost midnight, the deadly quiet of the night amplifying the sound of the wind rustling leaves nearby, and you were not expecting any visitors.

Leaving the book—the one where you had gotten stuck reading the same paragraph repeatedly while your mind drifted away—on the side table, you tiptoed to the front door. Looking through the peephole, your blood froze.

Right there, standing on your porch in the dead of night, was the personification of your hurt. Joel Miller. In the darkness, he still looked tired and restless. When was the last time he slept? you wondered. Joel Miller looked like a man with one foot in the grave.

Your fingers curled around the handle, but you hesitated—what could he possibly want at this ungodly hour? He’d probably seen the orange shadow your lamp casted on the living room’s window, so there was no point in pretending you weren’t awake. But still, you stalled.

Joel raised his fist to knock again but thought better of it. You saw the doubt dancing in the whisky hue of his irises, all resolution abandoning him. His lips fell into a flat line and then nodded to himself before turning around.

Your heart raced and before he could walk away, you swung the door open.

“Joel?” you whispered, switching on the porchlight and hugging yourself when the cold breeze hit you.

Joel’s bowed head snapped up, his shoulders squaring instantly. For a brief second, he paused—as if he considered playing deaf and running away. Slowly Joel veered around and faced you.

His worn expression took you aback. Perhaps the cast of the porchlight magnified the dark circles under his orbs, the yellowish tint of the bruise kissing the exposed skin of his neck, the deep creasing lines around his eyes and mouth.

Joel Miller was a man who looked… defeated? Torn? Exhausted? Purposeless?

“Uh, hi,” he muttered in return, his eyes taking in the sight of you after your name rolled easily off his tongue.

You felt more self-conscious now—you were barefoot, hadn’t taken care of your hair today, and you had the worst pyjamas on, holes and old stains included. So unwittingly, you hugged yourself harder.

“Hi, Joel,” you repeated. “What do you want?”

You didn’t intend for your question to have a resentful hint, but it did. It just slipped, like the knife off his hand.

“Uhm,” his hand flew to the back of his neck, his lips flattening even more. “I, uh… Well…”

He hadn’t said much yet, but you sensed what this late-night visit could be about. Was he about to ask for your forgiveness? An actual, heart-felt apology for the crudeness of his actions and words. In all honesty, that was all you needed to acquit his behaviour. Everyone deserved a second chance, deserved to right a wrong.

You watched him struggle for words as your heart raced expectantly, fighting back the tiny smile that threatened to curl your lips a tad too early.

“I… Yeah. I was wondering if I could borrow that book you recommended on our last day of patrol?” Joel stumbled over his own words, his jaw locking. “Chronicle of a Death Foretold?”

The warm feeling swarming your belly soon turned cold. Heavy, churning, your disappointment so thick you had to swallow to untie the knot in your throat. Why should you expect something different? An apology from him? You almost scoffed at your risible occurrence.

“Is that it?” you mumbled in a vain attempt to hide your frustration.

Joel paused, mouth opening and closing fast as thunder. His Adam’s apple bobbed, words hitching at the back of his throat. You could see the pulleys of his mind at work in the windows of his eyes, the only tell he couldn’t govern.

And yet again, disillusionment followed.

“Yeah,” another uncomfortable silence. Joel’s posture shifted, his fists clenching. “I just finished my book, so I have nothing to read.”

“No, sorry,” you gritted, sensing your own annoyance building up. “I haven’t finished it yet.”

If your retort took him aback, you couldn’t tell. Joel just gave you a stern nod instead, his determination deflating behind his brown eyes. Was he so proud he wouldn’t admit he’d treated you wrong?

“Right, sorry to disturb. Night,” and as fast as he came, Joel was gone.

You saw him crossing the thick blanket of snow, head buried between his shoulders, before he disappeared through his front door.

Every day for the next week, you warred with yourself. Perhaps it was your people-pleasing tendencies, but more than once you caught yourself before walking up the steps of Joel’s porch and offering him Gabo’s book.

It was a losing battle though. Eventually you’d wave a white flag, stick it in the middle of the street between Joel’s and your house. Claim that it was his fault that you hadn’t given in for not opening up, for not being brave enough to say what he came to say—or what you thought he came to say.

But upon reflection, forcing someone to acknowledge their grief, their solitude, their struggles, was not the best approach. Trust required time, and it was obvious Joel Miller needed more than that. You were now convinced that he truly was at the end of his wits. The knife hadn’t slipped, he’d dropped it—it was as clear as the sun would rise tomorrow over his roof.

You wondered if his family knew, if he had at least confided in someone. Because if he hadn’t, then this secret you were keeping was eating away at the confines of your contrition. It would tear you apart, being complicit in his pain.

Sat on the bay window of your living room, you read again the last paragraph of the book.

“Santiago, my son,” she shouted to him, “what has happened to you?” “They've killed me, Wene child,” he said. He stumbled on the last step, but he got up at once. “He even took care to brush off the dirt that was stuck to his guts,” my Aunt Wene told me. Then he went into his house through the back door that had been open since six and fell on his face in the kitchen.

The last word echoed in your mind, so loud you had to whisper it. Kitchen. You said it again with a trembling sigh, wearing it out, flushing it out of your brain.

Why did you suddenly have this déjà vu, anxiety-like feeling sinking in the pit of your stomach?

As you’d done at least a dozen times in the last two hours, your eyes moved away from the yellowed pages across the street. In his porch, Joel was still in the same position as you last checked on him. Impassive like a statue, you wondered if he’d frozen up with the chilling temperatures. He’d been sitting on that bench for over two hours now, staring into the distance as his only pastime. Waiting. For something to happen. Or someone to show up.

It worried you how he hadn’t moved an inch, what was in his mind that had him under such a numbing spell. Perhaps you should intervene now, talk to him, ask him why he was out there alone wrapped in the blanket of such misty night.

But before you could make up your mind, someone did appear. Getting closer to the window glass, you watched from behind the curtains how the girl approached the porch. Her stance was rigid, her features young. She was clearly a teenager, then it hit you. Did Joel have a daughter?

The moment Joel saw her, he jumped up to his feet instantly, his posture as stiff as hers. The girl huffed, her shoulders slouching, as she walked past the steps where Joel was standing. He must have shouted back, because her head sank between her shoulders—a gesture you had seen Joel do just a week ago.

The teenager turned around, her face fierce as she replied something you didn’t quite catch. By the way her hands moved as she spoke, and how Joel’s demeanour soured even from the distance, you knew a heated argument had ensued between the two. It only lasted a minute or two before the girl stormed off, walking around the house and heading towards the garage at the back.

Your attention drifted back to Joel, who was still at the top of the stairs. You couldn’t fully see his face, only his profile—but whatever had just happened, had affected him. His right hand curled around the banister while his eyes tracked his daughter walking away and his left clutched at his chest, his stance shifting as if he was in unbearable pain. Joel remained still for another minute, and you wished you knew what was crossing his mind at that precise moment.

