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darkbluekies · 2 days ago

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In the hands of a madman 2024 ver

Doctor!yandere oc x reader

Summary: a doctor is very peculiar about his favorite patient, and senses a threat once they disobey him.

Warnings: yandere, poison, murder, cuff restraints

Word count: 2.4k

You gag.

“Yes, yes, I know”, he coos, grimacing and removes the wooden stick out of your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

You're left with a bitter taste in your mouth. Why does he always stick that thing as far down your throat as humanly possible? You thank heavens that it’s not one of the needles extracting blood from your arm, although you’re sure that’s what’s waiting tomorrow.

“Still nothing?” you ask cautiously.

He meets your eyes and you know immediately. You sigh heavily. Your heart sinks to your stomach.

Every three months, he’s doing all sorts of tests to see if you’re getting better — or what’s what he’s saying. Every three months, Dr Kry has to check every vital sign on you to make sure that his sickness isn’t getting out of his control. But you don’t like them. They hurt. Badly.

“Will I ever get to go home? I want to.”

Dr Kry sighs and sits down on his rolling stool, coming over to your bed.

“I know you do, but you that’s not possible”, he says apologetically. “You know that too.”

“Yeah, because you keep reminding me”, you mutter.

“That’s better than giving you false hope, isn’t it? Wouldn’t that drive you insane?”

It would, but you don’t say it out loud. Doesn’t need to.

“I want to go home!” you say again, louder this time.

“Saying it louder won’t make you better or me change my mind”, Dr Kry says.

You sigh and press your palms to your eyes, trying to press the tears back into your eyes before they escape. You’ve been here for too long by now. You’ve been isolated for so incredibly long. ALl you want is to go home. You know no one, talk to no one beside him. The proper, sophisticated man who’s stiffer than a stick. Dr Kry sighs and moves closer.

“I know that you’re disappointed”, he says and puts his large hand on your shoulder. “But this is for the best. “I don’t want you to get worse.”

“I hate these fucking tests! They hurt.”

“I know.”

He glances towards the white air purifier on the shelf beside the bed. The poisoned air purifier. He’s always making sure it’s not too much, not too little. Just the exact amount to keep you where he wants you — weak and vulnerable, dependent on him.

“I know it’s hard”, he says encouragingly. “I know that you’re in pain, but you’re doing so good. You can always call for me if you need me, okay? I’m available all day and night for you.”

You press forward a smile, but can’t help but feel a wave of sadness wash over you. Why did this happen to you? Where did you go wrong to end up here? How could a sore throat get you bed bound in a hospital room? If only you knew.

“Let’s get you tucked in again”, Dr Kry says and helps you lie down in bed. “You shouldn’t be putting to much pressure on your body.”

He pushes up your pillows, having you lie in a 45-degree angle. It helps you breathe at night. He always tucks the blanket close to your body, as if you were a butterfly in a cocoon. He gives you a small smile before standing up.

“Please don’t go”, you whisper. “I don’t want to be left here.”

The man looks at you, studies you carefully before nodding and sitting back down. He wipes your lonely tear with his finger. He looks at his wet finger, thinking.

“I feel helpless”, you admit. “I don’t think I’ll ever get well again.”

Little do you know that’s exactly what he wants.

“It’s okay, Y/N”, he says. “I will take care of you. I will stay with you until you’re well again.”

He has to force back a smile.

“I don’t want to do these anymore”, you say monotonously.

“I know you don’t, but you have to”, Dr Kry says apologetically and moves closer to the bed on his rolling stool. “They’re important.”

“They hurt …”

“I know, but you’re doing so good, okay? I’m so proud of you.”

You give him a small, painful smile.

“I’ll sit here until you fall asleep, don’t worry”, he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You close your eyes slowly. He fades out.

He takes blood tests the following day. Needles, pain.

“Now, you need to take a nap”, he says and tucks you in.

The daily afternoon nap. You hate it, but he insists. While you sleep, he’s out taking care of other patients that are not you. He hates it, hates wasting his time and skill on people that aren’t you. Those patients are one time patients that are there for surgeries, consultations or checkups. No long term patients that have to stay in the hospital. Everyone gets to leave after he meets them. Everyone but you. You stay.

You keep your eyes closed until Dr Kry leaves the room. Quickly, you sit up and get out of bed. After all these fucking tests, you’re deserving of something else than the tasteless cardboard Dr Kry gets you. Just one brownie. Something that has sugar. And maybe some coffee for caffeine too.

Quietly, you sneak out into the corridor. There’s something about these sterile passageways that makes the hair on your back stand on its end. Is it the dehumanized area or the fact that you’re never allowed here? Is it nerves or excitement? Whatever it is, you decide to speed up your steps and hurry towards the elevators before anyone sees you. They’ll tell him. Just as the doors are about to close, someone stops the doors. A boy dressed in a similar hospital gown as yourself forces his way into the elevator. He gives you a rushed, apologetic smile.

“Sorry”, he says sheepishly. “I am in a hurry.”

“What happened to you?” you ask and smile halfly.

“I escaped from the therapist. A real pain in my ass.”

You can’t help but giggle. The young man licks his lips and runs a hand through his hair.

“Have you met her?” he asks. “The therapist?”

“No”, you say.

You haven’t met anyone but your stiff and proper doctor.

“Don’t”, the young man advices you and leans his back against the wall. “She’s mental. I honestly think she should be the one getting interrogated — not me.” He looks at you, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Do you meet others?” you ask.

“In the lounge. Have you been there?”

You shake your head and lower your eyes.

“Did you just arrive?” the man asks.

You shake your head again.

“How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

The elevator stops and the doors open at your floor.

“Are you going to the cafeteria?” the man asks.

“Yes”, you reply.

“I’m coming with you. Maybe you can help me blend in.”

“Okay.”

The boy seems frantic, but happy. Running on adrenaline and excitement. Together, you walk through the hospital to the cafeteria and realize that you don’t have any money. Your shoulders fall. Did you come here for nothing?

“Aren’t you going to order something?” the young man asks.

“I don’t know”, you reply quietly.

Before you have the time to come up with a lie why you can’t order anything, you recognise something in the corner of your eye. A blonde man dressed in a white robe. You feel your blood run cold.

“What do we have here?” Dr Kry asks and you have a hard time reading his tone or facial expressions. “What do you think you are doing out of bed?”

He walks over to you and grabs your shoulder. You flinch. His grip is … tight. Painful.

“You’re supposed to rest”, Dr Kry says shortly.

He looks at the young man. His eyes seem to go right through him.

“Where are you supposed to be?” he asks.

He doesn’t answer. Dr Kry gives him a cold gaze before grabbing your upper arm in a tight grip. He doesn’t say anything as he starts to pull you with him. His steps are quick, steady. Angry.

“Doctor …”, you try.

He doesn’t answer. Dr Kry pushes you into the elevator and presses the button. He doesn't let go of your arm.

“Doctor, I’m sorry”, you say.

He still doesn’t answer. You barely dare to look at him. There’s something about his face that scares you. It's stoic, unreadable. But he oozes anger. Like a dark cloud.

The elevator stops, the doors open. His tight grip remains as he drags you back into your room.

“Lay down”, he instructs shortly.

You do, too scared to disobey. Dr Kry walks past you, to the drawers by your bed. He rips out two leather bands that look like belts for dolls. Before you're aware of what he's doing, he's strapped one of your wrists to the bed railing.

“Wait, doctor-”, you blurt out.

“Be quiet.”

He locks your other wrist to the other railing. You tug at the restraints, and find them secure.

“Are they too tight?” Dr Kry asks, still with that short tone that sends icy needles down your spine.

“Doctor, what are you-?”

“Answer the question. Do they hurt?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He turns to his desk, ignoring you.

“Doctor, I'm sorry”, you say.

“You broke my trust”, he says without giving you any attention. “It's important, for your healing, that you do not deceive me. I need to be able to trust that you do as I say. How many times have you done this?”

“Only this time, I promise.”

He doesn't answer. You feel how your eyes fill with tears. Your body is in such a vulnerable state that your body betrays you. You didn't want to upset him, didn't want to put your own health at risk by doing this.

“I'm sorry, doctor”, you sniffle. “I didn't mean to break your trust.”

He sighs and turns his head to look at you. His blue eyes soften and he rises from his chair, coming over to your bed. He can't stay mad at you, not when you're clearly dumb. You don't understand, he can't be mad at you for not understanding. He should — and is — mad at himself for not foreseeing these situations and making sure you don't do it.

“You know that I only want what's best for you, don't you?” he asks and wipes your tears with his hand.

“Yes”, you reply.

“In that case, I want you to never repeat this mistake. Mistakes are forgivable, but they should be minimized, do you understand that?”

“Yes. Do you forgive me?”

He has to force back a smile. You're so unbelievably cute.

“Yes, I do forgive you”, he says.

“Can you take off the restraints?”

“No. I might forgive you, but I need you to know what happens once mistakes occur. This is the consequences that follow. If I can't trust you to be where I want you to be, I need to take precautions to make sure you are.”

You lower your gaze.

“Who was that, by the way?” he asks. “That young … man. Why did you speak to him?”

“I don't know, he took the same elevator as me.”

“I don't want you to speak with him again. If he's the one they're looking for, I don't want you getting influenced by his reckless ideas.”

“I don't get to speak to anyone, anyways.”

“And that's how it should be. We don't know why you're sick, and you shouldn't contaminate someone else.”

“What about you, then? You can get sick too.”

“I'm ready to take that risk.”

He's too nice, you think. All he wants is to take care of you and you put his selfless risks to hell when you decide to disobey him. How horrible of you.

“Now, you need to take that nap for real”, he says. “I will sit by my desk. If you need something you can just let me know.”

He walks back to his desk and sits down, starting to file some paperwork. You tug at the restraints. You're not going anywhere.

When you’ve fallen asleep, Dr Kry makes his way through the hospital. They’ve captured that young man and put him back into his room … and Dr Kry wants a talk with him. He opens the door quietly. The young lays in bed, sleeping. Dr Kry circles around him, taking a good look at him. Did you find him cute? Hot? Did you like talking to him? Did you think that he was better than him? Did you enjoy those ten minutes with him more than these months with Kry? Do you want to meet with him again? He glares at the sleeping man. Dr Kry walks over to the supply closet, an identical to the one in your room, and takes out one of the spare pillows. Silently, he walks over to the bed, lifts the pillow and presses it over the young man’s face. He widen his eyes, pulled out of his slumber. He screams against the pillow, his voice getting muffled in the fabric.

