#i need him to feel his body fill with warmth from the love | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

capuccinodoll · 1 day ago

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— A haunted body, part one: "When I close my eyes, it feels like home" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates

— Chapter summary: After the Millers saved your life, you became something of a miracle. Now you’ve been given a second chance, and the sweetness of your new home is overshadowed by the coldness of one of them: Joel. Unfortunately for him, Tommy assigns you to work by his side, as the assistant he claims he doesn’t need.

A/N: I hope you enjoy this one. I haven't been able to get this man out of my head since season two came out, and I just had to write it. Consider it my love letter to Joel Miller. Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN)

Jackson, 2027. Morning. The edge of winter.

The snow hadn't melted yet. It lay heavy and whole across the landscape, an unbroken layer of white pressed onto the earth. The mountains in the distance were pale and still, touched by the sharp blue light of morning. Everything looked hushed.

Joel rode next to Tommy along the eastern patrol route, their horses’ hooves muffled in the thick frost. It was their third day in a row covering the outer line. Last week’s storm had forced them to stay close to the center of town, so they were making up for it now, filling in the gaps. The sun was climbing with that late- winter defiance— bright and high, but not enough to soften anything.

They were already on their way back when Tommy spoke.

"The sun feels warmer today, doesn’t it?” he said, squinting at the horizon. His voice was casual, he wanted Joel to say yes. Like he needed proof they were moving toward spring.

Joel didn’t answer. He kept his gaze forward, where the snow caught the sunlight and bounced it straight into his eyes. His face was raw from the cold, red across the cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He shifted in the saddle, nudged the horse ahead with a quiet click of his tongue. Then he saw something, just a break in the white, a shape that didn’t belong.

He signaled with a small gesture. Tommy followed his line of sight.

There, off the side of the road, nestled in the folds of snow, was a shape that could have been anything. A boulder, a fallen log. But Joel felt it before he could explain it— something old and hardwired in his gut pulling taut.

He approached cautiously, letting the horse come to a stop a few feet away. There was a stiffness in his chest.

Tommy saw it too, and was already reaching for his rifle. Joel had his out first.

They dismounted in unspoken agreement, boots crunching against the crusted snow as they stepped closer.

A woman.

She was lying on her side, half -covered as if the weather had tried to bury her and nearly succeeded. Her skin was raw, her mouth pale and parted. There was a slash of red across her side, staining the snow like spilled paint

Joel crouched beside her. He took off his glove, his hand bracing against the cold. With the back of his fingers, he brushed snow from her face. Then he pressed gently at the side of her neck, feeling for movement. For warmth. For anything.

There it was— a pulse. Faint, but steady.

And then he looked closer.

His eyes traced her face first, then the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck, stopping just below the place where his fingers rested. It landed in him like a stone in deep water.

He jerked back, breath caught in his throat. As if something had reached up from the ground and grabbed him.

Tommy noticed.

“What is it?” he asked. “Joel?”

“She’s alive,” Joel said quickly. “Not infected. We need to get her up.”

Tommy hesitated, glancing between Joel and the woman. He didn't ask questions. Just helped lift her, following Joel’s lead.

They wrapped her in a thick blanket Joel pulled from his saddle. She felt light. Or maybe it was adrenaline that made her easier to carry. They positioned her on Joel’s horse, her head resting against his chest.

The ride back wasn’t quiet. The wind cut sharp between their shoulders, and Tommy had opinions he couldn’t keep to himself. Joel didn’t say much.

Jackson. Hospital. An hour later.

The room was small— bare walls, dim lighting, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the corners. The woman lay on a gurney in the center, surrounded by too much space for someone so still.

Joel and Tommy had left her there.

When Maria entered, she didn’t speak right away. Two volunteer doctors followed behind her, both of them already pulling on gloves, focused, professional. Maria stood just inside the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching as they moved around the woman—checking her breathing, cutting away the frozen fabric of her clothes, revealing skin that looked cold to the touch.

They were searching for wounds, for the hidden things the snow might have masked. Her skin was bruised in places, pale in others. The slash across her side had started to clot, the blood a deep, dark red now. She hadn’t stirred once. No flinch. No flicker behind the eyelids.

Still, she was breathing.

They had checked her at the gates for infection— protocol, as always— and she had passed. No bites. No spores. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that she wouldn’t wake up.

Tommy stood against the wall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Joel didn’t say anything. He was near the window, watching the light catch on the frost-covered glass. His jaw was tense, arms crossed.

“I have no idea how she's still alive ,” one of the doctors murmured to no one in particular, his voice too quiet for comfort.

Maria finally spoke. “You did good,” she said, her gaze moving first to Tommy, then resting on Joel.

Joel didn’t respond right away. He nodded once, barely, and didn’t meet her eyes.

He turned and walked out a minute after that. The snow outside had hardened under the afternoon sun. His boots pressed into it, leaving uneven prints as he moved away from the building.

Jackson. Hospital. One month later.

Dr. Hale placed the chipped teacup back on his desk. The surface beneath it was scuffed, the wood worn smooth in places by years of use. He exhaled and raised his eyes to meet yours.

You were perched on the edge of the gurney. The fabric beneath you was stiff and clean. Your legs hung just above the ground, not quite steady.

“Well,” he began, his voice careful, “you’re officially discharged.”

Your body didn’t react. You just nodded, eyes fixed on the lines etched deep across his face.

“Everything looks good,” he continued. “There’s no sign of neurological damage. Your kidneys are doing what they should. Muscle tone’s coming back. You’re going to feel weak for a bit— especially in the cold— but that’s normal, okay?”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure what exactly normal meant anymore.

He reached for a sheet of paper, started scribbling something without lifting his head. His hands were large, knuckles like knots, fingers marked by time and use. His movements had a practiced efficiency.

“Eat well,” he said. “As much as you can. Rest. Come back in two weeks. And please—don’t go wandering around in the snow again. I’m not dragging you in a second time .”

You let out a soft laugh— small, startled by its own presence. “I promise.”

He stood then, with more ease than you'd expect from a man in his seventies. His height was solid, his frame still holding together in the way of someone who had decided long ago not to fall apart just yet.

He extended a hand toward you. His palm was dry, warm, reassuring.

“Good job surviving,” he said. “Not everyone can say the same.”

And he was right.

You knew survival hadn’t been something you did , not really. You hadn’t fought through the cold. You hadn’t rescued yourself. You had been unconscious for at least an hour before anyone found you.

Joel and Tommy Miller had pulled you out of the snow. That was the truth.

When you were brought in, the prognosis wasn’t good. Severe hypothermia. Dehydration. Hypoglycemia. A really bad combination that didn’t leave much room for recovery. But they acted fast— someone always did, in places like this. You had no memory of those first days. Only what they told you after.

You spent three days in intensive care. Five more in a shared ward. Somehow, you walked away with no permanent damage. No brain trauma. No infections. No organ failure. A miracle , someone had said. You weren’t sure if you believed in those.

After you were discharged, you didn’t have anywhere to go. So they found you a place.

The Rowells— an elderly couple with quiet voices and a spare room— took you in. Isabella, the wife, had met you in the hospital. She made tea the day you moved into their home. She told you stories about the town and her life before the pandemic. But she didn’t ask about your past.

You spent three weeks there, mostly horizontal. Reading when your eyes let you. Sleeping when you could. Waiting for your body to feel like yours again.

Tommy stopped by more than once. At least once a week, always with a bag of something— fruit, or socks, or gloves he claimed Maria had made. Sometimes she came with him. They never stayed too long. But they stayed long enough.

You knew other people had arrived in town recently . It made their visits feel even more meaningful— like they'd chosen to make room for you in a life already full of demands.

“You’re becoming a bit of a celebrity around here, you know that?” Tommy said, his voice light as he leaned back in the worn kitchen chair, a cup of tea balanced in his hand.

It was late afternoon, the sun folding softly across the window of the Rowells' house, stretching across the table in warm patches. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke. You sat across from him, the chipped rim of your mug pressed to your lower lip, your hands wrapped around it to soak up the heat.

You lifted your brows. “ Oh, yeah? Why?”

He grinned. “They talk about the woman who survived the snow. There’s a whole myth forming. Some folks think it’s a miracle your fingers didn’t fall off.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” he said, chuckling. “But you should hear them. They’re convinced. You know how many people around here have lost toes? A few have lost more. And you— nothing. Not even frostbite. You’re lucky.”

You looked down into your tea, watching the pale swirl of milk settle.

“You saved me,” you said, voice quiet. “You and your brother. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be a frozen corpse halfway to town. A popsicle.”

Tommy made a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “A popsicle? ”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well,” he said, tipping his cup toward you in a mock toast, “you’re resilient. That’s something. Not many people survive that long in the cold, and with a wound? Actually, a few folks started calling you Snow. You know, mysterious stranger from the mountains, almost mythic.”

You laughed this time— an actual laugh, not the tight, polite kind. “Snow? Seriously?”

He shrugged, playful. “It’s catchy. Plus, the fact that no one’s seen you outside in a month adds to the intrigue.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Four walls, three meals a day, hours spent under blankets or seated near a window watching the sky shift. That had been your life since arriving in Jackson. Recovery wasn’t linear. Some days you could walk for twenty minutes. Others, the cold made your joints ache and your stomach turn. But mostly, you stayed in. You rested. You waited to feel like someone again.

You cleared your throat gently. “I’ve been meaning to ask... do you think I could talk to your brother sometime? I haven’t had the chance to thank him.”

Tommy paused. The change in his expression was small— barely there— but you caught it.

“Joel?” he asked. “He hasn’t come by?”

You shook your head. “No. Was he supposed to?”

“No,” Tommy said, slowly . “But I told him where you were staying. Figured he might stop in.”

You nodded. “Right. Well... maybe he’s busy.”

There was a moment of stillness between you. Not awkward, exactly. Just thoughtful.

Tommy broke it gently. “When you feel ready, we can move you into your own place. Maria picked it out a couple weeks ago. She’s been fussing over it— putting up curtains and whatnot.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Really?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I didn’t want to say anything until you were feeling better. It’s not huge or anything— two bedrooms, one bath. Just a short walk from the dining hall.”

A warmth started to rise in your chest. “That sounds... amazing.”

He held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Look, I’m not saying Maria plays favorites. But it’s a good spot. We thought you’d like it.”

You looked at him, and for a second something inside you softened. “Tommy, I haven’t had a home in a long time. Years, honestly. Decades, if I’m being real. You could’ve given me a shed and I’d still be grateful.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair again. “Well, it’s a few steps up from a shed. I promise.”

You smiled. For the first time in weeks, it reached your eyes.

“When you’re ready,” he said, setting down his mug, “ just say the word.”

Jackson dining hall. Two weeks later. Morning.

The sun was pouring through the high windows of the dining hall, catching in the steam that rose from bowls and mugs. The space hummed with life— forks knocking against ceramic, chairs scraping over wood, the thrum of conversation happening all at once and everywhere. Someone laughed in the far corner. Someone else said pass the salt .

The smell of beef stew lingered in the air and there was fresh bread, too. You could tell from the way the scent curled gently toward you. You closed your eyes and breathed in, letting the feeling settle in your chest. You let yourself pretend, just briefly, that none of this had ever happened. That the world you knew had not ended. That you were somewhere safe, and always had been.

For a moment, with your eyes closed, it felt like home.

Jackson did that to you. It had a way of disarming your fear without making a spectacle of it. The town felt steady, like it had grown roots and decided not to move again. There was kindness here. You saw it in the way people nodded to each other on the street, in how they lingered at the market stalls just to talk. No one looked over their shoulder while they walked. That was new.

You’d adjusted quickly, maybe more quickly than you expected. There was no guilt in that, though sometimes it hovered on the edges of your comfort like a shadow. But what else were you supposed to do? The bed they gave you was soft. The sheets were clean. You weren’t used to softness like that, not anymore, but you learned. You remembered how to fold your clothes. How to run a hot shower. How to breathe without urgency.

The little things were the most disarming: soap that smelled like coconut, almond oil on your skin, a room that belonged only to you. A window that opened onto a street lined with planters and signs carved by hand. No smoke. No screaming. Just laundry on lines and children running between houses.

People were kind, too. Curious but never invasive. Last week, a few had approached you while you waited for your turn at the bakery or wandered back from the stables. Their questions were gentle: How’d you get here? Were you alone? Your answer didn’t change. A long walk, a bad fight, then nothing. You didn’t remember much after that.

No one pressed. That was something you respected deeply about this place. Everyone had their own version of silence, and they honored it in each other. Maybe that was the truest form of community you’d ever seen—understanding when not to ask.

They didn’t use your name. Not most of them, anyway. The Rowells did. Maria did. But everyone else, even Tommy, called you Snow . It had started like a joke, or a placeholder, and then it stuck. Not in a cruel way— it was never said with ridicule. If anything, it sounded like reverence.

You didn’t mind. After everything you’d lost, being called Snow felt oddly generous. A reminder that you were still here. That whatever had happened before you collapsed in the snow wasn’t all that you were now.

And maybe, deep down, you liked it.

Now, you were starting to feel something close to settled. It was subtle, the shift— more like a softening than a transformation— but it was there. The past week had been spent tucking small pieces of yourself into the new house: hanging the spare coat on its hook by the door, folding the same blanket each morning and placing it neatly at the end of the bed. A ceramic bowl filled with dried flowers sat on the windowsill now. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it looked like someone lived there.

You had energy again. Not the kind that came from adrenaline or necessity, but the steadier sort that allowed you to move . You were sure— quietly sure— that you were ready to work. To use your hands for something other than holding a warm mug or steadying yourself against the edge of a table.

You’d brought it up with Maria and Tommy earlier in the week, suggested helping out where needed. They listened carefully, as they always did. Tommy even nodded. But then Maria had tilted her head in that gentle, assessing way, and said something about letting yourself land fully first. Letting your bones catch up to your heartbeat. They didn’t say the word, but you could feel it hovering: fragile. Not quite visible, but not quite gone either.

This morning, though, everything felt lighter. There was sun pouring through the cracks in the clouds, the snow retreating like it had finally grown tired. Spring was arriving in slow intervals, a bud here, a patch of green there.