He looked so lonely. So broken. So… lifeless. The stillness of his posture spoke of something deeper, a sorrow so heavy it would compete with Atlas carrying the weight of the world. As if he tiptoed on the edge of life—staring into the abyss, pondering, weighing his worth.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him alone on that porch. Only if you could reach out, tell him whatever it was, it would be okay.

Why doesn’t it register in your fucking brains that I want to be left alone, huh?

But as you saw him steeling himself and walking back inside, your insides churned. You knelt on the window bay, watching the ajar door Joel had left behind.

An impending sense of doom flushed through you, your heart racing wildly, your breathing quickening.

“The truth is I didn’t know what to do,” he told me. “My first thought was that it wasn’t any business of mine but something for the civil authorities, but then I made up my mind to say something in passing to Placida Linero.” Yet when he crossed the square, he’d forgotten completely. “You have to understand,” he told me, “that the bishop was coming that day.”

But did you? Did you know what to do? Would you intervene, even if there was only a very thin possibility you were right, when your mind, your soul, was screaming at you right now?

Your heart jolted in your chest, mind fuzzy with doubt. While the Vicario brothers had been the ones to skew Santiago Nasar’s life, Joel’s Grim Reaper could be someone scarier—himself.

Maybe I’m just overreacting, reading into it far too much, you tried to convince yourself.

But as minutes went by, eyes glued to his front door, not doing anything wasn’t an option. Not when your heart and mind knew there was something wrong. You couldn’t explain why or what it was, just that it was.

Getting up, you grabbed an old cardigan, slipped your feet into the winter boots laying on the floor by your front door, and sprinted outside with the book tucked under your elbow.

You sprinted across the blizzard, reaching Joel’s porch within seconds. And even though the door was clearly not shut, you still knocked.

“Joel?” you called out, controlling the tremor in your voice. “I finished the book. I was wondering if you wanted to borrow it now?”

No reply, silence followed your feeble attempt at reconciliation.

With your heart climbing up your throat, you knocked again, the door cracking open a bit more.

“Joel?”

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open and walked inside, putting your guard up to whatever you would find. The hallway was dark and cold, the wintery breeze whistling past you. Softly closing the door behind you, you put down the book on the console table and peeked inside the living room.

The decoration was rustic, some dark woods contrasting with the soft blue on the walls. Every piece of furniture looked crafted, curated, not like the mustard couch you had falling apart in the middle of your living room. The fireplace was still crackling, the embers glowing under the soft light of a standing lamp in the corner. But it was empty.

Your instinct told you to move further down the house, and you did in silence. It was so quiet, you were sure your heartbeat could be heard from a mile away. Trudging past the dining room, you got to the kitchen.

“There had never been a death so foretold.”

Your breath hitched; your heart stilled. Under the doorframe you froze, like a rabbit in the presence of a predator. Only you were no prey—Joel was.

Prey to the drowning solitude of his home, of his own loneliness, of life itself.

Prey to the forgetfulness of death—an omen that now made sense, a subtle hint you hadn’t first fully comprehended when he recited those words to you three weeks ago.

Prey to a desperation so thick, it was literally killing him.

Prey to masquerading his pain, deceitful in his actions, in his rude, careless demeanour.

“He was healthier than the rest of us, but when you listened with the stethoscope you could hear the tears bubbling inside his heart.”

Perhaps you couldn’t hear the bubbling of his heart, but you could definitely see the foam pooling at the corners of his mouth as his legs twitched on the floor of his poorly-lit kitchen.

The ephemeral moment stretched for a second too long as your mind tried to grasp what your heart already knew.

Joel was ending it—his life. The suffering. The heartache. The desolation. The guilt he carried, for whatever he thought was unforgivable.

No.

And in the blink of an eye, you lurched forward, your knees skidding on the scratched wooden planks as you landed by his side. His whole body convulsed, his limbs shaking the life out of him, draining him. The chattering of his teeth gritting made your belly churn as tears welled up.

“Joel. Oh my God, Joel!” You whispered, trembling hands hovering over him as your eyes roved over the gut-wrenching vision in front of you. “No, no, no!”

Your desperate wails became louder, but your mind got sharper. This couldn’t be happening. You needed to act now if you were to save his life, there was no time to run out and scream for help. Joel had no time left.

You rolled him over to his side, an inner debate happening as you did.

Should I? If this is what he really wants, if his pain is so great he’s decided to end it, should I intervene? Who am I to take the choice away from him?

But at the end of the day, the real question was: could you live with yourself if you let him die? Could you look at Tommy’s eyes, at Benji’s or Maria’s, and tell them you didn’t dare intercede? That you rather watch him die than having him resent you even more?

What is one more ounce of hate?

And with that thought, your selfish decision was made. Craning his head back a little and holding his jaw with your left hand, you sank three fingers down his foamy mouth, pressing them down on his tongue.

Joel retched, even in his almost gone state.

His eyes fluttered open for an ephemeral moment, tears smudging the beautiful chestnut of his irises, to then shut while his limbs kicked everywhere.

“No, Joel, please,” you pleaded in a sob, forcing your fingers deeper down his throat and pressing down on his tongue again. “P-please come back to me.”

Finally—thankfully—Joel heaved, and you let go of an audible, relieving cry when you felt the warmth of his vomit running past your fingers. You gently held his head tilted towards the floor so his airway wouldn’t block and removed your fingers from his mouth.

“Oh, thank goodness,” you sighed tremblingly, rubbing his shoulder before you raked your fingers through his soft, silvery curls, so his hair wouldn’t be in his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Oh, God. Please, be okay. Please, Joel.”

He had a nasty cut on his left temple running down to his brow, probably from plummeting onto the floor and hitting his head on the countertop. It was still bleeding, but there were more pressing matters.

Joel stayed down for a minute while you whispered your relief, it was obvious his brain had been battling for oxygen and was trying to come back to reality. You brushed his cheek with your thumb before he showed signs of wanting to sit up.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, you did. Joel leaned back, back resting against the kitchen island. It took him a second before his misty eyes focused on you, his breathing as shaky as your soul.

Under his intense stare you froze again, kneeling in front of him. His eyes were windows to a profound desperation, a grief so deep you’d only dared to imagine, but one you felt down to your core, in your bones. It hit you like a massive wave, flooding your chest with a dread you hadn’t let yourself feel since you arrived at Jackson.

“Joel…” you hushed faintly, one hand reaching up to his shoulder, a comforting caress.

He didn’t reject your advance. And that was when you knew he was broken inside. All pieces of him scattered around like shards of glass, a puzzle with missing bits—the most important ones. The ones that made him, him.

And then Joel swallowed hard before covering his eyes with one broad palm. His shoulders shook in silence, and with that your heart shrank and fell freely into the pit of your stomach.

“Oh, Joel,” you mumbled shakily, scooting over towards him and embracing him, wrapping him in your warmth.