“Normally, I’d make this easy for you”, Dr Kry grunts as the man starts to fight against him. “Out of pity, but you don’t deserve that mercy.”

He screams in confusion, fear. Dr Kry can make out words. What. No. Help. Stop.

“Just give in and give yourself that mercy”, Dr Kry continues. “If you continue to fight against me, you’ll be in more pain.”

The man cries. Dr Kry breaks out into a smile.

“You’re going to die either way, you can choose to end it quicker.”

The young man doesn’t seem to get the memo. He continues to fight, cry, plead. He drinks it all in. The horror, the helplessness. The dear in headlight. He has seen the light in people’s eyes disappear multiple times during his job as a doctor. To see the moment someone becomes just a piece of flesh. He has never enjoyed it as much as now. The man stops moving. Dr Kry removes the pillow and takes a step back, looking at the lifeless body. He breathes out. Finally, he can calm down.

And now, all he needs to do is to make sure he can not be traced back.

He finds you sleeping soundly as he comes back to your room, wrists still locked to the sides of the bed. You make his heart ache. He sits down beside you, brushing his fingertips over your cheek.

I control your life, my little one. You’re going to say with me and I’ll take every repercussion to make sure you don’t disappear.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabbles #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere doctor #yandere fics #yandere oneshot #yandere oc

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my-eyes-burn · 2 days ago

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cw: non con/dubcon, stepcest, fingering, aphrodisiac, fucking, dirty talk, implied voyeurism. afab reader w/gendered language.

pervy stepbrother!suguru who has been waiting for the perfect time to slip something special into his stepsister's evening tea. it's an aphrodisiac, a strong one. his plan is to deliver the tea like he usually does and then wait for you to come to him, begging. it's a fool-proof plan and it works perfectly.

pervy stepbrother!suguru who gives you your usual cup of tea. when you say thank you and offer him that sweet smile, his lips curl. he can't wait for you to come begging to him. sure enough, you start to feel hot between the legs and dizzy. your vision is blurry and you start to sweat--is that a fever? the blazing heat between your legs starts to pulse and there's only one thing on your mind: suguru. your body practically pulls you in his direction. one moment, you're in your room sweating bullets and squeezing your legs together, and the next moment you're standing in front of him while he sits on the couch.

pervy stepbrother!suguru who pats his lap and smiles. you ease yourself down onto his thighs, which he spreads a bit, and your back touches his chest. he tells you to relax and then asks "what's wrong sweetheart?"

pervy stepbrother!suguru chuckles when you tell him you feel hot. his hands creep to rest on your thighs and you have to stifle a whine, but your effort to shove it back into your throat is unsuccessful, so it sounds like a sort of strangled choke. when he hears that noise, he coos in your ear and his hands squeeze your thighs lightly. "are you doing ok? do you need your big stepbrother to do something for you?" he's prompting you because he obviously knows what you want.

pervy stepbrother!suguru who has so much satisfaction seeing you like this. when you whisper the words, "help, suguru. i feel weird." he responds "where?"

pervy stepbrother!suguru has to hold back a groan when you tell him you feel weird "down there." he purrs in your ear and asks what you want him to do about it. and when you timidly tell him that you want him to touch you, he lets out a long, satisfied sigh. his fingers creep to your inner thighs and a trail of goosebumps follow in their wake. he can feel heat radiating off of you.

pervy stepbrother!suguru whose fingers slip under your skimpy pajama shorts and rest on your clothed cunt. he can already tell you're dripping wet. your breath hitches and he kisses your exposed neck and pushes down on your clit.

pervy stepbrother!suguru feels like teasing you, or rather, torturing you. "don't you think we should stop though?" he asks, innocently. "you're my stepsister, i don't think i should be touching you like this. doesn't it feel wrong?" but when you whine in response and start to beg shamelessly, his fingers start rubbing in circles on top of your clit. "okay, i'll touch you, but just this once. and you're already so hot and sticky down there. you really needed this, didn't you?"

pervy stepbrother!suguru who rubs his middle and ring finger back and forth over your thong, rubbing on your clit and brushing down your lips. when you squirm and start to make whining noises, he gets hard. you can't even tell because you're too lost in ecstasy already. he pulls your thong aside and plunges his two fingers inside before you even realize its happening. you let out a loud gasp and he shushes you. "quiet. don't want mom and dad to hear." you immediately shut up, and you're obviously out of it because you don't register that the house is completely empty and will be for at least a week.

pervy stepbrother!suguru who starts to finger fuck you ruthlessly with his long, pale, pretty fingers, swirling them around inside of you. he asks "is this helping you feel better?" and when you babble out incoherent nonsense, he tells you to use your words. "feels weird," you manage to answer finally with the utmost effort. he hums and presses on your gspot, making you moan and writhe on his lap, while he asks a follow-up question. "by weird, do you mean good?" you whimper and he knows that it's an affirmative.

pervy stepbrother!suguru who knows you get off on the filthiest dirty talk. "you're so fucking wet, i didn't know you wanted me this badly. and you're moaning so loudly, i think everyone is listening." he presses his fingers onto your hot and gooey spot and then pulls them out, circling your own slick over your clit while you shudder. "you'd like that, wouldn't you? if everyone heard."

pervy stepbrother!suguru who starts to lick and kiss your shoulder. it's almost too much, because the aphrodisiac has made you so sensitive. you feel like your skin is on fire and you can't think straight. you don't register that your step brother is knuckle deep and hard as a rock, you just know that he's making you feel better.

pervy stepbrother!suguru pulls his fingers out of you and shoves them into your mouth, so deep that you gag. he lets out a satisfied groan as you taste your own juices and then keeps fingering you. he can feel your thighs shake and shudder, he knows you're close. "needy little pussy is just swallowing my fingers up. you gonna cum soon? gonna cream on my fingers like a good little stepsister?"

pervy stepbrother!suguru whose words make you start to seize up. he circles and presses on your gspot relentlessly and sends you over the edge. while you convulse and throw your head back, your eyes roll back in your head and loud, obscene sounds leave your mouth. "everyone can hear you, gorgeous. do you think they're getting off, too? does it feel good knowing they're listening?"

pervy stepbrother!suguru who is shocked at how intense your orgasm is. your legs go limp and your mind goes blank. your arousal covers his hand and wrist, dripping down to soil a huge wet spot on the couch. he hums in your ear as he slowly finger fucks you through your orgasm, and when you've stopped writhing, he leaves his fingers inside, unmoving. he can feel your walls pulse and shake around him. "theeerrreee you go. dirty fucking girl."

pervy stepbrother!suguru who smiles when you whisper, mere seconds later, that you need more. he responds, "what else do you want, sweetheart?" and you choke out the answer as quietly as you can manage. you want his cock. and he has no problem obliging.

#jjk smut #suguru smut #geto suguru smut #geto smut #jujutsu kaisen smut

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ceilidho · 13 hours ago

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 20 / epilogue)

masterlist

Black trees against a yellow sky at evening time.

It’s late when you finally reach home. Dark enough to almost be night—a full day longer to return than it took to leave, but then you hadn’t ridden as hard coming back, too sore and sleep-deprived to manage the same pace. Even the meager sleep you got on the road was hardly sufficient.

Then the shape of your house appears on the horizon and you nearly break down in tears. The sight of it fills you with such relief that you nearly lose your balance, your head slumping forward. Too long. Days that felt like weeks, your body and mind weary from the long trek home. Against the gold of the horizon light, it appears like a boat arriving at port.

You throw yourself off your horse and to the ground before John has even had a chance himself to dismount and come help you down. He stomps over when your foot nearly catches in the stirrup, nostrils flared and mustache twitching with his scowl.

“Don’t go breaking your leg before I’ve even gotten you home,” he growls when he reaches you, fitting his hand around the nape of your neck and giving it a squeeze. You’d shiver, but your body is too exhausted for your libido to manage more than a half-hearted twitch. Instead you nod, head bobbing like a baby doll.

John takes the horses to the stables while you clamber up the stairs on wobbly legs, headed straight for your bedroom, passing out the second your head touches the pillow. Your growling stomach will have to be addressed in the morning.

You aren’t conscious for when John comes up to join you, but you swear even in sleep you can sense his presence in the room. Certainly when he curls himself around you, the wall of warmth at your back briefly making your eyes flicker open before sleep claims you again and they slide shut.

In the morning, you eat a big breakfast before letting John rub a liniment onto your inner thighs and bandage the cuts on your hands and face. The doctor he takes you to see after breakfast for the shoulder that Graves dislocated prescribes bed rest and light stretching for recovery and laudanum for any lingering pain.

“What did you tell him?” you ask when the two of you head out for a light lunch in town before heading back home.

“Told him you fell off a horse.” He shrugs. “Not that uncommon around here.”

All you can do is roll your eyes.

Still, it’s as good an excuse as any. No one questions your story when you tell it to them over the following days, when your shoulder is still too tender for you to move it too vigorously. Only Kate lifts a brow knowingly, all but cornering you for the real story when you finally get a moment alone.

“That sonuvabitch,” she hisses when you finally break and tell her what happened.

“It’s fine,” you insist, shushing her. “John… Well, John handled it.”

She nods approvingly, then looks like she might say more before thinking the better of it. Silence falls between the two of you.

“He—” you pause in the middle of your sentence, unsure of how exactly to say it. “It wasn’t so bad. Telling him, I mean.”

Kate must catch the slight inflection in your voice because she stares at you expectantly, waiting for you to say more. “…I’m happy to hear that.”

You inhale as if gathering your breath to say more, but nothing comes out. You know what it is you want to say, but it’s getting it out that’s the tricky bit. What you want to tell her is that your trust wasn’t misplaced in the end; all of your fears that the truth would shatter the affection and trust that had finally been shown to you after a lifetime of nothing were unfounded, proven ultimately wrong.

“Was there something else you wanted to add?”

You chew your lower lip.

“No. Nothing else,” you say in the end. There’ll be a time someday to tell her that her trust wouldn’t be misplaced with John or Kyle either; perhaps that day will come sooner than you expect, but for now it remains on the distant horizon. It’s not your place to lecture or admonish; your place in her life is to offer the same feeling of security and companionship as she’s offered you.

Today, you loop your arm through hers and join her for lunch.

In town, people greet you like you never left. Only one person asks you about the man you were walking with the previous day, and Kate covers for you when you stumble over your answer, throat constricting in your panic. There’s no suspicion in the question, but still you anticipate it because life has conditioned you to expect pain as a response to any action or inaction.