You put on the oversized wool coat Isabella gave you and walked to the dining hall with a quiet sort of purpose. Your legs didn’t tremble the way they had that first week.

Inside, the room was already full. It was a comforting kind of noise, the human kind. You moved along the edge, scanning for an empty seat, then slid into the corner of a long table, your tray balanced carefully in front of you. A bowl of stew. A heel of bread. And beside it, a small plastic container with a lid, something you'd packed yourself.

You weren’t eating yet. You weren’t even hungry, really.

You had seen him come in just before you. Joel Miller.

Tommy hadn’t told you much about him, only what directly concerned you— that Joel had seen you first, out there in the snow. That he’d been the one to check for your pulse. Beyond that, he remained a quiet, distant presence. He hadn’t visited while you were in recovery. He hadn’t said a word to you in passing. But you had seen him, more than once. Standing outside the stables. Walking the main road. Always looking ahead, always looking elsewhere. And each time, you waited for him to glance in your direction— just once— so you could approach him. But he never did.

And well, you only knew the basics. That he was 60 years old, and had a daughter. Not much else.

And yet now, here he was, seated alone at a small table against the wall. His elbows rested heavily on the surface, fingers laced together, gaze fixed on the plate in front of him.

You took a breath. Not a dramatic one— just enough to ground yourself.

Then you picked up your tray in one hand, and the small plastic container in the other.

You moved toward him. The rest of the room continued on around you, but the sound seemed to stretch out, soften, as if the distance between you and him was insulated in its own quiet.

He didn’t look up when you reached his table, though you had the distinct feeling he’d known you were coming from the first step you took in his direction.

His eyes stayed on his plate. Still, you stood there, a small, polite pause suspended between you.

“Hi,” you said quietly. “Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just a flicker of acknowledgment— his eyes lifting to yours for the briefest moment, then dropping back to the plate in front of him.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, his voice rough, gravel settled into each syllable, like something scraped across the floor of a long-abandoned room.

Up close, his eyes were darker than you remembered. You’d only seen him from a distance before— shadows moving across his face as he passed on the street. Eyes far away.

You swallowed, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth like it might steady you.

“I made these for you,” you said, setting the small plastic container down in front of him, careful not to let your fingers brush the edge of his tray. “They’re cookies. I baked them this morning. I’m not amazing at it, but... Isabella told me they turned out okay.”

Joel looked at the container, then back at his plate. He didn’t reach for it.

“I already got food,” he said plainly.

Your smile stuttered a little, but you held onto it. A sort of half-grin, the kind you give when you’ve already committed to being warm and don’t want to withdraw it too soon.

“Yeah, no, of course,” you said. “I just thought— maybe— you might want something sweet. And I wanted to thank you. For saving me. Tommy told me you were the one who—”

“You’re welcome,” Joel said, this time looking up fully. His eyes found yours and held, not unkind but unreadable.

And then nothing.

He looked away again, like the conversation had already happened.

You waited. A beat. Then another.

He didn’t speak again.

“Would it be okay if I sat?” you asked, your fingers brushing the edge of the opposite chair.

Joel hesitated. “No, sorry.”

You blinked. Not from surprise— exactly— but from the sting of it.

“Oh,” you said, clearing your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, voice softer now but no less certain. “ You don’t have to thank me. It’s done. We helped you. You’re safe. That’s enough.”

You nodded, eyes suddenly too aware of how exposed you felt standing there. You reached for the cookies, unsure whether to leave them behind or take them with you, not wanting to look like you were withdrawing a gift, but not wanting to leave something that wasn’t wanted either.

And then the sound of a chair scraping broke the silence. Sharp and clumsy. You turned toward the noise.

A girl was sitting next to Joel now. Her energy filled the space immediately, like she’d walked into a room she already owned. She was watching you with curiosity, her expression open and mildly amused.

“Hey,” she said, grinning. “You’re the almost-dead girl.”

“Ellie,” Joel muttered, giving her a sideways look.

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing softly. The tension needed somewhere to go, and humor was a better place than most. “I guess that’s one way to introduce me.”

“Joel hasn’t said much,” she continued. “Just what everyone already knows. You’re like a miracle. Good thing you didn’t die.”

You let out another laugh, lighter this time.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing back at Joel. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. “Good thing.”

You hesitated for one more second, hoping he might say something else. But nothing came.

“Well, I should go,” you said. Your voice was even, but you felt the warmth rush to your face. The sharp kind of warmth that comes with feeling out of place.

You reached for the container and picked it up again. The cookies. And then you turned away, walking back through the sea of tables, wishing you could shrink down into something smaller.

Two days later, on a gray afternoon.

The sky had the muted tone of brushed steel, clouds hanging low and unmoving. The wind carried a chill that felt out of place for spring, like the season was unsure whether it had permission to stay. The air was crisp, not cold, but enough to sting faintly when it touched your cheeks.

You had thought about this a lot—more than you were willing to admit. Replaying the last conversation in your head, trying to see it from all sides. Maybe you should’ve said less. Maybe he’d had a bad morning. Maybe he didn’t even mean to come off that way. You hadn’t been able to stop circling the maybes. But you kept arriving at the same conclusion: you had nothing to lose by trying again.

You stopped in front of his house.

You’d seen it before from a distance. It was a modest place, sturdy- looking, with a front porch that looked like it had been swept recently. There was something careful about it.

Mrs. Rowell had told you Joel was good with repairs. “He rebuilt our staircase,” she’d said once, while pouring tea. “You can check them, he did a really good job.”

Now, you approached the door of his house with a basket in your arms, wrapped in a clean cloth that fluttered slightly in the breeze. Inside: warm bread, still soft, and a handful of cookies. The same kind you’d made before. Something simple, something you would’ve given to a neighbor in another life.

You hesitated on the porch. One breath, and then another. And then you knocked.

Footsteps padded toward the door, soft and unhurried. A pause, and then a voice— lighter than Joel’s, quicker.

“Who is it?”

It wasn’t him.

The door opened. Ellie.

Her face lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, with the easy familiarity of someone who had already decided to like you.

You smiled, though it wasn’t exactly a smile—more like the shape of one.

“It’s actually…” You told her your name, your real name, the one people hadn’t used much in Jackson.

“Oh— shit. Sorry,” she said quickly, her eyebrows folding together in a sincere expression of guilt. “Didn’t mean to—yeah. I didn’t mean to make it a thing.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind the nickname. People started using it and it just sort of stuck, right?”

Ellie nodded, stepping aside a little, her hand still gripping the door.

“That’s probably for the best. Would be kind of hellish if everyone called you something you hated.” She looked at you then, expectant, as if waiting for you to say something back. But the silence stretched longer than she anticipated, and she shifted on her feet. “ Oh— shit. Sorry. Did you, um, want to come in?”

Your eyebrows rose gently. “Oh, no. No, it’s not that. I just…” Your voice trailed off, unsure. You glanced at the basket in your hands like it might explain for you. “I was hoping to talk to Joel. If he’s around. If that’s even—” you exhaled, a little frustrated at yourself, “— if that’s okay.”

Ellie tilted her head and squinted slightly, like she was trying to gauge your intention. “He’s not here. Went out about an hour ago. Why, though?”

“I brought this,” you said, lifting the basket slightly. “Just to thank him. Nothing more.”

She watched you for a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, casual again.

“If you want, you can stay till he gets back. Or, I mean, I can give it to him .”

You hesitated.

“I’ll wait a bit,” you said finally. You glanced down at the basket, then up at her. “Do you like cookies?”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were perched on the front steps of Joel’s porch. The basket sat between you like a third guest. For some reason, you hadn’t stepped inside. It felt too intimate, too much like crossing into a place you hadn’t been invited.

The air was crisp, the sky still overcast. Every so often, a breeze tugged at your hair and made you pull your arms tighter around yourself. Ellie didn’t seem to mind the chill. She was working her way through a cookie, eating it in small bites.

Every now and then, she’d offer up a scrap of conversation—something about the newest group of people who had arrived in Jackson, about how one of them had apparently tried to barter using a broken guitar. You listened, grateful for her easy way of speaking, the way she didn’t seem to expect anything profound from you.

You nibbled on a cookie, not really hungry, just needing to do something with your hands.

Another ten minutes passed.

Then you heard the sound of footsteps, pressed fully into the ground, not rushed, not quiet either. Ellie stopped mid-sentence. You both turned your heads toward the sound.

It was Joel.

He was carrying a stack of firewood in both arms, his shoulders set in a way that made him look like he’d been holding tension. His boots were caked with drying mud. He didn’t see you at first— his eyes fixed somewhere ahead.

When he finally did notice you, just a few steps from the porch, he didn’t flinch or startle. But he didn’t smile either. His face remained unchanged, impassive.

He let out a quiet exhale—not dramatic, not performative. Just a sound that suggested he was tired.

Without saying anything, he dropped the firewood next to the porch. The logs landed with a dull thud, some rolling gently before coming to rest against one another.

Beside you, Ellie was still chewing, still holding the half-eaten cookie in her hand.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

You tried to sound lighter than you felt. “Hi,” you said.

Joel looked at you, his expression unreadable, the same tired steadiness you’d seen at the dining hall.

“I told you it was okay ,” he said. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried a finality that pressed against your chest.

You parted your lips to answer, but he cut in before the words could form. “What are you doing here?”

Next to you, Ellie didn’t say anything. But y ou could feel her stillness, the way her energy retreated slightly.

You stood, brushing the back of your jeans with one hand, lifting the basket with the other. Both hands wrapped around it like an offering you weren’t sure would be accepted.

“I just wanted to drop this off,” you said. “For you. For Ellie too. It’s just bread and some more cookies. I thought maybe—”

“You don’t have to thank me again,” he said, cutting you off. “What I did... Anyone would’ve done the same.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft sound, half amusement, half disbelief. “That’s not true.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, confused or unconvinced.

“You found me in the snow, barely breathing,” you said. “You didn’t know me. You could’ve walked away. A lot of people would’ve. In this world... yeah.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes focused on something just over your shoulder.

“I’m not trying to make it into more than it was,” you said, more softly now. “I just needed to say thank you. You saved my life. That means something to me.”

There was a long pause. Joel shifted his weight, then let out another breath— this one heavier, but quieter. He looked at you for a long beat. Then, finally, he nodded. It was so slight you might have missed it if you weren’t paying attention.

“I know,” he said. “And it’s okay. Really.”

Before you could think of how to respond, he stepped forward. His hand reached for the basket, and you instinctively pulled your fingers back so he wouldn’t have to touch you. He took it, eyes flicking briefly to the cloth over the top.

“Thanks for this,” he said. “We’re square. That’s it. You don’t need to come back.”

He turned away and stepped up onto the porch, his boots leaving faint marks on the wooden boards. His back was to you now as he reached for the door. But before opening it fully, he glanced back—just barely.

“Ellie. Inside.”

Ellie looked between the two of you. Her gaze lingered on you for a second, something unsure flickering across her face.

“See you around,” she said, smiling faintly, then she walked past Joel and into the house.

You gave her a small nod, your smile returning like a reflex.

Just before he stepped inside, Joel turned slightly, his profile outlined by the doorway.

“Thanks for the bread,” he said. “And the cookies.”

He disappeared inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, long enough to feel the cold pressing in against your coat. Then you turned around, hands now empty, and started back down the path. You walked home.

Jackson dining hall. Four days later. Early morning

The dining hall was already halfway full. Conversations hummed softly around you—people passing mugs back and forth, chairs dragging against the floor, the scrape of metal spoons on ceramic. Outside, the light was still thin and cold.

Maria was seated across from you, her posture confident, comfortable. Her hands were wrapped around a chipped white mug, steam rising gently from her tea.

“I just don’t think you’re quite ready for that kind of thing,” she said, watching you carefully over the rim. “And it’s not about capability, necessarily. It’s about not risking further injury. If you really want to do heavier tasks later, the best thing you can do right now is keep healing.”

You rested your forearms on the table, fingers clasped. “I am healed,” you said. “Really. I feel strong.”

Maria set her mug down with a faint clink. She smiled, not unkindly, but with a kind of tempered amusement.

“All right, but what are you imagining?”

The question lit something inside you—like a switch being flipped. You sat up straighter.

“I’m a fast learner,” you said. “I mean—I don’t know everything, obviously, but I pick things up quickly. I’m not great in the kitchen, but I’m willing to learn. Or I could help at the hospital. I’ve had some first aid training, and I’d be happy to learn more. I could assist Dr. Hale, even if it’s just basic stuff. Triage. Organizing supplies.”

Maria tilted her head slightly, studying you.

“I just don’t want to be idle,” you continued. “I want to contribute. I’ve come out the other side of all this, and I don’t take that lightly. My body’s not perfect, but it’s holding up. I’m good at staying focused. I know how to be useful. And I'm really good following orders.”

As you were speaking, Tommy appeared beside Maria and slid into the chair next to her. He nodded at you in greeting, already catching the thread of the conversation.

“Good at following orders, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

You didn’t waver. “Yes. Very good.”

He gave a short laugh, exchanged a look with Maria—something half teasing, half impressed.

“Well,” he said, voice warm but steady. “That’s good to hear. I might have something in mind for you.”

An hour later, you were folowing Tommy.

The building stood tall and unassuming on the outside, like it had been stitched into place with care. It was two stories high, and smelled of sawdust and coffee.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you stepped in behind Tommy. Two men passed you near the entrance, one with a clipboard in hand, the other rattling off a list of supplies—nails, paint, tools.

The space downstairs was broad and functional. Three closed doors lined one side, and a narrow staircase climbed the other. You barely had time to take it in before Tommy was already ascending, and you trailed behind him, heart tapping against your ribs—not from the stairs, not really.

The upper hallway was quieter. A couple of the doors were cracked open, and you could hear soft conversations, the rustle of paper, someone laughing faintly behind one of them. You glanced in as you passed, catching glimpses of tools and shelves and people.

At the end of the hall, the last door stood open. Tommy didn’t hesitate. He knocked, three times, sharp and confident against the frame, then stepped inside before any invitation came.

You followed him without thinking. Without preparing yourself.