Instead of denying his own tears as he did on patrol, Joel cried. Soft, heartbreaking sobs that found root in your heart, and you just couldn’t help yourself but hug him tighter, fighting your tears back at how low he’d fallen to be openly vulnerable with you.

“It’s okay, Joel, you’re okay,” the words stuck to the back of your mouth. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise. Whatever it is, I will help you. You’re not alone, Joel. You aren’t. I’m here. I’ll always be here if you need me to. It’s okay.”

You cradled the back of his head with one hand while the other was firmly on his back, bringing him closer to you. And when you felt one of his on the small of your back in a half embrace, thick tears sprang to your eyes.

You held him tight, allowing him to brush some of the weight he carried off his shoulders. And then, your own guilt began suffocating you. Was he crying because you took the choice away from him? Because he wasn’t dead? Because he wasn’t resting?

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t,” you begged of him, a plea for lenience that escaped before you could wish it back.

Fifteen minutes earlier...

“You’re very late, Ellie,” Joel reproached, arms folded at the top of the steps.

He fought to keep his tone steady, he hated doing this. He’d been worried sick all night, wondering where Ellie was. The catastrophist in him had already imagined every single scenario where she’d be hurt or left for dead in a trench. He’d felt so anxious for the last three hours, Joel had to set aside the carving he had been working on after messing it up twice.

Seeing her walking towards the house had filled him with an immense relief, his heart beating so fast he was afraid it would grow legs and run away. But dread quickly followed—the father in him couldn’t just sweep it under the rug. Ellie needed to be reminded of the rules. And she’d put up a fight, make him the bad guy.

And despite being okay with becoming the villain in her story, it still hurt him. A wound so deep that his heart was splintering, because he didn’t really want to do it. Didn’t want to grow further apart from her, the abyss between them so big now it seemed insurmountable. Their relationship was almost beyond repair—he was painfully aware of it—and telling her off for coming home late would only complicate it more.

But he couldn’t just ignore it. He had to do something.

Ellie’s shoulders dropped as she walked past him towards the garage, blatantly disregarding his presence.

Another chink in his already hollering heart.

“Ellie, I’m talking to you,” he raised his voice, warring with himself to keep a calm demeanour. “It’s past two in the morning. You should have come home at least three hours ago.”

Ellie stopped right in her tracks, turning around to face him. The despise in her eyes was as fiery as it was seven months ago when she learnt the truth. And despite the passage of time, it hurt all the same, if not more.

“Who do you think you are to control my every move?” She hissed between gritted teeth, cocking a querying brow.

Your father, was the innate response that burnt the tip of his tongue. Joel fought back the words, knowing full well they would only aggravate the situation.

“What? Do you really think you’re my dad?” Ellie scoffed loudly, an instigating smile curling her mouth.

It didn’t reach her eyes, more of a frustrated grimace than anything else, but still a knife through the heart would have hurt less—Ellie’s words so perfectly aimed, they’d hit the bullseye, causing internal bleeding. Joel felt a stabbing sensation behind his eyes but reined the feeling in with a deep breath.

She doesn’t mean it, she’s angry, he reminded himself.

“I may not be your biological father, but—”

“No, Joel. There’s no but. You aren’t my dad,” Ellie gritted in frustration, her hands moving as she kept on going at him. “My real dad wouldn’t have lied to me for more than four years about what happened in the hospital. My real dad wouldn’t have taken away from me the only thing that made me valuable to this world. My real dad wouldn’t have promised to not kill Eugene to then fucking shoot him while I was gone!”

She knew how to twist the knife, how to make the wound even worse than it already was. Joel’s mouth ran dry, a gurgling void consuming the pit of his stomach as the words settled in his brain. His heart was beating so hard, his eardrums were about to explode.

Joel needed to redirect the conversation before Ellie said something that would tip him over the edge. He needed to keep a cool mind, try not to let her accusations take root in his heart. Joel had to bite back, “I did do all of it because I love you like my own blood, Ellie. You are more valuable than your immunity, that’s not what makes you, you, not to me. And I would do it all over again if I had the chance.”

“Why are you late? Who were you with?” he said instead, swallowing the suffocating knot in his throat.

Ellie laughed in disbelief, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

“Why do you want to know? So you can go and kill them too for keeping me away from this dreadful house?” she retorted back, huffing. “Since that’s how you deal with every fucking problem in your life. Kill them all, right?”

“Because I’m your guardian—”

“—I’m nineteen, Joel. I don’t fucking need you—”

“And as long as you live under my roof, you’ll play by my rules,” he finished, ignoring her interruption.

“Then perhaps I should move out!” Ellie shouted at him, taking a step back. “God, were you this insufferable with Sarah too? Because if you were, I’m sure she hated you for being the worst dad ever. Perhaps it was for the better.”

Ellie didn’t need to specify what was for the better, Joel caught the meaning instantly. That she died.

That was a way to take the knife out of the gaping wound to have him bleed to death. Her cruelness left him speechless, the prickling feeling at the back of his eyes returning. That was the lowest blow he’d ever received; one he didn’t expect from someone he held so dear despite the souring of their relationship.

“You don’t mean that,” Joel whispered, forcing himself to swallow.

Ellie paused—her expression faltered for an instant, perhaps realising the damage she’d caused, but her anger blinded her, stronger than the side of her that wanted to apologise.

“I’m tired,” she mumbled suddenly, her anger slowly deflating, taking a few steps away.

“Ellie,” Joel called under his shaky breath. “I—”

I’m sorry. I wish I could have done better. I just wanted to protect you. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another child, of losing you. Perhaps you don’t understand how much I love you, how there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. Maybe one day you’ll know, you’ll understand why I did what I did. I’m really sorry.

“It’s late,” Ellie cut him off. “And I better go to bed before you kick my ass.”

And with that, she disappeared into the gloomy night.

I’ve already lost her too.

The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer, so hard it made him stagger. Joel grabbed the handrail for support, his other hand flying to his chest. His heart was pumping so hard, it almost felt like that muscle was about to give out.

It felt like his heart had been ripped out, chucked on the floor for someone to stomp. Joel truly had no reason to be here anymore―the only tether to keep him earthbound had just been severed.

Ellie wasn’t angry with him, no; she hated him. So much that she hadn’t hesitated to bring Sarah up in conversation, knowing how much of a touchy subject it was for Joel. His memories of his daughter were fading, so ethereal now Joel almost thought he dreamt her. The only ones that were vivid in his brain were the bad ones—all the poor decisions he made, in the last few hours of her life.

Grief was a funny thing—how it gave a loud voice to his mistakes and drowned the actual good things he did for her, how it made him focus on the bad rather than the good. He sometimes even doubted if he’d ever been good to Sarah at all—good enough at least, better than his own father was.

“The heart’s memory is selective, which is the basis of its deceitfulness.”