You are surprised when pain doesn’t come this time. But still, you are wary.

When you get home, John fills the tub with hot water for you and lets you wash up on your own while he tends to the horses, the third now unofficially his. You lean your arms over the side of the tub and drift in and out of your daydreams, ears attuned only to the sound of his voice and the owls calling from the trees just beyond the house. Eyes fluttering shut until slipping deeper into the water kicks you back into wakefulness.

“You falling asleep in there?” he asks when he stomps back inside, the door slamming shut behind him and nearly giving you a heart attack.

“No,” you deny, discreetly wiping the rheum from the inner corners of your eyes. “Just resting my eyes.”

“Of course,” he snorts. Amused as ever by seemingly anything that comes out of your mouth.

A telegram comes in to the sheriff's office some weeks later asking about a missing bounty hunter, and though you pitch forward in your chair when John tells you this, he’s quick to remind you that as far as anyone else knows, Graves moved on after his first visit a month or so back.

It takes time to reassure you, but slowly your hands unclench from the edge of your seat.

Still, you make yourself scarce for a week after that. It takes some time for you to feel safe again. You spend those first few days after hearing about the telegram constantly looking over your shoulder, plagued by the worry that you’ll be found out. Sharing your worries with John doesn’t go a long way towards alleviating them because his confidence never wavers. It’s almost infuriating.

“Would it kill you to just pretend?” you huff, cracking an egg into the skillet.

“Nobody’s gonna come looking for him here. ‘Far as anyone knows, he made his way west a long time ago,” he says, dismissing your concerns while clipping his fingernails at the kitchen table. You scrunch up your nose when you glance over your shoulder.

“You better not think I’m sweeping those up.”

He barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head at the same time.

True to his word, the front door stays shut. No one comes knocking looking for an errant bounty hunter. Perhaps that is a lesson that you can take away from all of this—that there is no reward for isolating oneself. Your safety has only ever been assured in community, in putting your trust in others and safeguarding their secrets in turn. Only love has ever held out its arms for you to fall into.

And now the days pass like clouds in the sky.

Tranquility hovers on the periphery of your life with every intention of calling out your name. It’s waiting for you with open arms.

In the evenings, John takes you upstairs to the bedroom and pries you open enough to fit himself in. His mouth blazes a trail across your body, sucking your nipples until they’re beaded, wetting his beard with the essence of your pleasure, and bringing you to the brink of completion time and again before pushing you over.

After a while, he leaves a piece of himself behind.

Weeks pass and the seasons change. The changes you notice in your body are physical as well as emotional. At some point since coming home, you must have started to unwind. Shoulders loosening up, knots melting down your back. Is it just you, or does the air smell fresher too?

You pin the laundry up on the clothesline and wait for your husband to come home. The sun sets earlier these days with autumn just around the corner. Already the leaves have begun to redden and brown, some breaking off from the branches altogether and floating to the ground where you know eventually they’ll rot and dissolve into the earth, starting the cycle of death and rebirth all over again.

Winter is fast approaching and you know this one will be tough with a little one on the way. You’ve already started preparing for the winter months—canning and storing corn and potatoes and other root vegetables harvested from your garden, making preserves from the fruits of autumn—apples and pears sealed in jars of thick syrup—and filling the cellar with barrels of salted and cured meats. In town, you visit the seamstress for clothes of thicker material and leave with an armful of wool flannel petticoats, fur-trimmed bonnets, and corsets of a heavier cotton coutil.

You rest a hand on your belly as you stare off into the distant mountains. Even the sky darkens earlier these days. When all of the laundry is pinned on the line, you pick up the wicker basket resting by your feet and bring it back inside, shuffling into the kitchen to get started on supper.

There’s still much that needs to be done before winter arrives. Firewood to be chopped, furs and blankets to be hung on the walls, the fireplace to be swept, and more. Enough to keep you busy and your mind occupied when you aren’t bent over a book because that’s also your reality these days. The librarian in town now knows you by name and knows to set aside a few books a week for you to pick up when you pass by with Kate.

You don’t think much of the knock at the door at first, absent-mindedly thinking that it must be a neighbor come to visit. Only when you open the door to an unfamiliar face do you pause.

It’s a woman, not too dissimilar in looks from you. A bit taller, but otherwise if someone were to describe you from looks alone, they might be tempted to use the same words for either of you. She stands on your porch with a suitcase held by her side, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead from the short trip from town. She dabs her forehead lightly with a handkerchief before pocketing it again.

“Hello there,” she greets, a bright smile on her face. “I’m looking for John Price. I was told he lives here?”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at her nonplussed, not understanding why a strange woman might be at your door asking for your husband in such a familiar way. It takes a moment for it to sink in. Then the light goes on and your confusion shifts to disbelief with a twinge of rage.

“We’re engaged to be married,” the other woman hurries to explain, taking a step closer, foot wedged in the door almost as if intending to barge right in.

Her gall nearly makes you lose your temper. Months ago, you might’ve welcomed her arrival, eager to prove to John that you weren’t the woman that he mistook you for so that you could be on your merry way. But that time has long since passed. There isn’t anywhere else in the world you’d rather be than here. You’ve put roots down, entrenched yourself in every way.

Your lips pull into a hard line, face set in stone. “You must be mistaken. He’s already married.”

She blinks, uncomprehending. “That’s…—are you sure? We’ve been corresponding. I know I’m a few months late, but I was held up back in—”

You cut her off by sticking out your hand, topaz ring shining bright on your third finger. “I’m sure. But thank you for stopping by; I’ll let John know you send your apologies.”

And with that, you shove her foot out with yours and shut the door on her face. On another day, you’ll allow yourself to feel guilty for your rudeness; for now, this is your happy ending to enjoy.

And savor it, you will.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #price x reader #price/reader #john price x reader #price x you #john price x you #john price x y/n

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amaramizuki666 · 2 days ago

Text

I have been pulled from the depths of my hibernation by this post. And now y'all should know my drill. I'm making this DP x DC baby.

Anyway

_________

Tim opened his door to see what looked to be a underweight preteen. The boy looked to be the personification of a wet cat. "Do you need something kid?" Tim's asks and leans aginst the door frame. Tim raked his eyes across the kid, he had ice blue eyes and black hair 'he looks like adoption bait'.

"I know what you are" the kid says. Tim raises a brow 'is this kid with the paparazzi or something?'. Tim tilts his head and tired smile on his lips "oh, Do you now?".

The kid with an all to serious expression lifts up a photo... of him.... as Red Robin climbing into his apartments window 'well fuck'.

Tim grabbed the kid by the wrist and pulled him into his apartment "so what do you want?" Tim asks cearfully, grabbing his coffee mug and nursing it as he stared the kid down.

Tim dosnt want to come off as threatening, but he won't just let the bratt expose him. "So you are Red Robin?" The kid says, not in a way that makes him seem unsure of himself, but like in the way he wants to hear it from Tim's lips.

"You can't prove it" Tim says calmly sipping his coffee. Tim knows he basically just conformed it, but he could tell the kid already knew.

The little shit gave Tim a wide smirk and pulled a manila folder, out of... somewhere? And hands it to him. Tim takes it, sets down his coffee, and opens it. Inside are a few dozen pictures of Tim, some were his mask is off while he is still in suite.

"Ok you got me, so what do you want?" Tim says slightly impressed, he is getting flashbacks to his younger years of chasing Batman and Robin with his camera.

"I'm going to be your sidekick" The kid says firmly. Tim's jaw drops. It feels like he is blue-screening. 'Is this how Bruce felt?' "Ok" The word left Tim's lips before he even relized.

The kid stuck out his hand "it's a pleasure doing business with you, I'm danny". 'You know what fuck it, this is my kid now' Tim smirked tiredly, taking Danny's hand (his ice cold hand) in a firmly grip "Guess we need to pick out a name for your then".

Danny's grin grows showing too many teeth "i already have one, is go by Phantom"

--------------------

I also think this would be hilarious if danny is actually older than Tim but is stuck as a sad meow meow because he stopped aging after he died, and ge saw Red Robin, practically on his own and most of the support he was receiving was from other teens, and deciding, no, no kid should be without adult support.

Danny wished he had someone to watch his Back besides his freinds and sister, sure they helped a lot, but he feels he would have been better off with an adult mentor (shut up vald you were never his mentor, just a creepy fruitloop).

And if Red Robin thinks he's a kid, all the better, it should make him less reckless if he thinks he has a kid to watch out for.

#writing prompt #writing #danny phantom #dialogue prompt #danny fenton #writeblr #dc #incorrect dc quotes #dc robin #dc x dp #danny x red robin #dead tired #brain dead #tim drake #tired tim drake #ghost king danny #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover

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korrasera · 1 day ago

Text

Unfortunately, this post and posts like it misunderstand what it means to say that the Democrats abandoned the working class.

Because they did.

And no, the working class didn't abandon the Democrats.

I'll explain.

First, the list of the accomplishments of the Biden administration is a long one and it's absolutely true they weren't getting the coverage they deserved. That's a true point, and a good one, but it's not not how the Democrats abandoned the working class.

Next, the working class didn't abandon the Democrats. The working class voters that always vote Republican voted Republican because voters don't switch sides and they weren't up for grabs, no matter what a Democrat strategist thought.

Of the working class voters that vote Democrat, they didn't abandon the Democrats, the Democrats took them for granted and didn't give them a reason to vote to support Harris. And it is very important to give people a reason to vote.

Some didn't vote because they wouldn't vote for a woman, because bigotry is everywhere.

Some people didn't vote because support for an incumbent party drops when the economy is doing poorly. Despite the Biden administration giving us a soft landing that avoided a recession, income inequality is up globally and for the average person, that means the economy sucks right now.

But that's not how the Democrats abandoned the working class either.

The Democrats abandoned the working class because they squandered the initial surge of enthusiasm for Harris's announcement by following it up with:

A campaign that focused on Trump's threat.

An emphasis on trying to court Republican voters.

Basically no real messaging about what the Democrats would do to try to help the working class voters survive right now.

They didn't talk about the minimum wage or support for unions. Even with the Biden administrations support of unions, which was surprisingly good for a US presidential administration.

It was great to finally hear someone say that Trump and JD Vance were weird, but that's just an appetizer. It's not the entire meal.

Do you see what's missing? Democrats can't win on the idea that the other guy is a threat. They need to run on the things they can do to make everything better. And they need to do so with specifics, not aspirational messaging.