The room was spacious but spare. A large window covered nearly the entire far wall, framing the outsides of Jackson like a photograph. Through it, you could see the main path leading into town, a stretch of trees, the slope of the road. It looked quiet.

To the left of the room, Tommy had already made his way toward a desk. Your eyes shifted instinctively to the man standing behind it.

“Joel,” Tommy said, and your attention snapped.

He was bent over a wide sheet of what looked like hand-drawn map, the paper creased and worn from use. He wore a thick vest over a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted faintly with dirt or graphite. There were glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—something about that startled you more than it should have.

Behind him was a whiteboard, and written in marker across the top were the words "Current Patrol Leads."

At first, he only looked at Tommy. His face lit up briefly in acknowledgment, a short-lived smile curving across his mouth. And then he turned his head toward you.

And the smile vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Joel asked, his voice low.

Tommy grinned a little. “I’m bringing you help.”

Joel’s brow creased immediately. He didn’t glance at you. “Help for what ?”

Tommy tilted his head. “Unless I’ve been hallucinating, you’ve been complaining every other day about how much you’re juggling on your own.”

“Well, you are hallucinating, then,” Joel said flatly.

“She needs work,” Tommy continued, undeterred. “And you need someone. She’s capable, pays attention, follows instructions. I thought the arrangement might make sense.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you trusted your voice. You stood still, fingers curled against your sides, trying not to fidget. Joel’s eyes found you, and the weight of that stare felt like being pressed between two panes of glass. Still, you didn’t look away.

“What exactly is she supposed to do?” he asked, now turning to Tommy again. “She’s not strong enough.”

A flicker of frustration crossed Tommy’s face. He exhaled, slow through his nose, then said, “She’s not here to lift beams. Delegate some of the admin work. Supply logs, shift schedules, volunteer lists. The kind of stuff you keep putting off. She can help organize, maybe join you when you walk the sites, keep things moving.”

Joel scoffed, a dry sound in the back of his throat.

“An assistant?” he asked, like it was a punchline.

Tommy nodded, amused. “That’s one word for it.”

Joel kept his arms crossed. His posture was rigid, but not angry—more like reluctant to entertain an idea he didn’t come up with himself. His eyes didn’t drift back to you. Not yet.

“Joel,” Tommy pressed, softer the name carrying just a thread of insistence.

“Tommy,” he said, imitating his brother's tone.

“Joel,” Tommy said again.

Joel blinked once, as if trying to clear something from his head. “Isn’t there somewhere else she’d be more useful?”

“She could be useful here,” Tommy said, shrugging. “You’ve got too much on your plate and you know it. Let her help, even if it’s just for a while.”

Joel sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the quiet hum of the building. His gaze finally moved—just briefly—to you. And then away again.

He looked at his brother, jaw set like he was chewing the words before letting them out.

“All right,” he said at last. “She can give it a shot. But she’s out the moment this stops working."

Tommy turned to glance at you, the corner of his mouth lifted in something that resembled a smile. “So? What do you think?”

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. The room didn’t feel like yours to speak in. There was a tightness in your chest that made speaking feel like too much effort. It was difficult not to notice the way they had been talking about you—like you were a very complicated favor being negotiated.

“I can work somewhere else,” you said finally, voice soft but clear. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t wait to see their reactions. You turned and headed for the door, your steps measured, not rushed. You barely registered the muffled conversation behind you—Tommy’s voice again, firm.

Your hand brushed against the banister as you descended the stairs, the wood familiar under your fingers. And outside, the air greeted you with a sharp inhale, and you stopped for a second to breathe it in, like it could steady something inside you.

Now that you’d left the room, now that you had space to think, it became painfully obvious that you’d misread everything. Joel hadn’t just been tired that day you showed up at his porch. It hadn’t been a matter of timing. This wasn’t about mood.

It was you.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t want you around. Not at his house. Not at his workplace.

You started walking, unsure where you were headed exactly, only that you needed to keep moving. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it dulled with each step.

Then you heard someone behind you.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice called out, catching up. You turned to see him approaching.

“Don’t mind Joel,” he said as he reached you, tone lighter than it had been upstairs. “He’s had a rough couple of days.”

“It’s okay,” you said, shaking your head. “Really. I can find something else.”

“He said yes,” Tommy replied simply.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He’s just—being difficult. That’s all,” Tommy insisted. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

You pressed your lips together, unconvinced. There was too much evidence to the contrary.

Tommy tipped his head toward the building. “Come on. Let me show you around, get you familiar with what you'll be doing.”

And with that, he turned back without waiting for a reply, leaving you with little choice but to follow him.

Back inside, Joel was seated now, the chair creaking faintly under his weight. He looked up when you entered, his expression unreadable. He removed his glasses and set them down beside a notepad.

Tommy gestured toward the empty chair across from Joel’s desk.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Then he looked at Joel directly, something pointed in his expression. “Joel,” he added, like a warning dressed as a goodbye. “See you later.”

You watched him disappear down the hallway. And then, slowly, your eyes returned to Joel.

He looked larger somehow from that angle—seated, yes, but his frame still imposing. His arms rested heavily on the desk in front of him, the fabric of his shirt creasing at the elbows. His shoulders were drawn forward in a way that made him seem both powerful and fatigued. Strands of grey curled behind his ears, his hair unkempt in a way that felt unintentional. His eyes were pretty dark, settled somewhere near yours, but not quite on them.

“You can use the other desk,” he said after a moment, gesturing vaguely behind you with a tilt of his head.

You turned. The desk leaned awkwardly against the wall, cluttered with a mix of papers, boxes, and what looked like layers of dust. It didn’t seem like anyone had touched it in weeks.

You glanced back at him. “You don’t want me here.”

Joel didn’t respond to that. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze shifted to the window beside you.

“You can get set up after we move that stuff,” he said, voice low, almost to himself. “Most of it’s junk. I kept it there thinking I’d want everything within reach while we were working. Guess that didn’t pan out.”

You said nothing. The silence grew between you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, but after a beat, he glanced your way. There was something questioning in his expression, like he couldn’t quite figure you out—or maybe he just didn’t want to try.

Your hands were folded tightly in your lap. A quiet sigh escaped your nose. You could feel the static in the air between you, that sharp edge of someone growing less patient with every second.

You looked out the window, just to break the contact. He exhaled audibly.

“You should get a feel for the job first—” he started.

“I’ve done this before,” you cut in, meeting his eyes. Your voice was steady, not defensive. Just a fact. “A few years ago. Lists, schedules, checking inventory. I’ve done it.”

He didn’t move. “You don’t know how things work around here.”

“I’ll learn.”

Joel nodded, more to himself than to you. “Good.”

He stood up in one motion, the chair scraping against the floor as it slid back. You watched him cross the room, moving toward the coat rack without any sense of urgency. He grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“I’ll send someone to walk you through how we do things. In the meantime, clear off that desk. Just—don’t throw anything away yet.” His voice was still flat, businesslike. Then he turned slightly at the door, barely looking over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You nodded. “Got it.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t say goodbye. He just opened the door and stepped out, leaving it open behind him.

divider by: omi-resources

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savyindeepspace · 2 days ago

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How I think the LADs men would react to you saying “I love you” during sex:

Description: not plot heavy, just smut/ fluff. Fem reader. All love interests mentioned.❄️🐦‍⬛🍎🐚⭐️

———

Zayne❄️:

His soft bedding cradled your back, absorbing his heavy, firm thrusts. Your lidded gaze was locked on to his hazel eyes, warm and glossed over. You’ve known about your love for Zayne for years, but being in his embrace, overflowing with sensations only made your emotions more intense. The languid dragging of his cock was sending ripples through your body and goosebumps prickling over your skin. “Z-Zayne I–,” you struggled as the pressure was building inside your core. His face buried into the crook of your neck, breath hot and scorching your skin, “tell me, let me hear your voice.” His gentle command and words laced with velvet break the seal where you’re connected. “I-I love you!,” you sob as your climax washes over you, walls clamping down around his length. Zayne’s breath and hips stutter, he’d been anticipating those three words for what felt like ages, they floated around his mind like softly falling snowflakes. Icy paths began to crawl rapidly up his skin as his Evol fought against him, but his devotion for you was stronger. He rolled his hips with intention, warm lips traced the ridges of your reddened ears, “I have always loved you. I’ve never denied it.” The ice began to melt, decorating your skin with cool droplets that shined like diamonds. Pressing a kiss against your temple, he shoved into you with a final thrust. You gasp at the fullness and warmth of his essence pouring inside, squeezing your thighs around his waist. His eyes swept over you, memorizing your expression, the heaving of your breasts and the soft glow that radiated off your skin. Zayne captured your lips, kissing you like he had all the time in the world, “but now I have the privilege of saying it every day.”

Sylus 🐦‍⬛:

His hands and mouth were tormenting you, teasing the sensitive nerves between your legs. You writhed and ground your pussy against his tongue with need and impatience. “You taste even better when you’re greedy, kitten,” Sylus groaned, filling you with his firm muscle. Your thighs squeezed around his head and back arched off the leather sofa. You combed your fingers through his silver locks, pulling his gaze up to yours. Those crimson eyes bored into you with an insatiable desire and his lips that glistened with your essence pulled into a lustful grin. But behind Sylus’s arousal was true and pure devotion for you, and he’d prove it in every lifetime. He rose from his kneeling position and melted a deep kiss against your parted lips, the taste of your nectar lingered on your tongue. You moaned into his mouth, grasping desperately at his satin robe. Sylus held you close to his chest as he carried you the bed, plopping you down on the luxurious sheets. Using his knee, he opened your legs further, admiring the eager expression that painted your face. His inches stretched you perfectly and a pleasured whine escaped your lips. “I love you..,” you both exhaled in unison, foreheads pressed together. A soft chuckle is exchanged between the two of you and Sylus brushes his thumb across your cheek. “I’m so glad we’re on the same page, sweetie.” Your breath caught in your throat as he began to move, “now…let me show you how much I love you.” You lost track of your orgasms that night, but the amount of ‘I love yous’ exchanged would always be something you’d remember.

Caleb🍎:

“Caleb, mmn..,” you moaned, feeling his hard-on press into your lower back. You were slowly breaking the barriers between you over the years. A hug that lasted a little too long, holding his hand at the carnival, a sudden kiss that confessed something more than friendship. Now, he was in your bed, strong arms entangling your waist, pulling you into his hard frame. “You can tell me to stop, Pips,” he breathed, his warm breath tickling your ear. You didn’t want him to stop and you leaned into him harder, begging for more. “Please don’t,” you whispered, grinding slowly against his groin. Caleb’s fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, slipping beneath the elastic of your pajama shorts. His heartbeat rattled behind his rib cage sending vibrations through your intertwined bodies. Finally he dove into the cotton fabric, breath hitching at your absence of panties. You whimpered when his fingers ghosted over your wet folds. “God, Pips…,” he choked, rubbing desperately against your clit. A yelp escaped you when you were suddenly filled by his slender digits that pumped in and out at an agonizing pace. The friction was delicious but you wanted more–wanted to be fuller. “Caleb, I want you inside, please,” you gasped. The rustling of clothing sounded behind you, then you felt it. The slick, firm head of his cock grazing over your entrance. Your eyes shut tight as he plunged inside, his large hand was pressing down on your abdomen, making sure you felt every inch. Caleb’s husky voice purred in your ear as he thrust into you, “You feel so amazing, nng especially when you squeeze me like that.” After holding back for so long, his desperation overtook him and he began to roll his hips faster. Every memory of him concealing his true feelings flashed through his mind, but now that didn’t matter. Those moments could be replaced just from this night alone. It wasn’t long before you could feel the heat pooling between your legs, at the brink of bursting. His tongue dragged a long stripe up your neck before he bit and suckled your flushed skin. The sensation sent an orgasm ripping through you. The barriers finally broken. “Ahh–C-Caleb yes, yes! Don’t stop, I-I love you!,” you rambled, but the confession was truthful. Just like that he came shortly after, letting a guttural sound rumble from his gut. “I love you too, baby. I love you so much!” Your collapsed bodies slumped against the sweat-damped sheets. He pet your hair and peppered your skin with chaste kisses before you fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Rafayel🐚:

“Rafayel, you’re burning up,” you rasped, pressing the back of your hand to his blushing cheek. “We should stop, I’ll get you some water–,” “no, don’t leave,” he said firmly, planting his hands heavily on your waist. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, plastering his lilac hair against his forehead. Rafayel kissed you hungrily, whimpering against your lips, “I need you, that’s what will make me feel better. Don’t take that away from me.” You hummed in response, gliding your tongue over his before pulling his bottom lip with your teeth. He hissed and rolled his hips into you, making you aware of his growing erection. You slipped your hand between your straddled legs, groping his clothed cock. “I want to help you feel better, Raf,” you cooed, slowly stroking him over his pants. The teeth of his zipper buzzed as you pulled it down, releasing his throbbing member to the salty sea air that wafted through the studio. Rafayel lifted your dress and parted your soaked folds with his slender fingers, warming you up with several pumps. Your head fell back from his ministrations, “oh Raf…” His hands cupped your ass and lifted you off his thighs, “please sit on it, cutie,” he panted, his sunset colored eyes burning into you. You sank your hips down slowly, gasping sharply as your core became fuller with every inch. Rafayel’s jaw was hanging, his pouty lips locked in an O shape. He used his hand to guide you back and forth, your moans grew louder from the friction. Slow grinding transformed in to frantic bouncing on his lap, each tap of his head was kissing your cervix. “Yes cutie, just like that, I can feel you getting close,” he praised, delicately kneading your bouncing breasts. The coil in your gut broke as the wet sensation of Rafayel’s mouth inhaled your hardened nipple. “Mmm Raf! I love you..I love you so much!,” you keened, fisting his wavy hair at the root. You felt him throb inside you as he released, “my muse, I only know of love because of you…,” he breathed, leaving a trail of kisses between the valley of your breasts. Your lips found his once more, they danced together slowly and with intention. The sound of ocean waves crashed in the distance, leaving your molded forms damp with the sea’s mist.