Ellie throwing that accusation at him had only enlivened his most dreadful fear. Had he been the worst dad to Sarah? Had she hated him too? Did she blame him for her death, for his low reaction response, for not taking the bullet for her?

I wanted to. I wish I could have. I wish it had been me.

Taking a big, shaky breath, Joel made the decision he’d been postponing for four weeks now in the hopes that the situation would get better, that he would feel better. However, it had only gotten worse. Ellie had been very clear that she didn’t need him anymore, that he was just a hindrance to her life—a reminder of how she’d failed humanity. Tommy didn’t need him either; he had a thriving family of his own, and Joel was convinced that his sombre presence would only do more harm than good.

And without his family, there was nothing left for him to do on this earthly plane. Joel was exhausted—the kind of mental fatigue that only a deep, forever sleep would cure. And he was done with it all; with this feeling of harrowing melancholy, of drowning loneliness, of death sniffing at the cuffs of his pants.

He couldn’t bear the thought of one hundred years of solitude, not anymore. Joel had lived his life and had nothing left to give.

In a blurry haze, he walked inside his home.

“[…] not knowing what he was doing because he did not know where his feet were or where his head was, or whose feet or whose head, and feeling that he could no longer resist the glacial rumbling of his kidneys and the air of his intestines, and fear, and the bewildered anxiety to flee and at the same time stay forever in that exasperated silence and that fearful solitude.”

It all happened as if he wasn’t even in control of his own actions. As if he was watching himself from outside, completely detached from his own body. A void in his mind so big, there had been no room for thought. With trembling hands, Joel had taken out the two letters he’d written to Tommy and Ellie and smoothed them down on the kitchen counter besides the sink before he’d headed to the medicine cabinet. Anything he could blindly reach for would do.

It had only taken a few minutes for all the pills to make him feel sick.

Next thing he knew, Joel was on the floor, sweating and drifting away in agony—his mind spiralling, his throat itching with bile, his stomach burning.

And when he blinked alive again and saw you there, Joel thought you were a vision, that you really weren’t there. That perhaps, finally, he had succeeded, and you were there to guide him into the afterlife.

But the moment you hugged him, the moment he felt himself bound to Earth again, Joel knew he wasn’t dreaming. This was real—you were real. The person he’d mistreated at every opportunity, so much he’d seen the hurt in your eyes and regretted it.

Joel tried to mend his mistake—tried to apologise the night he walked up to your porch at the stroke of midnight. But his resolution had wavered, and his stupid ass had asked for the book instead. The disappointment in your features still haunted him, even at Death’s door.

And yet, here you were, comforting him at his lowest, seeing the ache he’d carried for so long pour out into the world.

Joel had not been able to contain the tears, the desperation trickling out the cracks of his shattered soul, soaking the fabric of your cardigan. And as much as he hated being vulnerable, he just couldn’t rein his demons back in.

The loss he felt was greater than anything he’d experienced before. So loud, yet so quiet in its disguise; so alien, yet so eerily familiar in its pain; so suffocating, yet so freeing in its release. He’d lost so much of himself over the past few months, there was nothing left of him—just a carcass of his existence, a cocoon that kept the jagged pieces of his being feebly glued together, just enough to keep him standing for the people he loved.

Not people, just the one person who grounded his world, Ellie. And with her deeming him expendable, what was there left to fight for? What was his reason for existing if not to be a better version of himself with Ellie by his side?

At sixty-one, all joy and happiness had snuffed out of his life.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t.”

And then there was you, apologising for bringing him back, for pulling his strings like an expert puppeteer. For undoing his choice without a second thought. For forcing him back into a dark, soul-crushing world.

Should he be mad? Yes, but Joel had no energy left to confront you nor anyone. His throat was ablaze and sore, the aftertaste tingling on his tongue. And then the exhaustion—he was so fucking tired, his arms felt heavier than usual, his legs almost paralysed. His tummy churned, another wave of nausea overtaking him.

His head snapped to one side when the bile rose up his throat. He couldn’t stop the retching before he vomited again, fire climbing up his mouth with a pungent, acidic tang.

You didn’t even flinch, didn’t even step back away from him when he almost puked on you. Instead, you patted his shoulder before your hand travelled up the back of his neck to skim his curls back and away from his forehead. The caress was so gentle, so comforting and almost intimate, it made his skin crawl.

“Why… why are you here?” Joel asked gruffly, brushing his mouth with the back of his still shaky hand.

Your fingers dropped from his hair, your eyes full of a compassion he’d never witnessed before. They were warm and calming, bright under the orange glow of the overhead light. But they also had a sadness to it—almost as if you understood him, as if you knew what he was going through.

Sitting back on your heels, you sighed. “I… I just finished reading Chronicle of a Death Foretold and thought you might wanna borrow it,” you uttered under your breath, your hands twisting on your lap, but your eyes were transfixed on him. “The truth is, I saw you on the porch with your daughter. And then I had this… urge to come see you.”

Joel didn’t correct you about Ellie. Despite how adamant she’d been about him not being a father to her, despite her cruelness, he still believed himself to be her dad. Because that was what fathers should do—love their kids unconditionally, even when they would hurt you with their spiteful words. Even when they would walk away and never look back. Even when they would banish you and disown you. Because even then, even after Ellie had implanted the seed for his descent into hell, Joel still loved her as his own, always would. No words or argument could ever change that.

The irony of your words didn’t escape him—had you foretold his death? This urge you spoke of, was destiny getting in the way of his not-so-well-crafted plan?

Joel cleared his throat, sitting up a bit, the back of his head still resting on the side panel of the kitchen island.

“You shouldn’t have,” was all he managed to whisper.

You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have saved me. You should have let me die.

Your gaze dropped before your eyes flickered back to his. Remorseful, but determined. A beacon of hope, a lighthouse in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“I know,” you mumbled with a little shrug without breaking eye contact.

Joel’s chest felt suddenly heavy—like a stone had lodged itself between his ribs, his throat clamping up and it had nothing to do with wanting to puke again. Such a feeling was foreign to him, its warmth slowly flushing through his body.

“I’m tired. You should go,” was his way of disclaiming this alien sensation.

You quickly sprung up to action, his petition for you to leave fell on deaf ears. Squatting by his side, you slithered your left arm around the back of his waist to help him up, the other hand wrapped around his front to clutch at his ribs. Too tired to reject your assistance, Joel managed to get up to his feet.

He staggered back, the whole world spiralling around him as his mind felt extremely buzzy. His fingers curled around the rim of the kitchen island to steady himself, all the while you were still holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere. Let’s get you to bed.”

The side glance you threw his way admitted no discussion, so for once Joel kept quiet. Trudging on wobbly legs, he made it upstairs with you by his side, his right arm draped around your shoulders for stability and your fingers intertwined with his.

You opened the door to the bedroom he’d nodded to and walked him inside. You pushed him towards the bed and almost forced him to sit down on the mattress. Without saying a word, you knelt before him to undo the knots of his boots and slide them off his feet.