Harris's speeches talked about the need to cut taxes for the middle class, but didn't get into specifics. She didn't talk about solid policy positions. The Democrats weren't giving any answers on what to do about the next Trump or the next Bezos or the oligarch that decides they want half of everyone's paycheck.

They didn't talk about how they were going to take the boot off our necks.

In hindsight, some of this should have been easy:

"Vote for me and I will eliminate student debt!" "Vote for me and I will make the minimum wage a livable wage!" "Vote for me and I will stop evictions and fix housing!"

Even if they weren't going to keep those promises, talking about them with specific plans is what people needed to hear and it's exactly what people didn't.

And while they weren't talking to the working class Democrats and their needs, they were going after wealthy donors and Republican voters, which made those working class voters feel like the Democrats were taking them for granted.

After all, why do you need to speak to someone's needs if you know that they're going to vote for you? You're their only option, right? Makes sense when you think like a Republican, but people who vote Democrat do so because they don't think like Republicans. The Republicans follow the leader while the Democrats build coalitions.

Finally, if anti-trans ads were a pivotal factor in Harris's loss, then you would have seen Trump's support increase. It didn't. He stayed flat, the Republican base supported him just like they were always going to. He was always going to be able to use fear and bigotry to motivate them.

Don't get me wrong, Trump is absolutely trying to stoke a full blown moral panic against trans people. And his hateful message galvanized his base. But if it hadn't been us it would have been immigrants. Or another kind of queer folk. Or socialists. They will never want for an enemy because they're afraid of literally everyone not like themselves.

The Harris campaign failed because the Democrats played bad politics when they needed to bring their A game.

They needed to give Democrat voters real answers about real help. They needed to give people a reason to vote. And they didn't.

dropping this here

#us politics #election 2024 #democrats #working class

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puck-luck · 2 days ago

Note

luke x older reader anon again! congrats on 1k! submitting the same request, with hearts and prompt 25 🫶🏻

warnings: unprotected p in v, age gap (not major.), religious themes & motifs, pining, childhood friends to lovers vibes, best friend's brother ofc, jealousy, occasionally insecure statements from luke, really just the sweetest sex you can imagine. i LOVED writing this. hence... the length.

WC: 4,351

You’ve been friends with the Hughes boys as long as you can remember. The first time you met Quinn, it was during your first pee-wee skate.

Your dad was a big hockey fan, so he wanted to teach you how to skate. The debate had been between figure skating and hockey– your mom loved gymnastics, dance, and figure skating, having been an artistic athlete herself. Your dad wanted you to skate regardless, but hockey felt more suited for your talents. You were a competitive child– and territorial over your toys– so your dad thought it would translate well into a hockey environment.

He took you to the Olympics in Salt Lake when you were three years old. You went to see figure skating and two of the United States hockey games– one for the men and one for the women. To your dad, it wasn’t a surprise how your eyes grew into saucers when you watched your first live hockey game.

He’d enrolled you in peewee skate the following week. There were no girls-only leagues, so you were put into a coed league. Quinn was in the same league. You became very fast friends– you liked to talk, your new little buddy liked to listen, and then you finally got him out of his shell midway through the season and your friendship was fully cemented. Actually, the second you learned his last name was Hughes– like Sarah Hughes, who won the Olympic Gold in single’s figure skating when you were in Utah– he was stuck with you. Just because you’d preferred hockey didn’t mean you didn’t love ice skating, too. It just wasn’t your passion.

You and Quinn stayed in touch after that peewee hockey season, enrolling in the same league and requesting to be on the same team until you both graduated into the boys- and girls-only leagues. You still remained friends, staying in contact as best you could when he moved to Toronto. You’d send letters back and forth and you became a pro at interpreting Quinn’s boyishly terrible handwriting. He’d tell you about his brothers, his parents, his school, and his hockey teams. You’d keep him updated on home, but then it stopped being home to Quinn. Soon enough, you were only talking about hockey and family. ‘Did you see that Crosby won the Hart Trophy?’ ‘Yeah! Ovi got the Calder though, so we’re still on even playing field. Canadian boy.’ ‘Hey, Ovi is Russian. Choose a real American and get back to me.’

It wasn’t long until you secured an invitation to visit the Hughes during the summer. You and your family went up to Toronto to visit them and you got to play with the Hughes boys for a whole week. It was so much fun, so the next summer, you begged to invite them to your place for a week.

The tradition continued for years, alternating houses and hometowns. You and Quinn both applied to Michigan– he played hockey, you did not. You were a good player, but you’re more of a beer league girl. You weren’t recruited to play college hockey– which, for a while, you thought was weird, because there are so few female hockey players in America. You’re hoping that your lack of recruitment means that there are hundreds of amazing women who are better than you at the sport, and that helped you accept your fate. After all, Quinn would sometimes bring you to the rink when it was empty. You’d get to play for a little while– and it was nice, in college, to have someone who knew you so well.

A lot of people assumed that you and Quinn were together, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Quinn was like your brother. There was that weird month when you were thirteen and you’d gone to visit him over the summer and you’d thought, maybe… but it turned out that you were just thirteen and confused because of your rampant hormones and puberty. Quinn is just your friend, your best friend.

All of the brothers were pretty off-limits. You’d seen the way girls had started flirting with Jack as he’d entered his teens. You’re able to admit that he’s a cute boy. Luke was an absolute sweetheart, always trying to play with Quinn (and, by extension, you) as you’d grown up. You felt so fond of Luke in a ‘look at how precious he is, I need to protect him’ sort of way.

And then, last night at the lake house, he’d helped you line up a shot in pool and kept his hand on the small of your back when you bent over the table, and your mind had been spinning ever since.

You can’t tell Quinn, obviously. That’s his baby brother. You’re not even sure how you feel about it– Luke’s always been your little buddy. Now, he’s over half a foot taller than you, so he’s not so little anymore. Still– he’s four years younger than you and Quinn. It’s the equivalent of a freshman hooking up with a senior and you feel icky.

Regardless, you can’t keep your eyes off of him. He likes to twirl his fork between his fingers when he’s done eating dinner. He’ll spread his legs and sit forward when he’s playing video games with his brothers. An absent-minded, crooked smile falls on his mouth every time he’s only half-listening to you or the other boys. It’s paired with a look in his eyes that you can only describe as warm and content. In twenty-four hours, you’ve noticed more things about Luke than you’ve ever seen before.

He’s grown up. It’s still a little weird to you, but he’s 21. You’re still 24, even though your 25th birthday is slowly creeping forward. You find yourself justifying the three year age gap, persuading yourself that it’s fine to look at Luke like that, but then you catch yourself and look away. You’re pushing the idea out of your brain.

But he’s goofy, and cute, and so sweet. He’s the same Luke as always, but you’re seeing him in a brand new way.

You’re able to keep yourself at bay for over a week. The boys throw a party and invite some girls over. Normally, you’re not jealous. You’re calm. You don’t care.

Across the room, there’s a girl flirting with Luke. She’s got a hand on his arm and you’re nursing a drink, seeing red. You’re using Jack as a shield, but you’re still able to look over his shoulder. You think you’re being slick, but it turns out… you’re not.

“What are you looking at?” Jack laughs, tilting his head at you exaggeratedly before turning.

Unfortunately, you know you’ve been found out. There’s only one thing that would have you glowering in such a way. Nothing else in sight is nearly as interesting as Luke and the girl beside him. Jack clocks it right away.

He turns back to you with a tight, knowing smile, like he’s trying to hold back laughter. He pushes his tongue into his cheek and quirks his eyebrows at you.

“Interesting,” Jack says, swirling his drink in his solo cup and then bringing the rim to his mouth. He maintains eye contact as he sips.

You pop the bottom of the cup, making the drink splash into Jack’s face. “Fuck off.”

He wipes his mouth and crosses his arms, cradling the drink in the pocket of his elbow. “You and little Lukey?”

You grind your teeth and glare at him in the most menacing way you can. Jack has known you for too long to be intimidated by your glares. He also never really cared that much in the first place– he’s too shit-eating to be concerned about the repercussions of his words.

Jack smirks some more. “Don’t worry,” he says, popping his jaw like he’s turning a piece of gum over in his mouth. “Your secret is safe with me.”

You clench your teeth and continue glaring. You suck your cheeks in and bite down on the inside of your mouth, lips curling with annoyance.

“You know, he wouldn’t mind if you went over there and staked your claim,” Jack says with a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t think he’d be upset at all.”

“Fuck off,” you repeat again.

“C’mon, Y/N.” Jack pushes your shoulder lightly, jokingly. “You’re being obvious.”

“Quinn’ll kill me. And– it’s Luke, Jack.”

“So what? It’s not weird. We all grew up together. We’re all around the same age. It’s not a big deal. He’s had a crush on you forever.”

“It’s different,” you sing-song. “He’s younger than me.”

“Let’s go, Cougar,” Jack teases, reaching up to high-five you.

You don’t take it, instead deciding to punch his stomach.

Jack doubles over like you actually wounded him, but straightens up smiling. “You oughta go make him jealous.”

“You’re pissing me off.”

“Dude, I’m serious. Let’s go flirt with Trevor or something. Someone who Luke thinks you’re better than– I guarantee he’ll be over here in a second.”

Jack actually tugs you toward Trevor and explains the plan before you can even get a word in. So much for keeping your secret. Trevor, to his credit, is a very willing subject. He keeps a hand on your waist during the whole conversation and you do your best to ignore the niggling desire to look over your shoulder at Luke.

Turns out, you should’ve been worried about Quinn.

“Get your hands off her, Zegras,” Quinn snaps, pushing Trevor’s hand off of your waist and stepping between you. “You’re not allowed to fuck my friend.”

If that’s how he feels about one of his friends touching you, then you feel a bit faint at the idea of Quinn’s reaction to Luke getting together with you. That might seal the deal– you really can’t fuck Luke.

“I’m not fucking her,” Trevor says. “We’re working an angle here, Quinn.”

Quinn scoffs. “Yeah? What angle is that, Trevor?”

“We’re trying to make Luke jealous, hello?” Trevor says like it’s obvious.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face in your hands. “Trevor, you fucking moron.”

“What?” Quinn demands, but his look turns into sheer bewilderment. “You’re doing this for Luke?”

“I’m going to bed,” you announce, stomping away.

Trevor, somehow, is free to follow after you. Quinn hasn’t stepped in to stop him. You wish he would. He’s probably too confused. “This is good,” he says. “He’s definitely going to see us going upstairs together. Hold my hand.”

“No.”