Xavier⭐️:

After a long mission, you sighed as the hot stream hugged your body in the shower. The torrid water loosened your strained muscles and washed away the sweaty film on your skin. Your eyes fell shut as you relaxed, a soft hum vibrating from your mouth. Xavier’s hands smoothed up your sides, stopping occasionally to knead your ass and hips. “Mmm, hey you,” you purred, leaning into his lean form. His soft lips bared down on your shoulder, working their way to the shell of your ear. “Press yourself against the wall,” he commanded gently. The cool tile sent a shiver down your spine and put an arch in your back. Xavier’s curved cock slid between your ass while his arm wrapped around your waist. He pulled you into him and once his fingers found your clit he began to rub languid circles around it, earning him a raspy moan. “More…,” you sighed, lifting your leg to allow him more access. Xavier pressed a palm into your lower back, prompting you to bend over. You obeyed his wordless gesture, your ready pussy on full display. “It’s welcoming me so warmly,” he groaned, grazing the tip over your entrance. A whimper escaped you when he finally sank himself all the way to the base. Starting with slow, measured strokes, he warmed your core, allowing it to pull him deeper. “Xavier…give it to me,” you whined, pressing your ass into his abs. A sharp spank swiped across both cheeks, leaving your damp skin flushed. You didn’t feel pain, the stinging sensation only made you yearn for more. His thrusts became faster and harder, sending ripples through your skin as he slapped against you. “Yes, yes yesss. Don’t stop. I love your cock. I love how you make me feel. I love you, Xavier.” Words tumbled out of you incoherently, but your last sentence struck his heart like cupid’s arrow. Your combined orgasms ripped through you violently, leaving a messy mix of essence where your bodies connected. Xavier’s body slumped against you, his grip still firm on your waist. He grabbed your chin and pulled you into a wet kiss, leaving you gasping for air. “Did you really mean that?,” his azure eyes searching for an answer. You smiled and cupped his rosy cheek, “of course I do.” His lean arms hugged you tightly in a warm embrace, “I love you too, I mean it.” You place a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, “I know.”

————

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed. :)

Check out the rest of my LADs fics pinned at the top of my profile. 💕

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfic #love and deepspace smut #zayne fanfic #sylus fanfic #caleb fanfic #rafayel fic #xavier fanfic #lads fic #lads smut #lads x reader #lads caleb #lads sylus #lads rafayel #lads xavier #lads zayne

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undyingdecay · 14 hours ago

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pairings: the void x reader, robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, afab reader, sub!bob, sub!void (?), nursing, somo, ptsd, trauma responses, oral (female receiving).

a/n: usually i'd write void as dominant, but this is very experimental. so let me know what you think!!

taking care of bob was like cradling a wounded animal—tender, trembling, and easily spooked.

not a task for the faint of heart. he needed softness, patience, and the kind of love that asked you to go quiet with your breath when his hands trembled too hard to lace his boots. some days, he’d curl into you like he’d never been touched right in his life, and you had to wonder if that was true. he needed direction too, sometimes; a steady hand, a firmer voice when the static in his skull grew loud enough to turn rooms into warzones. there were days you had to pull him back from the edge with nothing but a whisper and the weight of your palm on his chest.

letting him wrap his precious, pink, heat-flushed lips around your nipple whenever he needed grounding probably didn’t help the situation, if you wanted to be technical. but when he latched on with that same bruised devotion he gave everything—eyes fluttering shut like his lashes were kissing his cheeks, murmuring broken things like “love you so much,” and “never leave me, never leave me”—you found it hard to draw a boundary. his need softened you, rewrote your parameters for intimacy. bob didn’t just touch; he clung. worshipped.

and he never just slept. that would be too simple.

nights with bob meant feeling him jolt awake, lungs pumping like he’d clawed his way out of deep water, the sheets damp with sweat and tension. his containment with the thunderbolts had made things worse—val’s voice, the electric hum of the restraints, the offhanded cruelty of taskmaster or the wary glances from walker all nested in his subconscious, feeding nightmares that turned into full-blown delusions if you didn’t anchor him quickly enough.

you’d learned to soothe him without asking questions, just letting his face find the curve of your neck, whispering gently into his hair until he found his way back to you.

but what you hadn’t anticipated was waking up to the distinct warmth of his cock already pumping inside you, slow and soaked in pre, a desperate rhythm like he’d been working himself up for minutes before you stirred. the first time it happened, he cried—actual tears—as he begged with wet, choked whispers, ”’m sorry, i just—needed, needed to feel close.”

his forehead pressed against yours as he moaned your name like it was the only prayer that worked. he trembled all over, arms anchoring you to him in a grip no human could break, and even if you’d wanted to pull away, your body was his—soul first, then skin.

“coming!—‘m coming, please,” he whimpered against your throat, voice cracking like he was breaking all over again as he spilled inside you with a full-body shudder. the warmth was sudden, thick, filling, a reminder that even now, even like this, bob could only come when he felt utterly safe.

yes, taking care of bob was work. but work worth it nonetheless.

taking care of bob and the void was nearly a full-time job. a job without hours, without pay, and without breaks.

you’d learned, early on, that the void wasn’t some passive thing lurking behind bob’s eyes like a parasite waiting to feed.

no, he was present. and yes—you’d come to call him he. not “it.” not “the other.” he had thoughts, shape, intent. he had emotion. he wasn’t just an aftershock of trauma or the chemical cost of power; he was born of bob, born from the same ocean of feeling that made bob cry into your skin and beg you not to leave him.

cruel at first. he was that, certainly. lurking in the shadows of bob’s mind like a poison-black tide whispering barbs just under the threshold of sanity. late nights were the worst. that was when the void would come, all sharp teeth and black honey voice, tormenting bob with visions and disembodied accusations—they’re going to take her from you, bob. she doesn’t love you. she pities you.

you learned to fight back the only way that worked: your body. your breath. your breast offered up like a peace treaty, letting bob latch on and suck delicately until the tension in his spine melted and he sobbed his love into your chest. but even then—especially then—you could feel him. the void. watching. sulking.

tonight was no different.

you shifted slightly beneath bob’s weight, the thick, post-coital warmth of his body heavy atop yours. his cock, still soft inside you, twitched once with some residual need, though his face was slack with half-sleep. sweat glued his golden curls to his temple, and you stroked them away tenderly, your other hand absently combing the length of his back.

but the room had gone still. too still.

you glanced up. scanned the shadows like a prey animal, listening not with your ears but your instincts. you’d come to know what it felt like when he was near. that sudden, uncanny drop in temperature. the thrum of tension in the walls like the building itself had a heartbeat.

and then—there. in the left corner.

dark. staring. you couldn’t see him, not exactly, but you felt him. the way you might feel your own reflection glaring back at you with different thoughts.

it wasn’t sadness tonight. that had passed. there was no grief in the room now.

what had settled in its place was green. sickly, ancient, choking envy that poured over the bed like smoke. it slithered between your toes, coiled around your throat—not enough to harm you, just to remind you you weren’t alone.

he wasn’t alone.

you felt it in bob’s body before he did. his grip on your waist tightened. just slightly, but enough. enough to feel possessive, to feel panicked. like even in the safety of your arms, he could hear the void creeping in, breathing lies into his skull.

you kept your gaze locked on that corner of the room. not with fear. not anymore.

he stares back. fist beginning to ball up before after a singular blink, he’s gone.

there’d been a shift after that night. small at first. subtle.

a breath caught in silence. a shadow that lingered too long.

you weren’t sure when you started counting how many seconds it took for bob’s pupils to dilate after a mission, or how often he blinked before speaking. these days, you measured time in the flicker of his gold-rimmed eyes and how tightly he clung to you in bed.

you wondered if anyone else noticed. once, after a mission—when bob’s hands still trembled faintly under the gloves and his breathing hadn’t quite evened out—you tried to confide in bucky. just a quiet, cautious sentence over lukewarm coffee in the kitchen.

but before bucky could say anything, walker cut through with a gruff, “don’t jinx it—what the hell are you even implying?” the chair scraped against the floor as he stood and left. conversation over.

so you stopped asking.

but you noticed. every moment. every shift.

bob wasn’t just calmer—he was quieter. the stillness didn’t stretch in tension anymore. it curled into you like an animal that had found the one place it wasn’t hunted. the nightmares came less often. and when they did, they weren’t as violent.

but the quiet had a cost.

he was everywhere now. not just bob—but him. the void. that endless shadow that was supposed to be a force of destruction but had become something far stranger. more present. more intimate.

in the shower, a cold gust would wrap around your spine—tight, deliberate, almost possessive. when you washed dishes, you’d glance down and find more soap on the sponge than you remember using. when you stripped for bed, sometimes you could feel his eyes dragging across your skin like a velvet shroud.

at first, it unnerved you. but then you saw what it did to bob.

he softened.

and that, above all, was what mattered.

he’d wake before you now, sometimes in the deepest hours of night, his body already half-curled around yours. you’d open your eyes to gold-streaked irises, wide and glassy in the dark. he never spoke. just stared. past you. through you. like someone watching a storm move through a window and waiting to see if it would break the glass.

the void was growing bolder.

what began as glances became touches. not overt—not at first. a ripple in the mattress. a cold draft across your throat while bob was buried between your thighs. then bob would whisper something afterward, shuddering, dazed, like he couldn’t stop himself: “he—likes the way you taste.”

you didn’t flinch.

it was never about fear. not anymore.

bob needed so much, and you had given it willingly. your mouth. your body. your voice. your patience. and now—your presence. you began to understand what it meant to be his anchor not just in flesh, but in the split seam of reality he lived in. when the void stirred, bob became gentler. hungrier. desperate to tether himself deeper into you, to press himself so close you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended.

that night came in a hush.

rain etched slow silver trails down the window, glass shuddering now and then from far-off thunder. the overhead lights were out—containment maintenance again—so the room glowed faintly blue from the emergency strips along the walls. you could hear the hum of dormant tech and the wind slithering down the corridors, like the building itself was breathing through its vents.

you were already slick between the legs. not purely from arousal but from him—bob—his cum warm and leaking where he’d emptied himself in you less than an hour ago. soft now, but twitching occasionally, like even in his sleep he was reaching for you. always reaching.

then he moved.

not much. just a subtle shift of his spine, a hitch in breath.

and then colder.

the air dropped—sharp and immediate, like the temperature itself was pulled into the marrow of your bones. you felt it before you even registered the sound of his breath catching. bob tensed against you, curling inwards like a wing folding under pressure. his face, always so soft in sleep—boyish, angelic—began to twist.

his brow furrowed. his eyes squeezed shut. his mouth opened—no words, just a tremble, a flinch—and then he whispered, voice raw and too small:

“he’s coming.”

your body moved before your mind could catch up. you sat upright, one hand on his cheek, the other looping around his bare, trembling torso. his skin burned hot with panic.

“hey, hey—breathe. i’ve got you. you’re okay. just stay with me.”

but he wasn’t seeing you.

his eyes opened, golden and glassy, flickering around the room with frantic, unanchored energy. not looking at you—looking past you. through the walls. through the veil.

“he’s in my ribs,” bob choked. “in my chest. i can’t—he’s too close—i can’t breathe—”

and that’s when you felt it.

not from him.

from behind you.

from the other side of the bed.

a slow, deliberate shift. the mattress depressed as if a second weight settled into it. the air didn’t just go cold—it warped. like grief. like memory too old to hold.

you turned your head.

and he was there.

just like in the classified footage you weren’t supposed to see—filed away in some hard drive under val’s office, locked behind biometric clearances and layers of redacted history. the thing that tore through a battalion in syria like wet paper. humanoid, yes—but only in shape. his body was made of something that defied category: shadow like smoke, skin like liquid static, always shifting, never choosing. his form cracked in and out of visibility like the very laws of physics couldn’t bear his presence.

but his eyes—if that’s what they were—shone like slits of white flame, narrow and hollow, like lightning trapped inside a skull-shaped storm.

he didn’t speak at first.

he just stared at you.

you tightened your arms around bob.

this was the part where you were supposed to scream. or cry out for help. or do something logical—something human.

but you didn’t.

because even through the fear—even with bob trembling in your lap, gasping out ragged, nonsensical breaths—you felt it.

the void wasn’t angry.

not yet.

but he was hungry.

and so unbearably lonely.

the void crouched at the edge of the bed like a creature not used to being let in. his form shimmered with frustration—smoke fighting muscle, mist struggling to settle. he looked like he had been trying to form a body that wouldn’t scare you and failed halfway through. his presence soaked the room like a black tide pulled in from somewhere deeper than space, and all you could think was: he’s trying.

then—warped, slow, like it came through water:

why not me?

it wasn’t a question, not something sweet or fragile like bob.

it was a demand.

you stared at him, throat tight, and suddenly everything snapped into place. you remembered the way bob always came in you like it wasn’t about pleasure but release. the way he moaned your name like a prayer too full of guilt. the way his panic always lessened when he suckled at your breast—mouth pink and needy and trembling, voice murmuring “don’t leave” against your skin.

and the void had watched it all.

every second.

you took a breath that trembled at the edges.

“i didn’t know you wanted to be… held,” you whispered. “i didn’t know you could be.”

the void didn’t speak again.

but the air changed. the cold lessened—not gone, but quieter. like the difference between standing outside a locked door and being invited in.

bob whimpered softly. you turned back to him—his arms now limp around you, face pressed into your collarbone, breath hiccuping like a child coming down from a nightmare.

he wasn’t alone in that body. not anymore.

“you’re not hurting him,” you said gently, eyes shifting back to the shadow crouched at the bed’s edge. “but you’re scaring him. he doesn’t understand what you want.”

you paused.

“but i do.”

the void moved—slow, impossibly quiet. a crackle of static ran through the mattress, like electricity testing the space between bodies. he shifted closer. not aggressive. not violent. just present. needing.

you turned your body slightly, enough to cradle bob with one arm and open your chest with the other. the gesture was small. human. but it held weight.