“Where do you keep your pyjamas?” You asked unfazed by it all, towering up to your full height.

Joel’s Adam’s apple bobbed. It felt too intimate, too… close for comfort.

“I’m just gonna get them for you and then I’m gonna step out while you change,” you explained with a soft smile. “You can’t sleep with those clothes on, Joel.”

“First drawer of the dresser,” he mumbled, mind still hazy.

You grabbed his plaid pyjamas and left them on the bed by his side. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Joel saw you disappearing through the doorframe. Moving at snail speed, he managed to change into his night clothes before you returned with a tray. You were balancing a jug, a glass and a small bowl on it, a clean cloth perched on your shoulder.

“You’ve got a nasty cut on your temple. I’m not good at stitching, but we should clean it up before it becomes infected,” you explained while placing the tray on the nightstand before sitting beside him.

Joel had no energy left to oppose your care, so he just let you do. Your feather-like touch on his temple was soothing—so much that his eyes shut close while you delicately wiped the blood off his skin. You were so gentle he didn’t even wince once, or perhaps his mind was so fuzzy there was no room for physical pain.

“All done,” you announced after a couple of minutes. “You gotta drink all that water, okay? You may feel sick again too, although I think you’ve thrown everything up now. But just in case, that’s what the bowl is for.”

Joel nodded thoughtlessly, taking the glass you had just passed him and downing it. He gave it back to you, who put it down on the nightstand again.

“Do you want me to go get someone? Your brother? Your partner? A doctor perhaps?”

His head snapped up instantly, his heart mildly racing in worry. Joel quickly shook his head, the world spinning some more.

“No, don’t,” he husked out, swallowing a raspy groan, his hands curling into fists.

“Okay, I won’t,” you brushed his knee with yours. “Get some sleep. I ain’t going anywhere.”

“You don’t need to stay—”

“I want to stay, Joel, and I will stay. You’d have to kick me out of your house, and I don’t think you’re in a position to do that right now,” you said with gentleness before palming your thighs and standing up. “If you need me, shout.”

Your mind was still racing from everything that had unfolded. When you ran towards Joel’s house an hour ago, despite the doom pooling in your belly, you definitely had not expected to find him on the verge of death.

Your hands were shaking from the adrenaline running wild through your system, trying to come to terms with what had happened, what had pushed Joel so far as to take his own life. Because there was no denying what you had seen—it hadn’t been an accident. Which then made you wonder about the other times you’d found him.

Had he tried to end his life when you saw lying on the floor through the window? At the time you just thought he had fallen, an unlucky misstep on a ladder while changing a lightbulb. But now… the pieces of the puzzle started fitting together. Same with the mishap with the infected—he’d definitely dropped the knife on purpose.

How long had this been going on? Had he sought help? Was his family aware? Tommy? Maria? His daughter? Had Joel become so good at hiding his own misery that no one had really noticed how the light in his eyes was dwindling?

How alone he must have felt after at least three attempts without no one spotting the signs.

At least you had. Late, almost too late, but you had. And while you knew he wasn’t appreciative of your intervention, you just couldn’t let it happen. Your first instinct had been to help—like you always did. That part of you had almost died in the first few years of the apocalypse, but as time went on and people’s humanity waned, you found yours. You had been the voice of reason in your group, the kind-hearted one that would welcome strangers in despite your friends’ reticence. You had a knack for telling who was a good person, and that sixth sense had never failed you.

And that was why you were sure about Joel. He was pretty rough around the edges, but his core was good. You just knew.

Your mind kept on drifting away, running through everything that had happened over and over again until you almost made yourself dizzy with worry. You were now in the kitchen, having finished cleaning up the mess on the floor so Joel wouldn’t have to deal with it tomorrow morning.

I’ll just go and check on him, make sure he’s still breathing and doing okay, you thought to yourself while washing your hands in the kitchen sink.

As you grabbed a kitchen towel to dry your skin, your eyes landed on two brown, folded letters near the sink. One was addressed to Tommy, the other one to an Ellie. Your heart began beating wildly in your chest.

They are goodbye letter, suicide letters to his loved ones.

“Who are you and where is Joel?” A snappy voice brought you back.

The interruption startled you, heart jolting against your ribs, as you turned around.

The teen you’d seen on Joel’s porch earlier was standing a few feet away from you, gun cocked and pointed at you. You raised your hands up in the air instinctually, still clutching at the kitchen towel, fearing the worst. Joel’s daughter clicked her tongue when you didn’t respond.

“Uh, hi. Ellie?” You ventured, remembering the name on the letter. A glint in her eyes confirmed you were right. “I’m your new neighbour. I came to Jackson around a month ago. Please don’t shoot me.”

Ellie’s head tilted to one side as she scanned you from head to toe. Her eyes momentarily sparkled with some recognition, and she sheathed her gun again.

“I’ve seen you before. You live across the street, right?”

You took in the biggest breath of your life and nodded, dropping your hands and twisting the towel.

“Yeah. Sorry. Your dad’s not feeling well. He’s gone to bed,” you excused Joel’s absence the best you could without giving away what had transcended tonight. You didn’t want his daughter to worry.

A sudden realisation dawned upon you—had you not intervened when you did, Ellie would have found Joel dead on the kitchen floor. Your eyes watered at the idea, but you blinked the tears away before they formed.

“Is he okay?” Ellie asked, an instant worry washing over her young face as she took a few steps towards you.

The letters, she can’t see them.

Thinking as fast as you could, you threw the kitchen towel on the counter, aim perfect, and it landed on top of the letters, covering them completely.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” you quickly put her at ease, walking towards her and patting her shoulder. “He must have eaten something that didn’t agree with him, that’s all.”

“Shit,” Ellie muttered, sitting down on one of the stools by the island.

Then you remembered the heated argument you saw between them, and your heart silently cried for the young lady. Ellie must feel terrible now, her troubled expression darkening while she picked at her nails.

“Don’t worry. Joel’s okay now, Ellie. I promise,” the last word came out in a whisper. You didn’t want to lie to her but couldn’t tell her the crude truth either. If she was to find out, it couldn’t be through you. “Was there something you wanted?”

“I, uh… Just came to get an apple,” Ellie shrugged, reaching for the fruit bowl on the kitchen island.

You could tell that wasn’t the reason she was here. Perhaps she had come to apologise after the fight with her dad. If they two had something in common, was their reserve for apologies, that was for sure.

“Better get going,” Ellie muttered before biting into the apple and hopping back on the floor. “You staying?”

“Yeah. Just want to make sure he’s okay, then I’ll go back home.”

“Alright. Night.”

“Night, Ellie.”

Ellie lingered in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs for a second, probably considering going to check on Joel herself. But thought better of it, and a minute later she was gone.

You let go of a heavy sigh, eyes returning to the envelopes. Thank goodness she hasn’t seen them.