“Dude, it was working. Luke was looking over at us the whole time.”

“I don’t care, Trevor.”

“Don’t you want him?”

“Not like that,” you hiss between your teeth. “I don’t want to make Luke jealous. I want him to come to me because he wants to, okay? Go downstairs. I don’t want to be with you right now.”

Trevor holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’ll go. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You disappear into your bedroom, changing into pajamas and climbing into bed. It’s nice to have your own bedroom in the lake house that Jack and Quinn bought with their NHL salaries, but tonight it’s bittersweet to be able to hear the party going on as you lay in bed. It’s not at all like when you fall asleep during a holiday party and your parents put you to bed, and you can still hear the laughter of the guests in your dreams. Now each bout of laughter reminds you of her, the girl whose hand was on Luke like she already owned him, and you wonder if he’s making her giggle with his stupid corny jokes.

God, last week you didn’t even like Luke. Now you’re burning with jealousy– or maybe it’s the fires from Hell, because you’ve got a completely inappropriate crush on your best friend’s little brother. You can never come back to the lake house like this, at least not until you’ve gotten over this shit. Why are you so affected? It’s Luke, for fuck’s sake.

It’s Luke again when someone comes knocking at your door. You thought it would be Quinn, ready to chew you out or question you extensively about this crush. To your surprise, the problem himself appears.

“You okay?” Luke asks, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. His silhouette is burly and big and you have to close your eyes to shake the pang of emotion that penetrates your chest.

“Just tired,” you reply quietly. “Couldn’t stomach the party anymore.”

“Did Trevor say something to upset you?”

Quieter: “No, Luke.”

He hovers silently. You can hear the cogs in his brain turning. His pitch matches yours when he speaks next, although his tone is much more melancholic than despondent. “Are you mad at me?”

You hesitate for a second too long. You’re not mad, but you’re certainly taken aback by the uncertainty in his words. “No, Luke,” you say again, but this time the pang that goes through your chest is more familiar. You don’t want to upset him. You’ve always wanted to protect Luke from the world, but now you’ve made him unsure and insecure. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Luke asks, and you have to take a shaky breath. He sounds so small. It’s like the time that you didn’t let him ride bikes with you and Quinn to the store, even though he begged, and then he cried and ran to his mom. After seeing Luke’s puffy red eyes and resolute determination to ignore you for the rest of the night, your soda and candy bar didn’t taste as good. In fact, they tasted a bit like cardboard. You ended up throwing half of the bar away and going home early. You swore you’d never make sweet little Luke feel that way again.

“You wouldn’t get it, I don’t think,” you tell him quietly, pushing yourself up in bed and resting on your elbows. You take a deep breath and look at him, sure that he can see the way your chest rises and falls.

Your eyes have adjusted enough that you can see the way Luke’s mouth opens, as if to say something, then closes with a shake of his head. You notice his eyes fluttering towards the corner of your room, removing you from his line of vision. “Okay. You don’t have to tell me,” Luke says, biting his lower lip in a dejected and heartbreaking way. “I get it. I’ll go.”

“Luke,” you sigh. “Don’t be like that.”

“No, it’s fine. You don’t wanna talk to me,” he says with a shrug. “We’re not friends like that. I’m not Quinn.”

“Luke.” You push yourself up further, pushing the covers down and criss-crossing your legs. “It’s not that.”

“It’s always that. And if it’s not that, then it’s that I’m not Jack. I just– I don’t want to hear that from you.” Luke shrugs again, always defaulting to that motion when he’s deflecting because he’s big and awkward and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. As if he’s thinking the same thing, you watch him shove his fists in his pockets and keep his shoulders tense.

“Come here,” you request, head tilted and mouth turned down with sadness. You shift your position so that both of your knees are under you and you’re sitting back on your heels. “Luke, please.”

You hold your arms out for a hug, not for the first time in your life, and Luke shuffles over. He takes his time and he refuses to meet your eyes, just stooping down so that he can wrap his arms around your middle. It’s a weird position, given that you’re kneeling on the bed and he’s half-bent over. You can feel the pout and doubt all over Luke’s face, so you reach a hand up to his curls and run your thumb over one of his more perfect spirals. He’s letting it grow out a bit and you like how messy it looks.

“Jack told me something,” you reveal softly, still petting through his hair. Luke stiffens in your arms, but doesn’t pull away. “He said you like me.”

Luke groans and struggles in your grip, even sinking to his knees to try and get out of your grasp. He’s kneeling beside the bed, and you bring your legs around so that he’s situated between them. You keep a hand on his shoulder, the other still playing with his hair. He’s evading your eyes again, looking stoutly at the floor.

“I have feelings for you, too,” you whisper, the admission feeling heavy and wrong and like a knife to the gut. Admittance is the first step, but you just feel silly. “And I don’t really know how to deal with those. You’re– I’ve known you since we were so little, Luke.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Luke says bluntly, a hint of a complaint in his sentence. “You’ve been acting weird because you like me, too?”

“I was upset that there was a pretty girl talking to you,” you say sheepishly. “And I just didn’t want to go along with Jack’s plan. He wanted to make you jealous. Thought that would work.”

“I’m always jealous when you talk to another guy,” Luke tells you like it’s obvious. “I just, kind of, gave up. I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way about me. I thought I’d get over it. Stupid childhood crush, you know.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding that you yourself just experienced a similar line of thinking. You said you’d get over it, but you don’t really want to. Not right now, at least, when Luke’s sitting in front of you and he’s got a tentative hand on your calf, rubbing his thumb over the muscle and staring up at you with big eyes. You bite your lip, trying to think logically about this, but all you can do is examine Luke’s features like you’ll never get to see them again. Maybe you won’t– not like this. Not in this liminal space between something and nothing. This is one of those moments that you know won’t last– because the next one will change everything. So, for a moment longer, you just reach out and run your thumb along Luke’s cheekbone, eyes flickering between his cheek, his lips, and his eyes.

“What do we–” Luke loses his words and presses his lips together, looking up at you, expression completely tortured. He turns his head and kisses the side of your knee, which makes your heart split a bit more.

“I don’t know,” you admit. You wish you had a better answer for him. You truly aren’t sure what you can do from here. There are too many things to consider– so you won’t consider them at all.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Luke asks.

A fond burst of laughter escapes from your chest. “Lukey, this is a twin bed. We can’t both fit.”

A pout comes over Luke’s face again. “We can too,” he insists, furrowing his brow a bit. “I’ll prove it. Move over.”

He’s climbing into your bed before you can tell him no. His long and spindly limbs are coaxing you to lay back, then warming you as he holds you tight. It’s a tight squeeze, but that just means that you’re touching him everywhere. It’s nice and you suddenly wish you were facing him, so you roll awkwardly in his arms until you’re face to face. Your noses are nearly touching and Luke is staring at you, really taking you in.

Your eyes find his lips… and then he’s leaning in.

It’s charged with tension and electricity, but it’s soft and hesitant. Neither of you want to test the boundaries and you don’t think this feels quite real. Your stomach is swooping with bats, not butterflies, and it’s exactly what you wanted. This is what you expected when you found yourself imagining kissing Luke this past week, even if you shook yourself out of it because it felt inappropriate. Here, it feels so right that you swear you could start crying from relief. You’ve never felt that way before from just a kiss. Your chest could burst.

When he pulls away, you feel frozen in time. Your eyes are closed and his lips are right there, a hair’s breadth away. You swallow, touching his chest, palm flat.

“Was that okay?” Luke asks.

You nod, then slide your lips over his again.

You come together in a way that can’t be described as anything other than desperate. Your hands touch him in any way they can and Luke’s do the same. You move in tandem like you’ve got a language of your own– an indignant hum from you followed by a sweet “I know” from Luke before he touches you exactly the way you want.

Kissing the whole time, Luke gets you on your back. Your lips only part to remove your shirt, then his. Luke’s big hand cradles your jaw and neck, keeping your head and mouth exactly where he wants them. He guides you with a surprising amount of experience and sureness, although maybe he’s fueled by the same feeling of rightness as you are.

He opens you on his other hand, snaking his hand into your pajamas shorts because he can’t be bothered to remove them. His hips roll against your thigh, his long torso displacing your pelvis from his as he kisses you. He’s big– you knew it height-wise, but now you can feel him against your leg, and you want him to fill you. You want him to claim you, to take you– you want to give all of yourself to Luke. It’s madness and though you’re sure you’ve lost your mind, the crack in your chest that pours out love for Luke has taken control of your body.

After three fingers and a lot of whimpering from you, clutches at Luke’s hair and bruising kisses working in tandem with your noises, Luke works your shorts down. He breaks from your lips so that he can take you in beneath him. He touches your waist and the curve of your stomach, the one that you cringed at for so many years as a teen but finally accepted in your grown age.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says reverently, eyes portraying nothing but sincerity.

You can’t say anything to that, nothing that can match his utterly genuine sentiment or portray how grateful you are that he took the time to say those words, so you kiss him again. You muster up an embarrassingly wanton ‘please,’ which you draw across his lips like a paintbrush.

You can’t get enough of saying his name as he presses into you, his heavy body blanketing yours. You can feel his every muscle move as he works into you and you’ve never felt more like a masterpiece. There were times when you made fun of the phrase ‘making love,’ but sex with Luke feels intensely like you’re creating something tangible by coming together in this way.

The moans and cries that you’re trying to stifle so that no one comes barging in should be enough to convince Luke that this is everything to you. Sweet, sweet Luke– he seems choked up when he says, “They can’t fuck you like I can.” He says the sentence like he has to prove it to you, like you’re not falling apart under his touch. He pleads with you between the words, in the spaces where you can see his breath hitch in his throat.

You’re still not sure where this night will leave you tomorrow morning. Everything, everything has turned on its head. Somehow, you feel a bit like you’ve been leading up to this for a while, not just in the past week. Luke knew it before you did.

“No,” you agree, touching his cheeks and keeping his eyes on yours. “They can’t.” You kiss him briefly, feeling his tongue swipe into your mouth before you pull away. “I’m yours.”

Luke actually keens at that, his arms straining as he shifts his weight to fuck into you harder. Because you’re so close, the bed isn’t moving enough to bang against the walls or creak on its boxsprings, and you’re glad. This is a moment for just you and Luke– you don’t want anyone hearing. You don’t want anyone to be around. You hope that they’ve all miraculously disappeared and you and Luke are the last people in the house, maybe even on Earth.