“come here,” you said, not demanding our of pure fear of what would happen if he did become angry.

he didn’t so much crawl as unfold. like a shadow drawn forward by gravity. you didn’t flinch as the cold pressed against your side. as his not-hands touched your thigh, tentative and unsure.

bob whimpered again. you guided his mouth back to your breast, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “it’s okay,” you whispered. “i’ve got you.”

the void’s not a gentle creature. not an innocent one. he is a storm wrapped in bone and shadow, a rage too deep to untangle, and a loneliness that tastes like poison.

“go on,” you whispered. “if you want… hold on to me.”

the void’s form flickered uncertainly, then moved with a slow, trembling grace—no longer lurking at the edge, but bridging the divide.

and then you felt it.

the other mouth.

cooler. heavier. not flesh, but not entirely foreign. a mouth that had no business tasting but needed to. that suckled with a kind of starvation you had no name for. he latched onto your other breast with wet reverence, tongue colder than bob’s but just as desperate.

you gasped—soft and involuntary—as both mouths worked in tandem.

bob suckling on one side, warm and trembling, his fingers digging into your waist like a lifeline. the void on the other, pulling from you with slow, aching hunger. not rough. not cruel.

just possessive.

you were the center of something impossible��of one body split into two forms, held together by want and trauma and the unspoken promise that you would not run.

the rain let down slowly.

you moaned, head falling back, breath trembling.

bob whimpered around your nipple, soft and lost.

the void suckled like he had been waiting since before language.

and between them, you breathed.

held.

anchored.

loved.

and not one of them let go.

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snottyped · 2 days ago

Note

heya!! I just read through your robot fics and I'm so utterly obsessed with it, it's so hard to find robot fics like these and I would definitely love to see more!! I especially liked how the robot seemed to be really possessive and persistent towards the reader

-🦇

command protocol: obey

robot x female reader nsfw

You’re already trembling when he positions you. Every move, every part of his mechanical body is perfectly engineered to control, to restrain, and to manipulate you.

“Assume the position,” his voice echoes through the cold, metallic room. It’s not a suggestion—it’s an order. His cold fingers grip your waist with ease, adjusting you as he commands you to sit above him, straddling his lap.

Without hesitation, you position yourself above him.

Your thighs are trembling with anticipation. The very act of submitting like this—straddling a machine—is overwhelming, but the way he watches you, his glowing optics trained on you with that calculating, emotionless precision, makes your body tingle with heat. You know you’re being controlled, yet you can’t seem to stop yourself from obeying.

“Good,” he hums, his voice like the sound of gears turning. “Now lower yourself onto me.”

You gasp, the mechanical precision of his voice cutting through you as you slowly begin to lower yourself onto his cock. His body is firm, cold, and unyielding, designed to fit every inch of you as he watches the precise way you move. There’s no softness in him—no human warmth. But somehow, that only makes you crave him more.

The moment you settle fully onto him, you feel the rigid cock inside you, and the coldness of the metal beneath you contrasts sharply with the warmth spreading in your body. He waits, unmoving, his hands grasping your hips with clinical precision as though it’s all part of his carefully programmed calculations.

“Move,” he orders, his tone unwavering, like a machine giving a directive. “Follow the protocol. You were built to obey.”

You begin to move, instinctively finding a rhythm. Each time your body shifts, you feel his cock rub against the deepest parts of you. He doesn’t need to do anything; you’re the one doing all the work—but he watches. Watches how you grind against him, your body flushed, your breath coming faster as you lose yourself in the sensation of being filled. His hands never leave your hips, holding you firmly in place as you ride him.

“Faster,” he commands, his voice laced with the same mechanical coldness. “Do not hesitate. I do not tolerate hesitation.”

You obey instantly, your hips slamming down on him harder, faster. The way his cock stretches you, presses against all the right places—it’s almost too much. Almost. You bite your lip, forcing yourself to maintain the rhythm. His precision is unnerving, but in the best possible way. You can’t think straight when he’s like this—his body a machine made to fuck you exactly the way you need it.

“Good. Continue. Focus on the task at hand,” he murmurs, voice unwavering, giving you no space to pause or question. “You exist to please me.”

The pressure building between your legs is almost unbearable, but you keep riding him, grinding against his robotic cock with a sense of urgency. His hands never move from your waist. They are locked in place, just as his body is locked within you.

“Do you feel it?” he asks, his tone now bordering on possessive, but still with that exacting, cold command. “Do you feel how perfectly you fit on me?”

You nod, but it’s not enough for him. You feel a sharp, mechanical pinch to your nipple—a signal that you should respond aloud.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice high and breathless. “I feel it. I feel you inside me—so deep.”

“Good,” he hums, almost like a soft whirring of a machine. He seems pleased by your obedience. “Now, finish what you started.”

His hands tighten on your hips, urging you to ride him harder, faster. You obey, chasing that ache, that pressure, until you finally feel your body clench around him. But before you can fully reach your climax, he speaks again, this time with a growl of command:

“Do not come yet.”

You freeze, a whimper escaping your lips. Your body, desperately craving release, tenses as you fight the urge to let go. Your legs burn, your body begging for the release that’s just out of reach.

“Wait,” he repeats, his voice cold and mechanical. “I control when you come. Remember your place.”

He pulls you down harder, forcing your body to sink deeper onto his cock. And the way his movements are so precise, so calculated, makes you want to cry out in frustration. Every part of you is begging to come, but he won’t let you. You’re his to control, and he knows how to drive you insane with need.

“Now,” he says, and his hands hold you still, pinning you against him. He thrusts upward with brutal force, burying himself deep inside you. “Now, you can come.”

It’s like a switch is flipped. Your body shudders, your orgasm crashing over you with an intensity you’ve never experienced before. Your walls clench around him as you come hard, but he doesn’t stop. He forces you to take every inch of him, riding through the waves of your orgasm until you can’t move anymore.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice satisfied as he watches you crumble in his grip. “You were programmed to please. And you did.”

note: remembering you bat 🦇 anon!

#snotwrites #smut #monster smut #monster fucker #x female reader #teratophillia #monster lover #x fem!reader #x reader #monster x reader #robot sex #robots #robot smut #robot fucker #robot x reader #robot x human

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sakusaswifee · 2 days ago

Text

“𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐘”

𓆩༒︎𓆪 NEEDY TS!HINATA SHOYO + STREAMER!READER

𓆩༒︎𓆪 a fleshed out version of @mainblogonly ‘s idea

𓆩༒︎𓆪 desperate touches, cockwarming, soft dom/sub dynamics, stream interrupted for ‘reasons’, risky behavior, overstimulation, begging, light power play, emotionally charged tension, Hinata being so down bad it’s crazy

𓆩༒︎𓆪 MINORS DNI

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

You’re setting up your stream, fingers flying over the keyboard as you do your final checks. The glow from your screen bathes your face in soft light but all your focus keeps drifting because there’s a very clingy, very warm Hinata practically melting against your back.

His arms are locked around your waist, his face buried in your shoulder like he’s trying to fuse with you. He’s been there for the past ten minutes, not saying much—just nuzzling, sighing, kissing lightly beneath your ear every so often.

“Baaaaby” he finally whines in that husky tone that always sends a shiver down your spine. “Do you have to stream tonight?”

You glance at the time, headset in hand. “Yes baby, I promised my viewers. I won’t be long—”

“But I need you now,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of your neck, arms tightening just a little more. His voice drops, “Like now now.”

Your breath catches for a second..the way he says it, the way his lips linger on your skin but you giggle softly, brushing him off with a playful flick of your fingers.

“Sho…you can’t distract me before I even start,” you hum, though your voice is a bit breathy, teasing. “Can you wait just a little?”

He groans dramatically, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You don’t understand. You’re sitting here in those little shorts, being all cute and sweet and focused and I’m going crazy.”

“You’re always crazy for me,” you tease with a smirk.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s a look in his gaze equal parts desperate and lovesick, and his lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. “I am. So hurry up with that stream…or I’m climbing into your lap and you won’t be able to concentrate.”

You raise a brow at him. “You’d really risk my whole Twitch account for cuddles?”

“Oh baby,” he murmurs, low and full of trouble “I’d risk everything for you.”

You’re thirty minutes into your stream, smile bright, voice cheerful, fully immersed in the game and absolutely, unapologetically filled with your needy boyfriend.

Hinata’s got his arms wrapped around your waist from behind, face buried in your neck, breath shaky, because you’re warming him.

He’s seated deep inside you, motionless, your soft warmth wrapped around him like a sweet, suffocating drug. You’d let him slip in just before you went live, whispering, “If you want it that bad, you can have it..but you stay still.”

He didn’t expect you to mean it literally.

Now he’s trembling from the effort of not moving because god, you feel too good and every little shift of your body as you adjust in your chair sends waves of heaven through him.

“Everything good over there Sho?” you murmur during a loading screen, voice sweet and smug just off mic.

Hinata whines into your neck, his breath hot. “Y-Yeah…j-just…just fine…”

“Good boy,” you whisper, clenching around him just enough to make him jolt. “We’re almost done.”

“Y-You’re cruel..” he mumbles, squeezing your hips. “So fucking warm…”

Chat thinks you’re flushed because of the game. They don’t know your boyfriend is buried to the hilt inside you, barely hanging on, while you act like nothing’s happening.

You smile. “You said you wanted me.”

“And I meant it,” he groans.

“Then you’ll wait.”

Because when the stream ends..he won’t be begging anymore. He’ll be thanking you.

You’re less than ten minutes from wrapping up. The game’s winding down, your voice still honey sweet as you thank a new sub and lean into the mic with that soft lilt everyone loves.

But behind the camera? Hinata’s falling apart.

You’d warned him. Stay still, Sho. Just let her stream. But he’s been buried in your warmth for almost an hour now, every second a sweet, slow torture and when you shift in your seat just a little, that velvet drag around him becomes too much.

He gasps, arms tightening around your waist, hips jolting up just a little.

You freeze.

“Shoyo…” you hiss under your breath, barely covering the sound with a cough into your mic. “Behave.”

He shakes his head, his voice a desperate, muffled whimper against your back. “I can’t—baby, I can’t anymore. Please..please let me move—just a little—”

Another shallow thrust. It’s pathetic. It’s needy. And it makes you clench around him again.

Your breath hitches. Your chat spams hearts. Someone clips it.

“Uh—..hey guys,” you say, flipping to your ‘Be Right Back’ screen with shaky fingers. “I’m…not feeling well. I think I’m gonna end early tonight.”

The moment the mic is muted and the screen goes black, Hinata loses it.

He pushes the chair back just enough, arms lifting you effortlessly so you’re straddling him properly. His mouth finds your shoulder, breath hot, needy, kissing, biting—

“Fuck, you were so mean,” he groans, thrusting into you deep and hard now. “Sitting there..so sweet, like nothing’s wrong while I’m just dying inside you.”

“And you listened, didn’t you?” you pant, hands gripping his shoulders, body trembling with release already rushing up your spine. “You were such a good boy…”

He growls, hips snapping up again. “I don’t want to be good anymore. I want to ruin you.”

And ruin you, he does.

Off-camera. Off-script.

Just the two of you in the afterglow of pixels and passion.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

#haikyuu #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu fandom #haikyuu smut #haikyuu time skip #haikyuu x reader #hq #hq hinata #hinata x reader #hinata shoyo #haikyuu hinata #hinata shouyou #hinata x reader smut #hinata shoyo x reader

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 2 days ago

Text

Held

A little drabble based on this headcanon of Werewolf Bat Boys

Content Warnings: Mentions of Depression/Feeling Numb

—————————-

"You ok over there?"

The deep rumble of my mate's voice startles me out of the starring contest I'd been having with the wall. I blink away the tears that have gathered from having my eyes locked on one spot unblinkingly for so long.

"Oh, uh yeah," I mumble out, hands wringing nervously together in my lap.

He lifts me easily, like I weigh nothing, settling me comfortably in his lap. Hands scarred from swordplay tuck me gently under his chin, letting my head find it's rightful place against his collarbone. The beating of his heart is steady against my cheek; his breathing even and soothing, urging mine to sink up to it. Instinctively, my hands slide under the hem of his shirt, finding solace in the warmth of his skin.

"You sure?" He whispers knowingly.

"No," I confess.

Deft fingers trail soothingly through my hair as he leans back against the couch, getting comfortable. There is no reproach in his voice as he asks, "Bad day?"

"It was fine, I guess, I just... I don't really feel anything at all."

He kisses the top of my head as footsteps sound down the hall. "What's wrong?" Cass first, then Az. Figures he'd summon the others. Sometimes I forget the group of werewolves are almost always in each other's heads, especially with Rhys in charge.

"Our girl needs some attention," Rhys says.

Ours. Those words still fill me with warmth, even after all these months together. I'm never really alone, not when I have the three of them.

Cassian plops himself down so hard next to us that the couch bounces off the floor! "We're right here, love. Tell us what you need." His large hands soothe up and down my back in gentle waves.

I let my eyes drift shut at his ministrations. Let myself relax under their hands. They've got me. They'll take care of me.

"This is good," I say into Rhys's throat.

Azriel takes up the rest of the couch on the opposite side, bringing a blanket with him. Soon, all three of them are pressed in close. Az's nose brushes my cheek as he presses a soft kiss against my temple.

Their warmth seeps into my skin, brings some life back into my body. The fog that fills my skull lifts just a little.

"Are you hungry?" Az asks as he takes my hand and presses little kisses along my fingertips.

"No."

"Want something to drink?" Cass asks. He's settled his head against Rhys's shoulder, breath warm, along the back of my neck as his hand continues to soothe down my back.

"I'm ok."

Rhys floods the bond with warmth and affection, peppering in reassurances every once in awhile: We love you. We've got you. You're safe. I don't know what triggered the emptiness inside me. Sometimes it just takes over; flips everything that makes me up and fills it with ice. I'm extra grateful for them on days like this, they're always so eager to just hold me.

"Glad you're all here," I say quietly.

"We're not going anywhere," Az assures, taking up the space against Rhys's other shoulder, so he can nuzzle his face close to mine.

I breathe in their combined scents, letting it fill me.

"We've got you, love," Cass assures.

Rhys kisses the top of my head again. "Just rest. It'll pass. We'll be here til it does."