You couldn’t just let them lay there, so you grabbed them. Not that you were going to read them—it was a blatant invasion to anyone’s privacy—but you had to get them out of sight in case Ellie returned. So you folded them and slid them in the pocket of your cardigan.

You never went back home that night. After you went to check on Joel, who was squirming around in bed but otherwise asleep, you sat down on the armchair in the corner of his bedroom. You fought against your own fatigue as best you could but ended up slipping into a light sleep.

A few hours later, you woke up to the whisper of your name.

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honeydippedfiction · 3 days ago

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Gag Gift LSU!Joe x Angel

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Synopsis: When Angel receives a hilarious yet thoughtful birthday gift from Joe—a custom mold of his dick—it sets off a night of teasing texts, explosive tension, and an unforgettable reunion. What starts as a playful joke quickly turns into a deeply intimate moment, proving once again that no toy compares to the real thing.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (Highly descriptive and graphic sexual scenes, including masturbation, oral sex, and penetrative sex), Use of Sex Toys, Language, Light Dom/Sub Undertones. MDNI🔞

WC: 3.9k

A/N: lmaooo this was fun

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It started with a gold box.

Not wrapped. Not hidden away. Just sitting there—right in the middle of Angel’s bed like it had claimed the space, like it belonged there and had been waiting for her. The tissue paper inside was already a little rumpled, the corners bent like someone had tried to fold it neatly and gave up halfway through. Typical Joe.

The door creaked open with the familiar sound of home—worn hinges, quiet air, and the scent of her favorite candle still lingering faintly in the apartment. Angel stepped inside, suitcase wheels thudding softly across the floor as she nudged the door shut behind her.

Back.

Finally.

Two flights, one delayed layover, and four full days of being the most doted-on daughter in her family—home had been sweet. But it wasn’t him. And now that she was back in Baton Rouge, the only thing on her mind was seeing Joe.

She dropped her bag just inside her bedroom, already reaching for her phone to text him that she was about to show up unannounced at his place like the clingy girlfriend she unapologetically was.

Except… she froze.

Because the moment she looked up, she saw it.

A soft “What the hell…” slipped from her lips, brows lifting in surprise.

The center of her bed was no longer just tangled blankets and the hoodie she forgot to pack. It was a little birthday display: gold and white balloons gathered near the headboard, a cluster of them hovering lazily against the ceiling like they’d floated up on their own. And right in the middle of the mattress—nestled in pale gold tissue paper—sat a single box.

Not wrapped.

Not overly fancy.

Just… sitting there, waiting.

Angel blinked.

Then blinked again.

Did he really—

What caught her attention most was the note on top, taped at a slight angle. It was Joe’s handwriting—she’d know it anywhere. Slanted, sharp, a little too proud of itself, like even his pen had swagger.

“For when I’m away and you need your favorite stress reliever. — Love, Your MVP.”

Angel squinted at it, one brow arched, heart already flipping in her chest, already suspicious. The man was insane. She knew it. Had proof. But she still tugged the tissue paper aside, cautiously like it was a Pandora’s box.

And then she froze.

Then screamed.

Not a high-pitched, terrified scream—but the kind that exploded out of you when your brain just refused to compute what your eyes were seeing. Her hands flew up to cover her face as her laughter burst out in startled, wheezing waves.

It was him. Or more specifically… a part of him.

A shockingly accurate, skin-toned silicone replica of Joe’s dick lay nestled in the tissue like some absurdly intimate trophy.

“Oh my God, Joe,” she hissed between gasps, one hand still over her mouth as her other poked at the thing like it might come to life. “You did not—”

Her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a FaceTime call.

Speak of the devil.

She swiped to answer, and there he was—shirtless, glowing under warm lighting, looking way too pleased with himself. His grin stretched slow and smug across his face.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he said, voice low and lazy like he’d been waiting all damn day to talk to her.

“You’re sick,” Angel accused, immediately holding the phone up so he could see exactly what she was looking at. “Is this what I think it is?”

“You tell me,” Joe drawled, smirking. “You’ve seen the original more than anyone.”

She let out another breathless laugh and flopped back on the bed, burying her face in the comforter for a moment. “You’re the worst.”

“Nah,” he said, stretching slightly like he knew he looked good. “I’m thoughtful.”

Angel sat up and lifted the mold with both hands, holding it like a museum artifact, spinning it slowly like she was trying to judge its historical significance. “You really made this?”

“Two hours,” Joe said, proud. “Of awkward-ass instructions and way too much lube. But hey… now I’m always with you.”

Angel shook her head, biting her lip to hold back the smile that was starting to stretch across her face. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

She hesitated—just long enough for it to matter—then whispered, “You’re not.”

And just like that, something in the air shifted. The laughter faded, but the warmth remained, settling in that soft space between affection and longing. Even through the screen, she could feel it: the connection that never wavered, no matter how far apart they were. It lived in the pause between their words. In the way Joe was looking at her now, like he could reach through the phone and touch her.

“I missed you today,” she said quietly, fingers brushing over the note again.

Joe’s smile softened, losing some of that cocky edge. “I miss you every day.”

Angel curled into her pillow, phone now cradled against her cheek. The mold still sat next to her, ridiculous and yet somehow… sweet. A ridiculous, intimate love letter only Joe Burrow would have the guts to send.

“I’m still not over this,” she murmured.

“You’ll get over it the second you use it,” he replied, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Angel snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love it,” he shot back without missing a beat.

She paused—because she did. She really, truly did. No one else could drive her this crazy and still make her laugh, make her feel cherished and teased and understood, all in one go.

“I do,” she whispered, glancing at the mold once more with a shake of her head. “God help me… I really do.”

And Joe just smiled, like he knew. Because he did.

“You’re holding it like it’s fragile glass.”

“It feels fragile! I’m not trying to break your dick clone!”

Joe barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Took two hours and way more patience than I thought. If it breaks, I’m suing.”

Her fingers then brushing the note still taped to the lid. “I… kind of love that you did this.”

He didn’t gloat. Not this time. He just smiled. That real smile. The one he didn’t give to cameras or fans—just her.

“I just wanted you to have something,” he said. “When I can’t be there.”

Angel curled against her pillow, mold still beside her like some kind of x-rated emotional support statue.

“Well, you win. This is the most insane and sweet gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Joe’s voice dropped, lower now, his tone quiet and flirtatious all at once. “You gonna use it?”

“Joe.”

“I’m serious.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Not when you’re watching me on FaceTime, pervert.”

He chuckled. “Fine. I’ll let you go.”

“Good. Because I’m about to shower and head over.”

Joe leaned back, stretching. “Or you could test it out first. Let me know how accurate I was.”

“BYE, JOE.”

She hung up before she could blush harder, flinging her phone onto the bed beside the mold like she hadn’t already mentally rated the accuracy.

Still…

Angel stared at it for a long beat, biting her lip, fingers ghosting over the note again.

She was going to kill him.

But not before thanking him in every way she knew how.