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” Luke repeats, his forehead meeting yours. You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale, his breath automatically syncing with yours. You’re overwhelmed, but deep in the back of your mind, there’s a voice reminding you about an ancient tradition in Polynesian culture where forehead-to-forehead contact and breathing together is sacred, like you’re sharing the breath of life– like there’s some power in the universe, a god or many, clicking things into place.

He unravels first, fucking you through his release with urgence akin to the sentence he said before. Always trying to prove himself– but Luke has always been enough for you. Maybe not always in this way, but now, there’s nothing he can do to shake your favor. All of the feelings in your heart have been poured out, shared and mixed with his own, and it’s created a puddle– or a bubble– around the pair of you.

It’s been written that sex is when two people come together as one. You finally understand what they mean, joining Luke in the seas of ecstasy.

Sweet nothings and touches like worship follow. Your hands can’t get enough of Luke’s strong figure. He runs his fingertips along your body like he’s in awe of your figure, like he gets to touch a statue so lifelike and beautiful that he can’t believe it was ever a block of marble at all.

The concerns about what will happen tomorrow don’t exist here, in your dark bedroom with Luke stuck to you like glue. For now, it’s just you. Together, breathing, touching, loving– there’s nothing else that could matter. This is it.

note: i have to work on my grad school app in the coming days, so this will probably be the last blurb/oneshot until i finish the application. but, i might get bored of writing that and could pop in to do another smut piece here and there ;) hopefully i'll chat with y'all soon! but i don't want to rush this grad school app LOL

#puck-luck's 1k celebration #puck-luck's fics #andy writes anything🍄#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fanfiction #luke hughes smut #luke hughes blurb #lh43 #nhl #nhl smut #nhl fanfiction #nhl blurb #hockey smut

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fastandcarlos · 19 hours ago

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Little Boy Growing Up : ̗̀➛ Daniel Ricciardo

summary: you can't contain your emotions as your son attends nursery for the very first time

As the car came to a stop, a lump ran down your throat as you studied the building that you had toured a couple of weeks ago. Next to you, Daniel was just as nervous, knowing what was about to come, not quite sure he was fully prepared for it.

“Shall we go in?” You smiled, turning back in your seat to look at your son. “This is the place where you’re going to be staying today sweetheart.”

“Let’s go!” Your son cheered, hurrying to get out of the car.

Daniel climbed out and walked around to help him get out, unfastening her seatbelt and lifting him out of her seat. “I can’t believe my baby boy is growing up.”

“Daniel,” you chuckled, climbing out of the car too and giving your son a hug. “He’s only going to nursery, he’s not going to prom or anything just yet.”

Since you agreed to start taking your son to nursery, Daniel had been relatively calm. But now that he was here, he was struggling to contain his emotion and not let it get the better of him.

“Baby,” you whispered, pulling your son closer to you. “Do you think you could go and give daddy a really big squeeze, I think he’d love that right now.”

Your son did as you asked, sprinting over to Daniel and leaping into his arms. “Are you excited?” Daniel asked him, forcing a smile onto his face. “What am I going to do without you by my side today?”

“You’ll have fun too,” your son assured him.

Your eyes were drawn to the tight hold that Daniel had on him, refusing to let him go. “Come on, we can’t stand out in the car park all day,” you tried to tell them both.

Daniel reluctantly let your son go as you took his hand, Daniel deciding it was best for him to wait in the car. A member of nursery staff was immediately at the door with a warm smile, especially as she saw how excited your son was.

“Hi sweet boy,” she chimed, kneeling down so that she was at his height. “It’s lovely to have you here with us.”

Your mouth opened to say goodbye, but your son was already off and beginning to explore the place. You handed his bag over, standing in astonishment at how easily he took to nursery, quickly finding the toys that he liked and talking to the other children who were with them playing.

“It’s nice not to deal with tears for once,” the staff member joked. “I’ll make sure to keep an extra close eye on him today and see how he settles in. If we have any problems, I’ll make sure to give you a call.”

You waved goodbye before heading back across to the car. As you opened the door, Daniel quickly wiped underneath both of his eyes before smiling across at you.

“Everything good?” You asked, watching Daniel closely. His head nodded, but the look on his face told you a completely different story.

You stayed still for a moment before reaching across and taking a hold of Daniel’s hand, silently reminding him that you were right there with him.

“I didn’t think I’d find this so hard,” he admitted in a whisper, “especially as he’s found it all so easy.”

“It’s nice to know he’s excited,” you responded.

Daniel hummed in agreement, “I’m glad that he was looking forward to this, I guess I just wasn’t looking forward to losing him.”

“You’ve not lost him Daniel, you’ll see him in seven hours.”

The two of them had always been undeniably close, when Daniel was home every second was spent with your son, hanging out, doing whatever they wanted to do, making as many memories together as possible.

Daniel had worked hard on preparing your son for nursery, prepping him with skills, conversation starters and teaching him about sharing too. Daniel wanted his son to be liked, he knew that he would be popular, he was a mini Daniel after all.

Your hand squeezed against Daniel’s tightly, “I bet he would want for us to enjoy ourselves whilst he’s at nursery you know Daniel.”

Daniel’s eyes widened, “I can’t believe I have to spend my day with you now, can’t I go and get him back and hang out with him instead?”

“Excuse me, we’ll have a great time together.”

Daniel’s eyes rolled as you hit against his arm, encouraging him to put his foot down and get driving. You knew that he was only messing with you, but at the same time, you knew no one could fill the void that your son left in his life when he wasn’t around.

“He’s going to learn a lot being at nursery, he’ll grow as a person,” you told Daniel.

“There’s plenty that I could teach him though,” he argued.

Your head shook as Daniel continued to protest. Although he had taught your son plenty, there were some things in life that a parent couldn’t teach their child.

“He’s going to be around kids his own age, not around stinky drivers who are sweaty and gross,” you teased, “and it means we get more time together too.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed back across at you, “there’s nothing wrong with hanging out with racing drivers, we actually happen to be pretty cool guys.”

“I know, I was stupid enough to marry one of them.”

As the two of you pulled out from the nursery, you could see Daniel arguing with himself. There was a small part of him that wanted to run in and take your son, but he knew that he couldn’t, eventually listening to you and driving away, as much as it killed him.

Despite his protests, Daniel knew that nursery was going to be good for your son, it was a chance for him to see more, do more, meet new people, everything that Daniel had ever wanted for him.

After a few minutes he began to relax again, leaning back in his chair as he focused on the road, trying to forget about the fact that he had lost his little man for a few hours.

“What are we going to do now that it’s just the two of us?” You asked him.

Daniel’s eyes flickered across to you, “well, seeing as I’ve essentially just lost a child, there’s a bit of a void in my life now that needs to be filled.”

“You’ve not lost your child, he’s just growing up, that’s what we all do Daniel.”

His shoulders shrugged, but still his eyes looked suggestively across at you. Now that your son was growing up, the two of you had more time on your hands again, and Daniel definitely wasn’t happy just settling on having one child.

“We’ve been blessed with one incredible child; would it be so bad if we thought about another one?” Daniel quizzed, offering you a wide smile. “Doesn’t now seem like the perfect time to start thinking about these things, like you said, we’re not getting any younger.”

“How long have you been planning this?” You chuckled, shaking your head across at him. “We’ve just said goodbye to one child for the day and now you’re planning the next one.”

Daniel’s shoulders shrugged, an innocent expression etched upon his face. “I’m not necessarily thinking about having a child straight away, but it’s important that we get lots of practice in for it beforehand.”

“Is that really where your mind is at? You’re impossible sometimes Daniel Ricciardo.”

“Hey, look at you! Can you blame me?”

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

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chaoskirin · 2 days ago

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You know what's funny is I've warned against some of the shit this site shills as OK. It was so enraging like 6 or 7 years ago when I posted something like "yeah never leaving someone alone after they fuck up is probably bad actually" and got called... IDK the word at the time, but something like an apologist.

And again, I'm gonna point this out: Seeing everything in black and white with no greys in the middle IS THE PROBLEM. Not just "A" problem, but THE problem among leftists.

I'm gonna go ahead and use Arin Hanson as an example again, because there's drama about him on Twitter again, but people still want to "remind" his fans about the stupid shit he did in his life ten or more years ago. You don't have to do that, I fucking promise. You don't. You don't have to like him or be his biggest stan if you don't want to, but CHRIST. Shut the fuck up. You HAVE to give people room to change and grow, or what is this all for?

"But what if ______ said something racist?"

Are they actively doing it now? Are they doing racist things? Are they causing harm? No? Then SHUT UP. You don't have to tell everyone who posts about _______ that they said something stupid 10 years ago.

I also follow someone on Twitter who fucked up in a huge way and JUST posted some racist shit. It was unintentional and came from a place of severe misinformation, and he apologized as soon as he realized he fucked up and even RT'd the people who corrected him, but there are STILL PEOPLE commenting on his posts with "are you going to address this" and... just fucking SHUT UP. There is a really clear line between holding someone accountable and harassment. You HAVE to learn to tell the difference.

And I can't believe I have to say this because someone will misconstrue this, but holding people accountable is good. It is. I get it. You want to point things out and demand better. That is good for society. But if you see people have already pointed it out by the dozens, or sometimes hundreds, you can just... not support that person.

There's this thing on the internet where if you don't explicitly state that you DON'T support something, then you MUST support it. And those people also need to shut the fuck up. Sometimes it's the dogpiling that pushes people away from reflection, especially when there are also a ton of comments that say things like "don't listen to them. If you ever need to talk, I'm here."

Who do you think that person is going to for help? The person calling them horrible, or the person offering them comfort?

I fully expect to get asshole asks like "oh so you support racism" and here's a pre-emptive "fuck you" for deliberately misinterpreting what I'm saying. Unfollow and block me rather than sending me dipshit asks.

I'm done with all of you.

I'm especially done with the pissants who saw me say "Kamala Harris is probably better for the country than Donald Trump" and sent me asks saying I was a fucking genocide apologist. You see what your bullshit got you? Fuck you. Now we have someone who'll not only support the Palestinian genocide, but will likely do other terrible shit, as well. And even though Palestinians begged you to vote for Kamala Harris, you just had to virtue signal to the world that you were just so gosh darn progressive.