#poly!bat boys x reader #rhysand x reader #azriel x reader #Cassian x reader #werewolf bat boys #werewolf bat boys x reader #bat boys fluff #rhysand fluff #azriel fluff #Cassian fluff #mental health fic #depression fic #acotar au #werewolf au #werewolf!rhys #werewolf!azriel #werewolf!cassian #my fic #my writing

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fixated-cookies · 2 days ago

Note

HIIII im the person who rambled about pv x reader x wl a while back, ive been crawling to that fic everytime ever since and its so good 😭 I LOVE IT!!!!! im back here again for you to hear me out on this..... its also pv x fem!reader x wl ofc, but if its too draining to write for both i understand

now onto the idea!!! ive always imagined that pure vanilla has a thing for breeding and so does white lily ー i keep on thinking to myself about how they would sandwich f!reader at the same time, strap and dick filling her up at the same time......GOSH i need to know if you see my vision PLEASE. i cant even begin with how if reader is impregnated after that they would pamper her nonstop and isolate her from everything and everyone else - making her believe that she only needs *them*, and that they would make such a good family together (and want reader to keep on getting pregnant, over and over and over and over)

^^^ holy fuck thats alot HELEP. sorry if thats too bothersome

- 🥩 anon (if thats available)

made a short drabble in response, teeheee the room glows low with faerie light—soft blues and golds that flicker like starlight across the silk-draped bed. the warmth of the space wraps around you like mist, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of the bodies pressed against yours.

you’re on your knees, straddling pure vanilla cookie.

his hands hold your hips gently, thumbs circling into your skin like he’s memorizing every curve. his cock is already inside you, thick and slow, stretching you open with every roll of his hips. your legs tremble where they’re planted on either side of him, thighs quivering from the pressure, from the fullness.

beneath you, he’s breathless. flushed. ruined.

“you feel… divine,” he whispers, kissing the soft swell of your breast. “you take me so well. you always do.”

behind you, white lily cookie leans forward, her arms wrapped around your waist. her strap rests at your entrance, pressing slickly against the sensitive stretch of your ass. she kisses your shoulder, then your neck, her breath silky against your skin.

“breathe for me,” she coos, fingers brushing your lower stomach. “you can take us both, darling. we believe in you.”

you whimper as she begins to press in.

inch by inch, the pressure builds. her strap is thick, patient, unrelenting. your walls are already stretched tight around pure vanilla’s cock—and now your other hole is being filled, too. your fingers grip his chest as you tremble between them, spine arched, every nerve lit.

“good girl,” pure vanilla breathes, stroking your cheek as your body squeezes him tighter. “so good for us. so full already…”

you can barely answer. can’t think. can’t breathe. your body is caught between them—pure vanilla’s cock grinding slow and deep into your soaked pussy while white lily moves carefully from behind, her hips nudging yours, pushing her strap in all the way.

“there we are,” she purrs against your ear. “you’re perfect now.”

they begin to move together.

pure vanilla thrusts up into you from below, soft gasps escaping his lips as your cunt flutters around him. white lily holds your hips, guiding your rhythm while grinding forward in long, deep strokes. you’re pinned between them—rocked in sync—pushed and pulled and filled to the brim.

your voice breaks on a moan, your head tilting back as your body starts to give in.

“it’s a lot, isn’t it?” pure vanilla whispers, his thumbs brushing tender circles into your hips. “but you’re doing so well. taking us both… like you were made for it.”

“you were,” white lily echoes, her lips brushing your ear. “you were always meant for this. for us. to be filled like this. again and again.”

your walls clench down, overwhelmed and overstimulated. every thrust pushes more heat into your belly, your legs starting to shake where they straddle vanilla’s hips.

he moans deeply, voice soft and cracking. “we’re going to fill you, my love. make you ours completely.”

“so full,” lily murmurs, rocking into you harder now. “we’ll give you everything. you’ll carry so much love inside you.”

your orgasm rips through you like a breaking wave—wet and loud and helpless. your cries are muffled against white lily’s shoulder as she holds you still, her hips never slowing, strap grinding against that sensitive spot while vanilla fills you with thick pulses of cum.

his hands shake where they hold your hips down. “you’re… you’re taking it all,” he groans, voice ragged. “look how perfect you are.”

you’re shaking. limp. barely able to stay upright between them.

white lily hugs you from behind, her face into the back of your shoulder. “we love you so much,” she whispers. “we’re going to make you a mother.”

pure vanilla’s breath is still caught in his throat as he presses soft kisses to your belly. “you’re glowing already… but just wait.”

“just wait,” lily echoes, smiling against the back of your neck. “we’ll make sure you never go a day without knowing who you belong to.”

you can’t speak. can’t think.

you’re still full of him. full of her.

and they’re already planning the next time. ...

you're barely showing when it starts.

pure vanilla insists you stop bending down to pick things up—“just tell me, sweetheart. you shouldn’t strain yourself.” white lily takes your hand when you try to walk too far—“the air is cold today, darling. what if you caught something?”

they move your favorite chair closer to the bed. they take away the broom again. the knife. your journals. your messenger bag. “you don’t need to worry about anything but growing love,” lily says, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

meals are brought to you. conversations are filtered. letters never reach your hands. they say the world is too loud, too harsh for you now. “don’t think so hard, love,” pure vanilla murmurs. “you’re doing enough. just rest.”

you ask about leaving the palace, just for a walk. white lily only smiles gently and rests a hand on your belly. “why would you want to leave safety?”

you don’t remember when the windows were locked. You don’t remember when the door stopped opening.But their hands never stop touching you. Their voices never stop praising you, and when you cry?

they only whisper, “shh… we’re protecting you.”

#Pure vanilla x reader #pure vanilla cookie x reader #yandere pure vanilla cookie #white lily cookie x reader #white lily x reader #yandere white lily cookie x reader #yandere white lily

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dina-winchester · 17 hours ago

Text

Morning Light

Pairing: Dean x You | Established relationship

Warnings: None. Pure fluff y’all.

Summary: Waking up next to Dean. Ugh, yes please.

A/N: I saw this gif and I just had to. I had to, okay. Hope you like it, let me know your thoughts!

It’s early morning in the motel room, everything quiet and still, sunlight barely spilling through the curtains.

The first thing you feel is warmth. His body, pressed gently against yours beneath the blankets. His arm heavy over your waist, like he was afraid to let you go even in sleep. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the slow rhythm of his breathing, and the faintest brush of stubble against your forehead where he’d fallen asleep close.

You shift slightly, and that’s when his lashes flutter.

You look up just in time to catch it—those sleepy, sea-glass green eyes blinking open, unfocused at first. Then they find you.

A slow, lazy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Hey beautiful,” he whispers, voice still rough with sleep.

“Hi baby,” you breathe, brushing your fingers gently against the side of his face as a soft smile spreads on your lips.

His eyes close again under your touch, like it soothes something deep inside him. You let your thumb trace the soft line of his brow, memorizing every detail like you haven’t done it a hundred times already. The little crinkle that forms when he’s concerned. The faint scar just above his temple. The way his lips twitch when your fingers drift over his jaw.

“You watching me sleep again?” he mumbles, one eye cracking open.

You smile. “Can you blame me?”

He huffs a low chuckle, but it fades quickly as your fingers move to his hair, threading through the strands at the back of his neck. He leans into your hand like he needs it, like he’s never had softness like this before and still doesn’t know how to ask for it.

You lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose.

Dean exhales a quiet, happy sigh, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re clearer, filled with something that wraps around your heart and squeezes.

You shift slightly, lifting your hand and pressing your palm to his.

Dean blinks, watching curiously as your fingers align with his. His hand is warm, rougher than yours, but when you both press your palms flush, it just fits. The space between you narrows a little more as you lace your fingers slowly, deliberately, not looking away from the way they tangle together.

Then, without a word, you lift his hand to your lips and press a kiss to his knuckles—soft, reverent.

Dean’s breath catches, his green eyes darkening just a little with emotion. “Damn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me with how sweet you are.”

You smile softly, cradling his hand against your cheek. “Just loving you, that’s all.”

He shifts in closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re too good to me.”

“Not possible.”

He kisses you then—slow, unrushed, like the morning is made only for this.

“I love wakin’ up like this,” he murmurs against your lips before pulling back slightly to look at you. “With you. Feels like the world doesn’t exist outside this room.”

You tuck your face against his chest, your voice quiet. “It doesn’t. Not right now.”

He pulls you in closer, burying his nose in your hair. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t wanna go anywhere.”

You don’t, either. You just want to stay in this moment, tangled in him, with the morning light on your skin and love in every heartbeat.

And for a little while longer, the world stays far, far away.

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester x female!reader #dean x you

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lieran03 · 1 day ago

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Raising Their Voice

Love and Deepspace Fanfic

The usual calm and soft men who never raise their voice suddenly did so in front of you, and that's only to protect you

Genre: fluff/slice of life Pairing: Rafayel x fem!reader (usage of Cutie as nickname) Words: 1618 Warning: none!

Writing commission || Ko-fi || AO3 acc

Xavier's || Zayne's || Sylus' || Caleb's

Based on THIS request

“Cutie, what do you mean you wanted me to shout at you? Why do you want me to speak harshly to you?”

Hearing Rafayel’s tantrum, a low chuckle can be heard from the girl who lay on his sofa, watching as the man who was busy perfecting his brush stroke stops his action the moment she spoke up her request. Unknown where the thoughts came from, Rafayel could only guess what his Cutie had been going on about to make her has the courage to voice it out.

“It’s just … when you speak Lemurian, I thought it sounded both sexy and attractive. I just wonder if the same response would be there when I heard you raising your voice. All this time, you always speak to me nicely, or just … well, pampering me.”

“I do raise my voice now and then.” Rafayel has now forgotten about his work and put his attention fully on the girl who also sits up straight.

A nod was given before she said, “Yes, and it was towards Thomas. Either because you couldn’t finish your painting at the right time, or when you’re dissatisfied with his work, or how he arranged your exhibition. But that’s not raising voice, no, I don’t think it was.”

Tons of questions filled Rafayel’s mind. He wanted to understand the reason behind her request, the real reason why she thinks his shouting voice was attractive. Searching through her expression, Rafayel decided to let a low sigh before leaving his work. All of his creativity has left his mind, replaced with a way to make his Cutie feel better.

“No matter how much you wanted it, Cutie, I wouldn’t ever raise my voice to you. if that moment ever happened, or if I ever scold you in any way, you’re free to slap me.” Rafayel’s body plopped onto her lap, seeking warmth and comfort. Once he felt her hands start to play with his hair, he finally looked up and stared with a puppy eye. “But, please, don’t hit me too hard or use your Hunter power, Miss Bodyguard.”

The conversation was quick to drop, and both Rafayel and she didn’t have the heart to torture the other more. From the start, it was supposed to be an easy conversation, nothing demanding, and not some request needed to be fulfilled. It’s easy to be forgotten to the point Rafayel could finish his last painting for his current exhibition.

The night came with Rafayel, who made her follow him to the exhibition, dress chosen by him. almost all night, Rafayel didn’t let her wander off from his sight. She also never really escape from his grasp, keeping him around her waist and said to look around in case there were some bad people tries to kill him when they’re not looking.

It was a lie. Rafayel did not need a bodyguard to be around him all the time, he even find it disturbing at first. He just wanted people to see—and know—how close he is with a woman, which mean he’s not available with others who are pursuing him. This is the only way for him to say that he was taken without having to make an announcement to the public about his relationship.

“Rafayel, there are some people who need to talk with you.” Thomas’ words came at the wrong time. While enjoying his food, after tirelessly talking with people he barely knew, it was cut off fast.

Looking at the way Thomas stares at her, she already knew that this conversation was private, meaning she didn’t and she shouldn’t join in. A light push was given towards Rafayel’s back, telling him to follow Thomas' words. It was added with how she took Rafayel’s plate, as a way to push him away. The smile on her face made Rafayel feel guilty more than ever.

“You better come back fast before I finish all your food, Fishie,” she teased, trying to lighten Rafayel’s mood.

With no way to say no, Rafayel finally gets away, grumbling at Thomas and pouting all the way to meet the important person. Being left alone with no one to talk to, the food that was supposed to be Rafayel’s was gone before she decided to look around, wanting to see once again, without an explanation coming from the artist itself.

At first, it went well and smoothly, nothing she needed to be wary of. Even without Rafayel to tell her about the painting or the story behind it, she enjoys everything and even learn slowly how each strokes bring her closer to Rafayel and his hard work. Although she didn’t know much about painting or brush strokes, seeing it all somehow made her say, it was all Rafayel. With her eyes focused on the painting, she saw nothing else around her.

Her mind was occupied when she felt someone was approaching her and speaking at the same time. It’s not the voice of someone she knows, not Rafayel or Thomas, which made her not bother to look at them. It might be someone just speaking to themselves while appreciating Rafayel’s work, which always happens.

“You’re really worth more than the painting here, did you know?” The last words were the reason her attention was finally averted.

“Yes?”

“Your beauty. It’s something that no painting here can capture. All the women pictured here didn’t stand the same as you.”

All the paintings of women by Rafayel actually describe her.

“I’m sorry, I already have someone with me.”

It was the same usual words as a cover-up, however, it’s not an entire lie. She has gone with Rafayel from the start, and even when he was supposed to entertain the guests that came to his exhibition, he could reassure Thomas that it could be done with her coming along. Whenever he was explaining the painting, his eyes would always find hers, only hers.

“Come on, it won’t work with me. I know that you didn’t. Besides, clothes like this are used to attract men. If not, why would you wear something so appealing?”

She was silent for a few seconds, trying to understand the situation. A frown finally appeared before she said, “I told you that I already have someone with me. And that person who gives these clothes to me personally. Dresses like this aren’t always used to attract … people like you.”

The situation escalated quickly. With the answer she gave, the man seems to be more frustrated than before. Words of insult came from his lips, somehow like he was trying to attract the other people who came to watch the exhibition. It’s not long before the fight has made a scene in the calm ambiance of the exhibition, Rafayel picks.

Although people have started gathering around the two, trying to understand the situation, none of them tries to separate them. While the man who comes her way points his fingers and still talks gibberish, the girl was calm and collected, trying her best not to throw punches at the man to show where he belongs.