Σ>―💜→

Last Friday

Joe hadn’t planned on walking into an adult store that day.

He was supposed to be grabbing protein powder. Maybe some new socks. Something completely mundane. But the novelty shop was right next door to the supplement place, and after a second glance at the display window—neon lights, gag toys, lingerie, and shelves stacked with things he’d definitely never seen in any locker room prank—it sparked a ridiculous idea that rooted fast.

It started as a joke.

Angel’s birthday was coming up, and she’d be gone visiting her family. He hated the thought of not being with her, especially on a day he knew meant more to her than she let on. And during their last late-night FaceTime, she’d teased him—half-joking, half-wistful—about how it wasn’t fair he could be in her dreams but not in her bed.

He’d laughed. She’d said something about “needing a souvenir.”

And just like that, the idea struck: What if he gave her the next best thing?

So he went inside, hoodie up, hoping no one would recognize him. He kept his head down like he was buying state secrets instead of a DIY kit labeled Clone-A-Willy: Make an Exact Replica of Your Manhood! with a cartoonishly grinning cucumber on the front. He paid in cash. Didn’t say a word to the cashier. Left the shop with the kind of shame-swagger walk that said Don’t ask me anything.

Once he got home, though, the confidence died fast.

The instructions were eight pages long. Eight. There were thermometers. Molding powder. Mixing bowls. A vibrating bullet he immediately threw out because no way Angel needs that when it’s already a 1:1 replica, thank you very much.

Joe stood in his bathroom for twenty minutes just trying to read everything. Another ten hyping himself up. “Alright,” he muttered to his reflection. “You play in front of a hundred thousand people. You can do this.”

Spoiler: It was way harder than it looked.

The mold mixture had to be exactly the right temperature or it would harden too soon. The timing was critical. The angle was everything. The instructions kept saying things like “maintain erection during the process,” and Joe—who had never once been nervous about getting hard—was suddenly very aware of every second passing.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” he grumbled, standing buck-naked in his bathroom with one hand holding the mold and the other trying desperately to keep himself at full attention while staring at a photo of Angel on his phone.

By the time the mold finally set and he pulled it free, Joe was sweaty, red in the face, and absolutely never telling a soul what he went through. Not Ja’Marr. Not his teammates. No one.

But when he poured the silicone into the mold and saw the final result—a shockingly accurate, firm replica of himself—he couldn’t help but laugh.

It was insane. Wildly inappropriate. A complete mess of a gift.

And yet… it felt perfect.

Angel had been there for every part of his grind—long practices, recovery days, those early mornings when he couldn’t lift his arms but she still kissed his forehead and told him he was brilliant. She missed him when they were apart. She wanted him, and wasn’t shy about saying it.

He wanted to give her something only he could give.

Something stupid. Something thoughtful. Something that said: I’m yours, even when I’m not there.

So he packed it in a gold box—because if he was going to give her a sex toy in the shape of his dick, he might as well make it fancy. Wrote a note in that slanted, proud handwriting she always teased him about. Taped it to the top like a signature.

“For when I’m away and you need your favorite stress reliever.— Love, Your MVP.”

And when he set it on her bed for her to find, he didn’t worry about her reaction. Not really. Because Angel? She’d get it. She’d laugh. Maybe blush. Maybe call him insane.

But he knew, deep down, she’d love it.

Because love sometimes looked like flowers and chocolates.

And sometimes?

It looked like a silicone mold of your boyfriend’s dick in a gold box.

Σ>―💜→

She didn’t use it right away.

For the first few days, the clone just sat in its little black pouch in her nightstand drawer, silently mocking her with its very existence. Every time she opened the drawer for something else—chapstick, her journal, her satin bonnet—there it was. Waiting. Just like Joe said.

By day five, the longing had turned into something heavier.

Joe had been busy—offseason workouts, media shoots, film study. They still texted, still FaceTimed, but the conversations had been shorter. Tired voices. Fewer teasing words. She understood, of course. She always did. But that didn’t stop her body from missing him.

She wanted his voice. His hands. The way he looked at her like she was something holy and sinful at the same time.

And that’s when she remembered the box.

Night had settled in. Her sheets were freshly washed. The apartment was quiet, humming with the low buzz of her diffuser and the sound of the ceiling fan above. Joe had sent her a sleepy selfie before he passed out early. Hair messy, face half-buried in his pillow, no caption. He didn’t need one.

Her thumb hovered over the photo for a second too long before she finally moved.

Drawer open. Pouch retrieved.

She held it in her hands like it was a memory—strange, familiar, hilarious in theory but suddenly not so funny now. Not when her thighs pressed together and her stomach flipped with nervous heat. She bit her lip, shook her head, and whispered, “You’re ridiculous,” to no one in particular.

But she wasn’t thinking that ten minutes later.

Not when her back arched off the bed, a breathy “Joe…” falling from her lips like a secret she couldn’t hold.

She’d closed her eyes and imagined him—his weight, his voice, the way he always knew when to slow down or press deeper. Her free hand curled in the sheets, her body aching in the way only he could pull out of her. It wasn’t quite the same—nothing ever was—but it was enough to quiet the craving. Enough to make her feel close to him, if only in the space between her ribs.

Afterward, she lay there in the stillness, skin warm, heart full.

She reached for her phone. Opened the camera. Snapped a picture—not of anything too revealing, just the sheets tangled between her thighs and the way her fingers pressed against her lips like she’d just thought of something delicious.

“You’re the worst gift-giver I’ve ever loved.”

Delivered. Read. Seconds later, the typing bubble appeared.

“Did you use it?”

She stared at the screen for a beat, pulse kicking up again.

“Maybe.”

Another bubble.

“I’m waking up hard as hell now. Thanks.”

She laughed out loud, biting her knuckle as the warmth spread across her chest. It was ridiculous. And intimate. And weirdly romantic, in the way only Joe Burrow could make something like that feel like love.

Angel sighed, sinking deeper into the mattress.

It wasn’t him.

But it was close enough—for now.

Σ>―💜→

Joe woke up groggy, one arm flung across the empty side of the bed. The sheets were twisted, his boxers clinging low on his hips, and sunlight was spilling in through his half-closed blinds, far too bold for how early it felt. His hand reached for his phone on instinct, eyes still half-shut as he unlocked it.

3 new texts from Angel 💋

2:17 AM

angel: happy birthday to me 😏 angel: your twin is getting put to work tonight angel: bet you wish you were here to see it 👅

Joe blinked. Then he blinked again, fully awake now.

“What the—” he muttered, sitting up straighter in bed.

He scrolled down. The next image took all the air out of his lungs.

There she was—Angel, flushed and glowing, one hand tangled in the sheets, the other gripping that ridiculous (and terrifyingly accurate) mold of his dick he’d given her as a joke. Her top was pushed to the side, her thighs spread just enough to drive him absolutely insane. The caption read:

look familiar?