I am saying this all from the bottom of my heart. Stop pushing people away. Stop seeking perfection in every person on the internet. You will NEVER find it, and not only will you spend your life angry, but you'll spend your life fucking things up for everyone else.

posts about the alt-right pipeline being compassionate towards young men while radical leftists shun and shame them are not fucking saying "the men are becoming violent because feminists are too mean!" and if that is your takeaway you need to get off tumblr until you've better honed your critical thinking skills.

those posts are talking about how effective the language and approach you take in your activism can be. this is literally cult deprogramming 101. if someone is being taken in by a violent or dangerous group, that violent or dangerous group is usually offering them compassion and solace while working hard to convince them everyone else in the world is their enemy. you are under no obligation to coddle or act compassionate toward these men and their violent ideologies, but if you have the means to try, it is something that you can do to make a tangible difference.

radicalized people are often only one loving friend or family member or external voice away from being de-radicalized. of course that is not always the case, but it very often is. a lot of y'all rightfully understand that you do not carry the burden of being that voice, but a lot of y'all also have a lot of internalized ideas about morals and punitive justice and have simply written off these people as deserving of only the worst and not worth saving.

ten years ago, my grandmother was a fox news watching republican who voted red in every election and very well could have fallen down the qanon rabbit hole if not for me and her daughter challenging her compassionately, walking her through hypotheticals that validated her feelings & proving why they were false, & being patient with her despite our extreme division in political ideology. it was frustrating fucking work! but i decided i wanted to do it, because i could see the horizon and i could see me making a difference!

"misogynists have been saying feminists are too mean for years, get new material" that is not the fucking POINT. the point is that you, feminist, can be the compassionate voice that guides your brother, your father, your cousin, your grandfather away from fucking becoming or staying a nazi. you can show them compassion and companionship. you can be the woman they think of when their alt-right bros try to convince them that women are the enemy. and you can choose to crystallize that image of yourself so wholly in their mind's eye as worth protecting that they may very well choose to reject those harmful ideas.

it's not saying you HAVE to do it! it's saying you CAN do it! don't you 'firebomb a walmart' people all love taking change into your own hands? where the fuck is that energy right now, huh?

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gale-gentlepenguin · 3 days ago

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Epic What if

(What if Odysseus chose his crew?)

-The events of the story won’t change much at the beginning. But there is one small part.

-Odysseus feels a twinge of guilt still. The song “Monster” didn’t help him completely embrace ruthlessness.

-And so the events leading up to the mutiny and thunderbringer are the same.

-But one key difference was when Zeus asked Odysseus what he’d choose.

-“You, or your crew.”

-Zeus believed he knew the answer. The crew that had just betrayed Odysseus. The man desperate to see his wife. It seemed so obvious.

-But Odysseus’s next statement came as shocking.

-“If I choose my crew… would you let them get back to ithica?”

-Eurylochus realized what he was asking.

-Zeus, being the thunderbringer, smiles

-“They would get to Ithica, but your journey ends here. You will no longer have your kingdom.”

-Odysseus takes a minute, he takes a piece of paper and writes something. He hands it to him.

-“Give this to my wife.”

-Eurylochus speaks

-“Captain wait!?”

-Zeus was surprised by the call. But is seems he swallowed Ody had swallowed his pride. In the end, he was just a man.

-Zeus Killed Odysseus. Leaving the crew on the boat.

-Zeus looks at the crew.

-He takes his lightning and blasts the back of the ship.

-Sending it flying and right to Ithica.

-Zeus decides to head back to Olympus. His work done.

-Eurylochus felt his heart ache. No one wanted to get home more than his best friend… yet when the time came to choose, he chose them. The crew that betrayed him.

-He looked at the note. He noticed there was a second note. One for him.

-He read it. A new song called “To my friends.” Plays

-Tears fell from his eyes. But he wiped them.

-“Raise my son to be a king better than me.”

-“I will Ody, on my life.”

-Eurylochus and the remains of the crew arrived at the palace. Where suitors had gathered. Antinious asked where the king was.

-Eurylochus said that Odysseus was dead.

-The suitors cheered, Telemachus heard and was saddened. The 12 year old was left without a dad.

-Antinious was about to say it’s time for her to choose, only for Eurylochus cut his head off.

-The song “Wolf pack attack” replaces fight little wolf.

-The suitors were all killed by the remaining soldiers.

-Eurylochus goes to Penelope. And the next song. “I’m sorry.” Which is sung by Eurylochus to Penelope.

-Penelope vows to never marry. As only Odysseus was the one she loved.

-The next song is Eurylochus song to Telemachus. “What was he like.” Which is Eurylochus telling Telemachus about his father and the man that he was.

-several years later Telemachus is made king at 18. And he is the spitting image of Odysseus.

-He ends up befriending Athena, who feels guilt over Odysseus and decides to not make the same mistakes she did with Odysseus. The song “Like him.” Is played as Telemachus sings of how he is training to be like his father.

-Telemachus goes on an excursion for a diplomatic mission.

-Where Posideon appears. He thought he was Odysseus. And Telemachus knew who he was.

-The next song is Poseidon singing “Sins of the father.”

-Eurylochus was on that ship and protects Odysseus with his life. The last part of the song has Eurylochus die.

-Telemachus striking back. The song is called “Father son Strike” and thanks to Athena’s help. He manages to beat Poseidon. And like his father did in canon. He goes ham until he surrenders

-After that, Telemachus sings an alternate version of “Legendary”. In which he sings it about his father and Eurylochus.

-He heads home to Ithica, where he goes to rule over his kingdom.

#epic the musical #epic what if #Eurylochus #telemachus

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daily-beau · 8 hours ago

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Day 16: My saviour

#daily isabeau #isat #in stars and time #isat fanart #isat isabeau #art #isabeau pre change i guess?#that's who the other person is if it's not obvious #i had a better version of this in mind but i couldn't find a good reference for the pose i wanted #anyway #do you ever think about how much isabeau's character is based around other people?#there's the obvious isafrin but most of his moments in the game as well as a lot of his personality is based on helping others #he didn't have many (if any) friends growing up #i think what he needed back then was a supportive friend who would be there for him always #so he changed and grew to be the kind of person he needed growing up #to be the kind of person that would have befriended him when he was on his own #maybe he believes the only kind of person that would have been there for him #is someone who doesn't think about themselves?#someone who always puts others first #is the only kind of person who could be friends with someone like him #and he didn't get that #so he became that #but it still feels like he's neglecting the lonely kid who needed him in the first place #i feel like he'd realize this eventually #but i'd love to see him when he's fully himself

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daisymbin · 3 days ago

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[02:11] - jeon wonwoo

warnings: intoxicated reader //

a/n: I really want to proofread this it's just a drabble not even a full fic but I tried like 5 times and my eyes keep shutting and lose track so pls forgive me for now, I will fix it in the morning

check out my masterlist!

after making what feels like at least a hundred phone calls to you, wonwoo was shocked and worried to say the least; when the phone call finally gets answered, wonwoo sure wasnt expecting it to be a bartender telling him you've had way too much to drink. so he rushes to the bar, his chest tightens when his eyes finds home in you, immediately walking over and reaching for you.

"wonie... i love you," wonwoo feels your hot breath right on his ear while he struggles to help you up due to how much you were swaying. he has half a mind to just carry you instead, and so he does. he tugs on you gently to get your attention, then he puts an arm under your knee and another under your shoulder, lifting you in one swift motion.

wonwoo winces as you groan, your head lolling against his chest, but he can’t bring himself to be mad. all he feels is an ache in his chest, a mix of frustration, worry, and something else he can't quite pinpoint. maybe it's fear? fear that you were out like that, so vulnerable and all alone. fear that he'd made a mistake, should he have just apologized? why did he have to argue? the harsh words, the way you stormed out. he should’ve stopped you. he should’ve said something, anything, to make you stay.

he shifts you slightly in his arms, trying to get a better grip as you sway against him. you’re small in his arms. he glances down at your face, seeing the tiredness on it, the way your eyes flicker before you mumble against him again, "wonu, i said i love you."

"i know, angel. i'm sorry i made you so upset, it's my fault."

"i'm sorry, wonu."

"hey, hey," he murmurs, trying to gently shift you in his arms, holding you a little more securely. "it's okay," he says, though he doesn’t entirely believe it. he needs to get you home, make sure you're alright, and talk things through. but for now, he just needs to get you to the car, where he can make sure you're safe.

as he settles you into the passenger seat, he takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. he wants to say something, to apologize too, but he's not sure how. instead, he just mutters quietly, "i love you too," under his breath, hoping you can hear it, even if you don't respond.

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thedoritodealerofthewoods · 2 days ago

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OooHOOOHOO

Man

Copy pasting my thoughts from my ramble at the friend who showed this post to me because I'm satisfied with the way I put them. Spoiler warning for wof arc 1 below

How does this work? Does she know the prophecy is fake from the moment Morrowseer visits the cave to observe the dragonets? Maybe he wasn’t thinking about it well enough for her to realize he doesn’t believe the prophecy - “hmmm…. This one isn’t good enough. This one will work better. This one will accomplish the need very effectively-” could all be interpreted as someone who doesn’t trust in fate to do it’s own work. Maybe this annoys her, but the truth doesn’t register.

Or does she deny obvious “lol this thing isn’t real” thoughts with the certainty that he’s wrong. And maybe she hates him because of it right off the bat - though she might not tell the others exactly why beyond a potential cryptic “he doesn’t even know what he’s talking about!” To which she gets the average response of “lol alright Sunny. Anyway I want to punt him into the sky because he hates Glory” - !!! Right - iirc, Morrowseer tells the guardians to kill her, but to the side where the dod don’t hear him. (Can’t check atm cause cat on lap). Maybe Sunny gets all bolt-upright-shock at a certain point and starts frantically trying to convince everyone that Glory is in danger the second he leaves, before anything is overheard. They maybe think she’s overreacting, that of course he hates me Sunny I’m a rainwing and yeah but they wouldn’t go that far haha - but eventually the conversation is overheard and they all realize the truth and the escape kicks off (with the difference of Sunny being in on it this time - unless they maybe still think she might accidentally let something slip).

Also - the moment in the tunnel with Morrowseer fits a little too well to change at all. He opens his mouth to gloat, to tell them all the truth, and no, no, no! She’s pleading for him to stop before he speaks a word because she knows, she knows, and maybe she always has, maybe she should have seen it sooner but it’s the only hope the others have, the only reason they’re still trying and she can’t let them lose it. She can’t lose it. She can’t lose them.

Oh! Also - does she tell the rest of the dod? Probably not, I’d guess. Starflight would be crushed. As far as they all know till the last book, she’s just a weird SandWing. Not only did Starflight fail to have any powers, but she got both. Maybe she tried to tell them before it occurred to her that it might hurt him, but no one believed her. She’s just supposedly really good at picking up on stuff. Can’t hide anything from her.