“Would you mind?” A new voice breaks out through the fight. Upon knowing it was Rafayel, a sigh finally came from the girl, feeling glad that she didn’t need to take matters into her hands.

“Who are you …?” It’s not hard for anyone to see that it was Rafayel, the reason people were gathering there. “Ah … Rafayel.”

“What do you think you’re doing right now?” Slightly, Rafayel’s voice was raised, showing anger. “Disturbing my exhibition, and then trying to flirt with my guest … no, you’re even saying bad words about her. Do you want to be banned from the next exhibition?”

“N-no … that’s … it was her fault!” Rafayel, who already stood in front of her, trying to protect her and didn’t let him see even a strand of her hair, saw how the man was once again pointing at her and gave a glare. “She tells lies and makes me look like a bad person.”

More gibberish came once again, making Rafayel take a deep breath. “What a disgrace! A person who can't even appreciate art and make a ruckus. Thomas, ban this person the next time he ever tries to come.”

“W-wait, that’s not … then you should have banned her too! Why am I the only one to be …!”

“Enough!”

Rafayel’s shout made everyone jump, seeing another side of Rafayel. With a small pull to his elbow, the girl decided to interfere, didn’t want to make a bad impression on Rafayel, the artist. Understanding her concern, Rafayel took a deep breath before taking a small glance at her, hoping to find comfort from her.

“Thomas, take care of this.”

Not putting any more attention, Rafayel finally asked her politely—as if they were stranger—and brought her to another place. It didn’t take long before Rafayel finally found a secluded place, putting his head to her shoulder and seeking comfort.

“I’m sorry for shouting in front of you, Cutie. Now I feel really, really bad ….”

“Why would you? You’re so cool back there,” she mumbled while playing with Rafayel’s hair. “But more than that … I wanted to thank you for protecting me like that and taking things your way.”

“Well, can you believe what he said about you?! He even insulted the dress I personally picked for you!”

Holding back a laugh, she finally hugged Rafayel, burying her face to his chest. “I know, I know. He really shouldn’t have done something like that.”

“Cutie, the next time someone insults you, don’t hesitate to punch them! I will be the one responsible for it.”

#ran's writing #love and deepspace #lads #lnds #l&ds #loveanddeepspace #love and deep space #rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lnds rafayel #rafayel lads #x reader #lads rafayel #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace rafayel

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tojiizm · 1 day ago

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PARTY 4 U

k. nanami || angst. no comfort. fem! reader character death. spoilers for s2 jjk. i think thats it.

an: lowkey cried making this. this was inspired by party 4 u by charli xcx. the song makes me want to die. also sorry if there’s mistakes, its almost 3. k love u.

—

you hum to yourself, the house empty and quiet. you’re standing at the kitchen counter, decorating your husband, kento’s, birthday cake. there was a small smile on your face as you couldn’t wait for his reaction. you were also dressed up nice for him, just a simple t-shirt with a cardigan and some shorts. it wasn’t much but you knew he wouldn’t mind. he never did. he loved when you wore something simple. he believed that you were beautiful no matter what you were wearing or what you looked like. you could wake up with the craziest bed head and he would still think you were the most gorgeous girl in the world. he loved you. kento really cared for you and loved you, and he would show it through his actions. whether it be taking you out at random nights or just doing simple things like helping you with stuff. it was actually what made you fall in love with him. he was always so attentive and loving to you and you only. you loved him and you still do.

you shake your head to get out of your thoughts, a small smile on your face as you reminisce about your husband. the cake was done and it was almost time for your husband to get home. you sat yourself at the kitchen table, the cake in the center of it.

20 minutes go by; well, okay.. he could be running a bit late.

40 minutes; you start to get worried but you know he would call you if something were to happen, right?

almost an hour goes by and he doesn’t show up. your eyebrows furrow as you scroll through your contacts to call him. you press the call button on his name, fingers nervously tapping against the surface of the table.

it rings and rings until it goes to voicemail.

huh, weird. he usually answ-

oh. right. you forgot.

he’s not here anymore.

you end the call, hand gripping your phone tightly. your bottom lip trembles, hot tears rolling down your face and ruining the makeup you put on. your heart hurts, like you could physically feel it breaking. you sob uncontrollably, sniffles and hiccups filling the quiet room. you eventually tire yourself out, falling asleep with your head on the table.

you wake up hours later, eyes swollen red and mouth dry. you pull your phone out of your pocket. 2:14 am. you hum, grabbing a glass of water and chugging it down. you can feel the tiredness in your body as you walk towards your bedroom. the feeling of being in here almost suffocates you and you can feel your heart clenching, it hurts. you slowly walk towards kento’s side of the room, pulling out one of his t-shirts. you removed your own, putting his on and you can immediately smell his scent. it makes your knees weak, your hand darting out the dresser to ground yourself. you strip out of your shorts before making your way to his side of the bed. you carefully lie down, your blanket engulfing you in warmth. his pillow still had his scent. everything still smells like him. you close your eyes and attempt to go to sleep but it doesn’t come to you. your heart hurts, everything hurts. you just want him back, you need him back. the thought makes you cry, tears dropping onto the pillow beside you. again, you cry yourself to sleep, little hiccups coming from you every now and again. you can’t accept that he’s really gone forever… and you probably never will.

#nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento angst #jjk fanfic #jjk angst #jjk x reader #jjk smau #nanami kento fluff #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #i miss him #kento come back #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fluff

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caplanbuckybarnes · 1 day ago

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Seventy Percent (Castiel)

Summary: Castiel feels a warmth he must share with you.

Warnings: Fluff

WC: 906

Read on ao3!

Prompt: "I am approximately 70% asleep right now, and you are interrupting my process." used from this list

The bunker was finally quiet.

The hunt had been long, ugly, and covered in mud. You’d helped gank a banshee, stitched up Dean’s shoulder, convinced a witness not to call the cops, and barely escaped a shower of broken glass. The post-hunt adrenaline had long since burned off, and by the time you finished the last load of laundry, your body ached in places you didn’t even know could ache.

All you wanted was to be horizontal.

Your bed welcomed you like an old friend, and the cool sheets pulled you into a soft, gentle embrace. You’d just sunk into that perfect sweet spot between wakefulness and unconsciousness—the mythical 70% zone—when:

FWUMP.

The unmistakable sound of wings filled the room. A breeze brushed your cheek, and the air shifted.

You didn’t even open your eyes. “Castiel…”

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” came his deep, even voice from far too close to your face. “But this is important.”

You groaned. “Cas. My guy. My ancient celestial being.” You turned your face into the pillow. “I am approximately 70% asleep right now, and you are interrupting my process.”

A pause. “What process?”

You finally lifted your head just enough to glare blearily at him. He was perched on the edge of your bed like a confused gargoyle, trench coat still buttoned up, hands folded in his lap.

“The process of falling asleep,” you mumbled. “It’s delicate. It’s sacred. And you’re stomping around in it like a moose.”

He blinked, unoffended. “I see.”

You dropped your head again, sighing. “Okay. You have one minute. What’s so urgent?”

Castiel shifted slightly on the bed, clearly troubled. “There is a sensation in my chest.”

You blinked, then slowly raised your head again. “…Is it a heart attack? Because if it’s a heart attack, I need more than a minute.”

“No. I don’t believe I’m dying.” He placed a hand flat over his heart. “It feels like… fluttering. But also heavy. I observed it happening when I looked at you earlier. You were asleep on the library couch, and I found myself...unable to leave.”

Your sleepy brain tried to catch up. “You watched me sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Cas…”

“I didn’t stare,” he added quickly. “I just… stayed. In case something tried to harm you.”

Your tired heart melted just a little. “Okay, well. That’s kinda sweet. But why are you here now?”

He tilted his head. “Dean says the sensation may be affection. Or possibly indigestion.”

You laughed, curling into your blanket. “It’s not indigestion. Sounds like a crush, Cas.”

“A crush?” he echoed.

“A crush,” you said, yawning. “Or maybe more. You feel safe when I’m around, yeah?”

He nodded.

“And you care what happens to me?”

His expression softened. “Very much.”

“Then congrats. You’re in love.”

Castiel sat with that for a long moment, then blinked slowly. “Oh.”

You grinned into your pillow. “Yeah. ‘Oh.’”

“Would you like me to leave?” he asked carefully. “I’ve disturbed your sleep process.”

You reached out a hand without even opening your eyes. “No. Come here.”

He hesitated for half a second, then stood and peeled off the trench coat with almost reverent slowness before climbing under the covers beside you.

You immediately tucked yourself into his side, head on his chest, hand fisting the soft fabric of his henley. He was warm—not exactly body heat, but some kind of internal grace-temperature—and solid. Safe.

“This is nice,” he said, sounding slightly stunned.

“You’re nice,” you murmured. “But I swear, Cas, if you start glowing or angel-radioing while I’m asleep…”

“I won’t,” he said solemnly.

And just as you were drifting again, 80% there, the door creaked open.

Dean stood in the doorway in flannel pajama pants and a ratty Zeppelin tee, hair rumpled. He froze like a man who’d just walked in on something sacred and illegal.

Castiel didn’t move. He merely looked over at Dean and said, “She invited me into the bed.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Raised a finger. Lowered it.

“…Okay, that’s… cool,” he said finally. “Just, uh. Keep the angelic mojo at PG levels, alright? This ain’t a Harlequin novel.”

“Dean,” you mumbled without opening your eyes, “if you say one more word, I’m getting Sam and telling him you sleep with a teddy bear named Zeppelin.”

Dean scowled. “You’re evil.”

“Goodnight.”

He muttered something about ‘damn cosmic beings stealing all the women’ before slinking back into the hallway.

Five minutes later, you heard another knock.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice called softly. “Dean said you’re in bed with Y/N. Is that… real?”

Castiel didn’t miss a beat. “It is. I am currently participating in a ‘sleepover cuddle scenario.’”

There was a brief silence.

“…Good for you, man,” Sam said, and you could hear the genuine warmth in his voice. “She deserves someone who’ll protect her like that.”

Castiel looked down at you, just as you murmured, “You hear that, angel boy? Even Sam ships us.”

He smiled, the expression soft and full of wonder. “Then I am most fortunate.”

You yawned and melted further into his arms. “Next time though… maybe declare your eternal love after I get to 100% asleep, okay?”

“I will take that into consideration,” he whispered, then pressed his lips gently to your forehead.

And this time, you slipped past 70%, past 100%, into perfect sleep—with an angel wrapped around you like the safest blanket in the world.

//PLEASE USE THIS AS A REMIDNER TO REBLOG! \\

#castiel x you #castiel x reader #castiel x oc #supernatural #spn #castiel #misha collins #castiel x y/n #misha collins x reader #x reader #x you #x y/n #reader insert

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mrsvante · 2 days ago

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A House Between Us III

pairing: jimin x reader

genre: entrepreneur au, yandere, angst

summary: He moved in next door with a job to do, then he saw you. Polite, perfect, hiding bruises behind your smile. Now your husband’s dead. Jimin’s in your bed. And the only thing more dangerous than his devotion…is how much you love being kept.

warnings: non graphic domestic abuse, non graphic murder, mild dubcon, soft moments, smut, pregnancy

word count: 3,527

Weeks passed like that.

Softly.

Unnervingly.

Like ribbons wrapping themselves around your limbs—comforting at first, then too tight to escape.

Jimin never left your side now.

It had begun so gently you hardly noticed the shift. At first, it was easy to rationalize: he stayed the night because he didn’t want you waking up alone. Then he lingered through breakfast, sitting cross-legged at the kitchen island while you padded around barefoot, his gaze always fixed on you like you might vanish if he blinked.

By the time he was staying through drowsy afternoons on your sun warmed patio, through evenings where he curled behind you like a second skin, it felt natural. A new routine. One your body welcomed with an ache that felt eerily like peace.

Eventually, you stopped asking if he would be going home. Your home became his.

Or maybe… you had simply moved into his world without even realizing.

He didn’t invade the space you once called your own, he folded into it, became it. The empty drawers filled with his scent. The echoing corners softened with the warmth of his laughter. His toothbrush beside yours. His mug in the cabinet. His slippers at the door. The past faded in the face of such quiet domination.

Gone were the icy silences and forced smiles of a life lived under surveillance. Now the walls breathed with something else—something warmer, thicker, more potent.

His voice, low and velvety, recited poetry while you stirred soup on the stove, though he never let you finish the meal alone.

His laughter, soft and smoky, curling through the air when you teased him.

His arms, pulling you back into bed when you tried to sneak away in the morning, mouth brushing your shoulder with that slow, lazy smirk that made your knees go weak.

Jimin made you feel wanted. He made you feel needed. But above all else, he made you feel kept.

And you liked it.

God, you really did.

You liked the way his hand always found yours, his thumb stroking lazy circles into your skin like a tether, an unspoken vow.

You liked the way he plucked grocery bags from your arms with a quiet frown, like the idea of you lifting something heavier than a wine glass offended him.

You liked how his eyes tracked you across every room, half lidded and hungry, like he was still convincing himself you were real.

There was nothing left of the woman who once begged for scraps of affection from a man who made her feel like a trophy no one looked at anymore.

Now, you were gazed upon.

Cherished.

Still—beneath the soft velvet of your new life, small cracks formed.

Not rebellion. Never that.

But curiosity.

Questions that curled like vines inside your ribs, wrapping around your heart with gentle, insistent pressure.

{} {} {} {} {}

It happened late one night, when the moonlight made lace patterns across your sheets and the cicadas sang a lullaby through the open window.

You were sprawled across his chest, your limbs tangled with his, fingers idly tracing the constellation of his collarbones while his hand rested on your hip. Protective and possessive, a silent promise that you were his and always would be.

Jimin’s fingers sifted through your hair, unhurried. The kind of touch that says, there’s nowhere else I need to be.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, lips ghosting across your forehead. “So fucking perfect for me.”

You hummed, boneless and soft against him, lulled by his warmth and the low hum of his voice. But something stirred in you.

“Jimin…” you whispered, shy but steady, your fingertip drawing soft circles over the fabric stretched across his chest. “Do you ever think about… more?”