Joe groaned, dragging a hand over his face as heat flooded his body. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

He had given her that mold as a joke. A birthday gag. Something to make her laugh, not… not this. Not something she’d actually use. Not something she’d send proof of.

But God, he couldn’t stop looking.

His hand dropped low without thought, brushing the edge of his waistband as he swiped through the next few photos: blurry, intimate, breathless shots—her mid-arch, her fingers gripping tight, the glisten of sweat on her skin. She wasn’t even trying to be perfect. She was just real, and she looked wrecked. For him.

He exhaled sharply. “This woman is gonna be the death of me.”

He texted back.

joey b 🧃

You’re playing with fire, Angel.

Using my clone like that while I’m not around?

Bet it wasn’t even close to the real thing.

Be naked when I call. I want to hear exactly what you sounded like when you came on my copy.

Three dots appeared immediately, and then disappeared.

He chuckled lowly, shaking his head as his phone buzzed with her reply.

angel 💋

You say that like I didn’t cum twice.

And maybe I’ll let you hear it... if you beg nice.

Joe was already pressing FaceTime.

She didn’t even say hello when she picked up—just lifted the phone to show her bare chest, her grin smug and sleepy and satisfied.

And Joe? Joe fell harder.

Because somehow, she’d managed to ruin his morning and make it the best one of his life.

All before breakfast.

Σ>―💜→

She was still curled up in bed, the sheets tangled around her legs and her skin warm with the aftermath, when the FaceTime rang.

Joe calling…

She didn’t even hesitate—just pressed accept, shifting slightly so only her face and shoulders were in frame. Her voice was sweet, a little breathy. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

He was shirtless, hair still wild from sleep, one arm bent behind his head. His voice was low, still scratchy. “Couldn’t. Your texts woke me up.” A pause. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her face. “You used it.”

Angel blinked, feigning innocence. “Used what?”

Joe scoffed, sitting up a little. “You know what. Don’t play dumb.”

She bit her lip, cheeks warm, the memory still pulsing between her legs like an echo. “I plead the fifth.”

“Nah,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You used it. You’re all flushed and smug. That post-nut glow is loud as hell, baby.”

Angel laughed, burying her face in the pillow for a second before peeking back up at the camera. “Okay. Maybe. But in my defense—” She drew out the words like a melody, “—you gave it to me. What did you think was gonna happen?”

Joe smirked, slow and dirty. “I thought you’d miss me.”

“I did.”

His jaw flexed, the teasing fading into something deeper. “You thought about me when you used it?”

Angel swallowed. “Of course I did.”

Joe’s voice dropped an octave. “Tell me.”

She hesitated, but only for a beat—because the truth had always been easy with him. “I was lonely. And I was thinking about the last time you were inside me—when you had me folded up, like you were trying to imprint yourself in my spine.”

Joe cursed under his breath, running a hand down his face. “You’re really tryna ruin me, huh?”

“I might’ve said your name.” Her voice was softer now, her thumb dragging along the edge of her lip. “More than once.”

He was breathing heavier now. She saw it in the way his chest moved. In the tension threading through his shoulders. “You got it nearby?”

Angel raised a brow. “You want me to show you your clone, Joey?”

“I wanna see what you did to it,” he murmured. “Wanna watch you fall apart all over again.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t answer right away, just slowly shifted the phone, angling it toward the nightstand drawer. The camera trembled slightly in her hand as she reached in, her fingers curling around it again.

“Yeah,” Joe rasped. “Just like that, baby.”

And when she set the phone down just right, tilted so he could see her body stretch and writhe, her voice already shaking as she let her head fall back—Joe reached for himself. His voice was low and urgent, filthy and full of praise, guiding her through it like his soul was tethered to hers.

“Think about my hands on you. Think about my mouth, my voice in your ear,” he whispered, his voice rough with want. “You feel me, Angel? That’s me inside you.”

And she did. With her thighs shaking and the heat burning through her, she let go all over again, her voice calling his name like it was the only one that had ever mattered.

It wasn’t just sex.

It was them—miles apart but still right there, clinging to each other in a shared need that no plastic mold could ever truly satisfy.

But damn if it didn’t come close.

Σ>―💜→

The party had come and gone.

Angel was still glowing from all the attention—the cake, the drinks, the teasing chants of “birthday girl” every time she passed—but now the only lights were soft and golden, filtering through Joe’s apartment. The city outside LSU’s campus had gone quiet. Midnight had long passed.

Joe had waited.

Not impatiently. Not with irritation. But with something deeper in his bones. Hunger.

Because tonight wasn’t about jokes or party favors.

Tonight was about her.

She stepped out of his bathroom wearing nothing but one of his old, gray Ohio shirts, the hem barely brushing her thighs. Her skin still smelled like vanilla and coconut lotion, her lashes dark with the last remains of mascara. And Joe, already sitting on the edge of his bed, watched her like a man starved.

“You keep wearing my shit like that,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, “and I’m gonna ruin this whole night before it starts.”

Angel smirked as she walked toward him, slow and deliberate. “Isn’t that the point, lover boy?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just reached for her, pulled her in by the waist until she stood between his thighs. His hands traveled up the backs of her thighs, under the shirt, fingers gripping the plush curve of her ass.

“No clone this time,” he said, eyes dark. “You don’t get the copy. You get me.”

Her smirk faltered. Just a little. “Then give me my gift, Joey.”

That’s all it took.

The switch flipped—his mouth on hers, all tongue and teeth, hands already tugging the shirt over her head. She gasped when he pulled her down onto the bed with him, his body covering hers fully. All that strength, all that quiet control now bearing down on her like a promise.

“I thought about you using it,” he said between kisses, sliding down her body. “That fake dick. My copy.” His mouth hovered just above her navel. “But you know what I kept thinking about more?”

Angel arched into him. “What?”

Joe slid a hand between her legs, groaning at the slick he found waiting for him. “How bad you must’ve wanted the real thing.”

She was already gasping as his fingers slipped inside, slow and deep.

“And now?” he asked, curling them just right. “You get all of me. Every inch.”

Σ>―💜→

The real birthday gift was never the mold. It was the way Joe worshipped her that night.

Slow at first, like he needed to memorize the taste of her again. Then rougher—hard, possessive strokes when she wrapped her legs around him and begged for more.

He had her folded up in a way only Joe could—one leg over his shoulder, the other spread wide, his hips driving down into her with every thrust.

“You miss me?” he growled, sweat dripping down his neck.

“Yes, yes, yes—” she cried, her nails digging into his biceps.

“You want me to make it up to you?”

“Joe—fuck—please—”

He bent down, kissed her breathless, and gave her the real gift:

One mind-numbing orgasm. Then another.

And then one so intense, so shattering, it left her sobbing beneath him, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

He whispered in her ear afterward, voice hoarse and reverent, “Happy birthday, baby. No one’s ever gonna love you like this.”

And she knew—nothing he could’ve bought would ever touch that.

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