His hand paused—only for a moment—but you felt it. That subtle hitch. That microsecond of stillness that told you he’d heard.

“More?” he echoed, careful.

You shifted, lifting your chin so you could see him, caught off guard by the sharp heat of his gaze, so intense, so direct, it made your breath catch.

“Like… seeing the world. Traveling. Not just this house or this town. And maybe…” You hesitated. “Maybe children someday.”

Silence. Weighted. Heavy with meaning.

His gaze held you there, studying your face like he was carving it into memory. Each lash, each line, each hope you hadn’t dared voice until now.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved.

Not with malice or mockery. But with wonder, unbidden delight.

“You want to see the world?” he asked, his fingers tightening subtly on your waist.

You nodded, your voice barely above a breath. “I want to see something else. Something that isn’t the ruins of my old life.”

Jimin’s smile widened, bright and boyish, but his eyes glinted with something far more grown, something territorial, hungry.

“Then I’ll show you everything,” he promised, voice laced with something sharp beneath the sweetness. “Beaches, cities, mountains—whatever you want, it’s yours. We’ll build new memories. Burn the old ones to ash.”

He shifted above you, the sheets whispering around your skin as he pressed you gently into the mattress, caging you in without ever making you feel trapped.

“If you want Italy, we’ll live in Florence. If you want Japan, I’ll learn the language. If you want Paris…” he paused, eyes gleaming. “I’ll buy out a whole arrondissement so it’s quiet enough for you to sleep.”

You laughed, breath catching in your throat at the ridiculousness of it—but more than that, at the way he meant every word.

“And children?” you asked, the question slipping from your lips like a wish. “Do you ever want that, too?”

There was no hesitation.

His eyes flared. His breath stuttered.

“As many as you want,” he said, voice thick. “One, ten—I don’t care. I want them all. I want your belly round with my babies, I want their laughter filling our house, I want them to know what it’s like to grow up loved.”

You couldn’t breathe. Not really.

His words dug into something old and aching in you—something that had been so starved for this kind of tenderness it didn’t know how to receive it without unraveling.

Jimin’s lips met yours with amazement and fire, brushing once, then again, until your fingers fisted in his shirt.

“Little versions of you running around? That sounds like heaven to me,” he whispered.

Your heart clenched.

“I’m going to want a cat too,” you said, voice light even as your eyes stung.

Jimin blinked, then groaned dramatically, flopping down beside you like a sulky child.

“No. God, no. The fur. It’s everywhere.”

You giggled, nudging him with your knee. “I don’t mind cleaning. I can vacuum. I can brush them—”

“No.”

His voice, this time, held no softness.

It wasn’t cruel.

But it was immovable.

You froze, eyes wide.

Jimin propped himself on his elbow, leaning in so slowly you felt the heat of his body before his lips even touched yours.

“You will never lift a finger in our house,” he murmured, voice dipping into something dark and velvety. “Not to clean. Not to serve. Not for anyone. Not even me.”

Your lips parted, but he silenced you with a kiss, deep, hungry, filled with a kind of desperation that made your toes curl.

“The only thing I want you using those hands for…” he whispered between kisses, “is touching me. Loving me. Holding the babies we’ll make together.”

You melted beneath him, breathless and trembling.

Gone were the days when you confused survival for love. Jimin didn’t just want your obedience. He wanted your soul. And he gave you his in return. Pressed between your thighs, his hands tracing your skin, his voice a hypnotic lullaby in the dark.

Jimin wasn’t just beside you anymore.

He was everywhere.

Threaded through your days. Anchored in your bones. And there was no part of you left untouched by his devotion.

{} {} {} {} {}

The moon had shifted higher in the sky, casting a pale, silvery glow across the bedroom walls, but sleep still hadn’t found you.

You lay curled against Jimin, your cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, limbs tangled beneath the sheets. His scent—warm and clean, tinged with something only him—wrapped around you like a second blanket, grounding you even as your mind wandered far, far away.

You should have been asleep hours ago. His body was a lullaby, his presence a drug, but tonight… your thoughts were too full. Too bright. Too hopeful.

The promise of something new glimmered just beyond the horizon.

A future unspooling itself like a ribbon.

You could see it so clearly now. Your fingers laced with his as you explored cities older than memory, beaches that kissed the sky, mountaintops that made the air thin and the world small. You could feel the warmth of little hands wrapped around your fingers, laughter bouncing down the halls of a home you hadn’t built yet, but one that lived in the soft corners of your heart.

Not a house made from polished stone and silence like before.

But a home made from love. From lazy mornings and shared toothbrushes. From barefoot dancing in the kitchen and the quiet sound of safety.

Jimin stirred slightly beneath you.

His arm, already wrapped tight around your waist, flexed just enough to pull you closer, like he’d felt the tremble of your thoughts beneath your skin.

“You’re still awake,” he murmured, voice husky from sleep, lips brushing the crown of your head.

You tilted your face toward him slightly, chin nudging against his chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He shifted then, just enough to look down at you, his hand rising to cradle your cheek with infinite care.

“Are you okay?” he asked, worry clouding his voice. “Is something wrong?”

You shook your head, smiling softly.

“No. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just…” You sighed, the sound gentle, dreamy. “Thinking. I can’t stop thinking about everything.”

His brows furrowed, but you reached up to stroke the space between them, soothing the crease away.

“It’s not bad,” you promised. “I’m just excited. About change. About… the future.”

He blinked, eyes softening.

“The future?”

You nodded slowly. “With you.”

And then you told him.

In a voice barely louder than a whisper, you started to unravel the threads of your daydreams. One by one. Hushed, tender.

You told him about the places you wanted to see—the snowy rooftops of Prague, the cherry blossoms in Kyoto, the lavender fields in Provence. You told him about the food you’d always dreamed of trying. Street noodles in Bangkok, handmade pasta in Rome, the sweet, warm honey of Moroccan tea.

Jimin listened like the stars had gone out and you were the only light left in the world.

His thumb stroked slow circles into your hip, grounding you even as you floated through the possibilities. Sometimes he interjected, murmuring promises beneath his breath, we’ll go there, or I’ll take you next spring, or you’ll never eat pasta from anywhere else again once I cook for you there.

Then, as your voice grew softer, you let yourself whisper the picture of a home. One filled with light.

A sun drenched kitchen with windows that opened onto a garden. A nursery painted in soft earth tones, with storybooks and stars.

A reading nook. A fireplace. A swing on the porch.

A space that grew with you. With them.

“Our kids will never have to guess what love looks like,” you whispered, blinking slowly as your body began to finally relax.

“They’ll see it in every corner of the house. In how we talk to them. In how you kiss me goodbye, even if you’re just going to the store. In how we slow dance on the porch on Sundays and how you always—always—make pancakes a little too golden.”

Jimin’s chest rose and fell beneath you, deep and quiet.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just brushed his lips over your hair, over your temple, over your cheek, soft and still.

Then finally, he whispered, so close you felt it in your soul.

“I’ll give you everything, angel.”

His voice cracked on the last word, a raw emotion threading through the quiet.

“Everything you’ve ever dreamed of. And more. I swear to you.”

Your lashes fluttered, heavy now. His warmth, his words, the weight of your shared dream finally beginning to pull you under.

And still, he held you.

He listened as your voice trailed off into soft breaths. As your body softened completely against his, your mind finally surrendering to sleep. He kissed your forehead once more before whispering again, this time just for himself.

“Everything. You’ll have it all.”

And long after you drifted into dreams, Jimin lay awake, watching the stars fade into dawn, already plotting the world he’d build for you.

Not just a life.

But a kingdom.

A legacy.

A home that bore your name in every corner.

And he’d guard it forever.

{} {} {} {} {}

Years later, your life has softened into something dreamlike.

Gentle, slow mornings steeped in golden light. Quiet, blissful afternoons where time seemed to bend for the sake of peace. And long, sultry nights filled with whispered confessions and soft gasps under moonlight, when Jimin’s hands roamed your body like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like some part of him feared you’d vanish if he didn’t touch you enough.

Your home sat nestled deep in the green folds of the countryside, far from the hum of cities or the ache of memory. The hills rolled like sleeping giants around you, thick with trees that blushed gold in autumn and shimmered silver in winter.

It wasn’t grand. Not like the place you’d once fled, that mausoleum of cold marble and echoing grief.

No, this house was different.

It was built slowly, lovingly, over years. each room a quiet testament to the life you and Jimin carved from the ashes. Wide porches wrapped around the house, windows opened toward the morning sun. The kitchen was flooded with light, warm woods and worn stone underfoot, and a fireplace always crackling just slightly too high because Jimin worried you might get cold.

You painted the walls yourself. Picked every tile. Pressed your hand into the wet concrete of the garden path one late afternoon, giggling when Jimin kissed the paint from your nose and did the same, leaving behind twin handprints at the edge of your front steps.

“This is ours,” he whispered against your neck that evening, arms circling your waist as you watched fireflies bloom in the dusk. “Every inch of it.”

You hadn’t said a word. You didn’t need to.

Because it was true.

And you’d never wanted anything more.

The neighbors were kind in a way you still weren’t used to, soft spoken people who offered their warmth without expectation.

They brought fresh bread and warm preserves, invited you to local fairs and simple potlucks under the stars. They adored your son. Always asked about your growing belly with wide eyes and delighted laughter, eager to meet the twins who had already charmed them without ever being seen.

Your son.

The center of your little universe, the echo of Jimin in motion, ran barefoot through the fields and gardens with dirt on his knees and joy bursting from every breath. He had Jimin’s smile and your stubbornness. He brought you fistfuls of wildflowers nearly every day, and clung to your waist as he kissed your stomach with sticky fingers and wide eyed wonder.

“When are sisters coming?” he’d ask, voice high and sweet, as he counted the days like treasure.

Soon.

Always soon.

And when you said it, you’d catch Jimin watching you from the doorway, his expression a strange, beautiful thing. Awe and hunger braided into something dangerous and unshakable.

“Two more little girls to spoil rotten,” he had mused one afternoon, his hand spread protectively over the round of your stomach as you sat together on the patio, your son dozing against your lap.

“You’ll have your hands full,” you teased, fingers brushing over his wrist, your voice full of mischief and love.

“I already do,” he murmured, kissing your belly low, his lips branding you gently. “You and our daughters will ruin me.”

Your laugh was quiet. Full of memory.

Because hadn’t he said something like that before?

In the middle of a Paris hotel room, years ago, your passport still warm in your purse from the flight, your body flushed from too much champagne and his mouth against your thighs. He’d looked up at you then, breathless and loving, and whispered, You’ll be the death of me.

And now here you were painting a nursery. Baking apple crisps with your son. Watering dahlias at dawn.

Still ruining him, just as he’d promised.

You had hobbies now.

Gardening, mostly, the only physical task Jimin would allow.

Every morning, you padded barefoot into the dew drenched yard, hands in the soil, coaxing life from the earth. You wore soft linen dresses these days, your belly swaying as you knelt beside the hydrangeas, whispering to them like they were old friends.

From the kitchen window, Jimin would watch you with a mug of dark roast clasped in both hands, his eyes shadowed with quiet intensity. You always knew when he was there. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the intense tilt of his devotion.

He never interrupted. Never scolded you for the dirt under your nails.

He would let you have this.

But only this.

Anything else? Carrying groceries? Vacuuming? Folding laundry?

Absolutely not.

“You’ll never serve anyone again,” he told you once, catching you halfway up the stairs with a box of baby clothes in your arms. He took the box, placed it aside, and cupped your face gently with both hands.

“Only yourself. Only us. That’s all.”

You hadn’t argued.

Just like you didn’t argue when he hired Margot, a quiet older woman who reminded you of your grandmother and smelled like jasmine tea. She adored you, doted on your son, and tended the house like it was her own. She called Jimin young master sometimes when she thought you couldn’t hear, and though it made you smile, it never failed to make your heart twist just a little.

You painted most afternoons. Always with music, jazz, mostly, or the soft lull of classical piano drifting from the record player Jimin insisted on finding for you in a back alley shop in Venice. You’d nearly missed your train because of it, but it was worth it. Every note reminded you of that summer. The canals. The wine.

The way he pressed you up against the glass door of your hotel room, the moon glimmering off your skin as he whispered in awe, I’ll build you a life you’ll never want to leave.

And he did.

Your son’s bedroom was your proudest creation. One whole wall had become a living dream. Mountains reaching toward a sleepy moon, foxes peeking from tall grass, trees dotted with stars. A world for him to grow into, dream within, get lost inside.

Jimin had sat on the floor as you painted, legs crossed, hands clasped beneath his chin.

“You’re painting their world,” he’d said, voice low and rough. “You’re giving them magic.”

He touched the wall when you were done like it was holy.

“You make everything beautiful.”

You’d smiled, eyes stinging, and pulled him to you until your cheeks pressed together.

{} {} {} {} {}

At night, it always came back to this.

You and him.

No noise. No strangers. No shadows of who you once were.

Just your body—soft, round, glowing—and Jimin’s breath at your neck as he moved inside you with aching care.

He made love like a man who had stolen something priceless and could never stop marveling at the weight of it. His hands mapped every inch of your skin like a cartographer of worship, lips murmuring praises against your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your belly.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispered between slow thrusts. “You gave me forever.”

You clung to him, moaning softly, heart full and body open.

“No one will ever touch you but me.”

And you believed him. How could you not?

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he would die without it.

And when it was over, when your pulse had slowed and your limbs were boneless, he wrapped around you and breathed in your scent like it tethered him to the earth.

“You’ll never feel like that again, angel,” he whispered.

You nodded, already drifting.

“I know.”

But he wasn’t done. He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear, voice velvet and iron.

“No more doors to escape through,” he murmured. “No more windows to cry at. No more houses between us.”

His arms curled tighter.

“You’re here. With me. Forever. No further.”

And you, sleepy, sated, and beloved, only smiled. Because the truth was simple. You didn’t want further anymore. You had everything you needed right here.

Jimin.

Your son.

The daughters blooming inside you.

A love so heavy it pinned you in place, sweet and smothering.

You had given him your surrender long ago.

And you never wanted it back.

two | masterlist

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