Also - mindreading and foresight would only feed into the hyper-empathy. She’s so worried about everyone all the time because she can hear their pain, she knows what they’re worried about, she can hear their hopes and dreams and she can see the fates everyone tumbles through. When the dod eventually find out about her powers, I can see Tsunami probably saying something along the lines of “hey, if you can see in everyone’s heads, why did you still trust the guardians so much? Why do you still care about them? Why do you still want to help everyone when everyone is trying to KILL US!??” To which she simply responds that that is the reason.

thrice-moonborn sunny :)

#wof sunny #wof au #wof fanart #oooooooo #I don't know if op had a story in mind and don't mean to overrun it if so #will check in a moment #BEAUTIFUL ART THOUGH #also reminds me of my WOF TMA au…#edit: WAIT THIS WAS POSTED ON MY BIRTHDAY??#truly fortuitous

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theonottsbxtch · 15 hours ago

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PREACHER’S DAUGHTER | MV1

an: can you tell i have an amazing music taste, anyway i’m finishing up a lot of my wips this weekend therefore be ready for a bit of stuff to come out!! i need to update my master list

warnings: domestic abuse, religious themes obvs

wc: 10.2k

Max was never one for church.

Never believed in any of that.

But God, would he get on his knees for a girl.

He couldn’t even remember when he first saw her—it was like she’d always been there, glowing in a way that made his chest tighten and his palms itch to touch what he had no business reaching for.

She was perfect in that untouchable kind of way. Always smiling, always polite. The kind of girl who said "please" and "thank you" without sounding fake. She had a laugh that could make angels jealous and a silver cross around her neck that caught the light just right, like some divine shield.

And Max? He was everything she wasn’t. Grease under his nails, a cigarette always tucked behind his ear, and a devil-may-care attitude that had sent half the town clutching their pearls. He’d been watching her for weeks now, maybe months. The way she walked, her little rituals—Bible study on Wednesday nights, choir practice on Saturdays, and the absolute certainty that she’d be on her family’s porch every evening at seven, helping her mom snap beans or some other domestic chore that Max couldn’t wrap his head around.

She didn’t belong in his world. Hell, she probably didn’t even know it existed. But that didn’t stop him from wanting her. No, needing her.

It was the way she looked so... pure, he supposed. Untouched by the grime and shadows he carried around like second skin. And it wasn’t just her innocence he wanted to wreck. It was the thought of making her his—really his. Of seeing her in his world, in his trailer, on his bike, wearing his marks, not that dainty little cross that probably smelled of Sunday mornings and lavender soap.

Max didn’t follow her. Not exactly. But he always seemed to know where she’d be, and tonight wasn’t any different. Wednesday night Bible study. He parked his beat-up car down the street from the little white church, hidden enough to keep from drawing attention. Not that anyone would think twice—it wasn’t like he blended in with the choir crowd.

The stained-glass windows glowed softly, warm light spilling out into the cool evening air. He could hear the faint hum of voices, maybe a hymn being sung, as he leaned back against the hood of his car and waited. He lit another cigarette, the flicker of the lighter briefly illuminating the sharp lines of his face.

When the front doors finally swung open, he straightened, tossing the half-smoked cigarette onto the pavement and crushing it under his boot. She was the last to leave, as he knew she would be. Everyone else had trickled out in pairs and groups, chatting and laughing as they headed home. But she stayed behind, always locking up on her own.

Tonight, she was struggling with a box full of what looked like hymnals and Bible study materials, juggling it while trying to fit the key into the heavy wooden doors. Max could see the way her fingers fumbled, her brow furrowing in frustration.

Before he could think better of it, he started across the street. The click of his boots on the pavement caught her attention, and she turned her head sharply, her soft eyes widening as she saw him.

“Need a hand?” he asked, his voice low, almost teasing.

She hesitated, her gaze flicking from his face to the box in her arms and then back again. He noticed how she clutched it tighter, like she wasn’t sure if she should trust him.

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, her voice as soft and sweet as he’d imagined. “I’ve got it.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he said, stepping closer. Before she could protest, he reached out and took the box from her. Their fingers brushed, and the contrast hit him like a punch to the gut. Her hands were soft, smooth, and clean, while his were rough, calloused, and stained with grease that never seemed to wash off.

“Thanks,” she said reluctantly, looking up at him. He noticed how small she seemed compared to him, how her cross caught the light even in the dark.

“You’re the boy that fixes Daddy’s car,” she said after a beat. “From the shop in town.”

Max raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Didn’t know you knew me.”

“I don’t,” she said quickly, her cheeks flushing. “I just… heard Daddy talking about you. Said you do good work.”

He smirked at that, carrying the box like it weighed nothing and setting it gently down beside her. “Guess I’m a little famous, then.”

She laughed softly, and it was the kind of sound that made something deep in his chest tighten. She reached for her key again, this time managing to lock the doors without the box in her way.

“Thanks for the help,” she said, stepping back and brushing her hands against her skirt.

“Anytime,” he replied, his grin widening. He leaned against the doors, watching her as she adjusted her bag over her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated for a moment, her lips parting as if she were about to answer, but then she shook her head. “I should go. My family will be waiting.”

And just like that, she was walking away, her head held high, her skirt swaying gently with each step.

Max watched her until she disappeared around the corner, his grin fading into something darker, more determined.

“See you around,” he muttered under his breath.

Because he would. One way or another.

Max didn’t see her again for days, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t on his mind. She had a way of lingering there, like the scent of rain after a storm—clean, fresh, and completely out of place in his world.

The more he thought about her, the more he couldn’t shake the way her voice had sounded when she’d called him "the boy that fixes Daddy’s car." There was no judgment in it, no disdain. Just a simple observation, like she hadn’t even realised how different their worlds were.

But Max knew. Oh, he knew.

She was the preacher’s daughter, for God’s sake. The girl who probably spent her nights reading scripture and praying for sinners like him. And he? He was the guy people crossed the street to avoid, the one mothers warned their daughters about. He’d left home at fifteen, slept on park benches and under bridges until he’d scraped together enough to buy that rusted-out trailer. He worked double shifts at the garage, spent his weekends drinking cheap beer with guys who wouldn’t bat an eye at a bar fight, and had a reputation that kept most people from looking him in the eye.

He wasn’t good enough for her. He knew that.

Didn’t mean he didn’t want her anyway.

The next Wednesday, he found himself back outside the church, parked in the same spot as before. He hadn’t planned it—at least, that’s what he told himself. But when he saw her again, her laugh carrying across the parking lot as she said goodbye to the last of her Bible study group, he felt that same pull in his chest.

This time, he didn’t approach her. Not yet. Instead, he leaned against his shit box car and watched as she locked the doors, her movements quick and practiced. She wasn’t carrying anything tonight, but she still seemed to pause for a moment, glancing around like she could feel his eyes on her.

He ducked his head, pretending to light a cigarette even though it was already burning. When he glanced back up, she was gone.

The next few days passed in a blur of oil changes, engine repairs, and sleepless nights. Max couldn’t shake the image of her—the way her hands had brushed his, the way she’d looked at him like she was trying to figure him out.

By the time Sunday rolled around, he couldn’t stay away.

He parked his bike a few blocks from the church, out of sight, and watched as families filed in for the morning service. They were all dressed in their Sunday best—dads in pressed suits, moms in floral dresses, kids squirming in their fancy clothes.

And then there she was, walking up the steps with her family. She wore a white dress that stopped just below her knees, her hair pulled back in a way that showed off the delicate line of her neck. The silver cross around her neck gleamed in the sunlight, and Max found himself staring at it, wondering what it would look like tangled with the chains he wore.

Her father was at her side, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder as he greeted the congregation. He was everything Max wasn’t—clean-cut, well-spoken, a man who commanded respect just by standing there.

Max stayed until the doors closed behind her, then turned and walked back to his bike.

He didn’t know what he was doing, or why he couldn’t just let it go. All he knew was that he’d see her again.

And when he did, he’d make her notice him.

Max didn’t plan to follow her after the service, not really. But when he saw her step out of the church alone, her family nowhere in sight, curiosity got the better of him. She walked with purpose, her hands clutching a small book—probably her Bible, he figured—and her expression calm, like she knew exactly where she was going.

He stayed a block or so behind, keeping his footsteps quiet on the pavement. She didn’t seem like the type to sneak off after church, and yet, here she was, turning off the main road and heading toward the park.

When she reached a shaded bench near the pond, she sat down, smoothing her dress before opening her book. Max hung back, watching as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and began to read, her lips moving silently.

He couldn’t stop himself. Hands shoved in his pockets, he sauntered over, his boots crunching on the gravel path. She looked up as he approached, her eyes widening for a moment before settling into something softer, almost expectant.

“I told my daddy I saw you,” she said, closing the book and resting it on her lap.

Max raised an eyebrow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And what did he say?”

“That I shouldn’t hang around with people like you,” she replied simply, her voice steady, but her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the book.

He stepped closer, leaning down slightly so they were almost at eye level. “But I don’t see you running,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing.

Her cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze, her expression unflinching. “I’ve noticed you, you know,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re always… around. Outside the church. Watching.”

He straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t help it,” he admitted. “You’re hard to ignore.”

She blinked, her lashes fluttering like she wasn’t sure what to make of that. Then, to his surprise, she smiled—a small, hesitant thing that made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t used to.

“I’ve been praying for you,” she said softly, her hands tightening on the book.

Max couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped him, low and rough. “Praying for me, huh? What for?”

“That you’ll find peace,” she said simply, her voice so earnest it made him pause.

He looked at her, really looked at her—the way the sunlight caught in her hair, the way her fingers trembled just a little against the leather cover of her book, the way she seemed so fragile and so unshakable all at once.

“Peace,” he repeated, the word foreign on his tongue. “You think that’s something I’m missing?”

Her smile grew just a fraction, her eyes softening. “Don’t you?”

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to laugh it off, to brush her words aside like they didn’t hit somewhere deep and uncomfortable. But the way she was looking at him made it impossible.

She shifted slightly on the bench, her hands resting in her lap as she looked at him. “Everyone finds their way,” she said softly, her voice carrying the kind of conviction that made Max’s chest ache. “One way or another. You just have to be willing to see it.”

Max wanted to scoff, to tell her he didn’t have a “way” to find, but the words died in his throat when he noticed it—a faint bruise just below the cuff of her sleeve, barely visible as she adjusted the book in her lap. His eyes narrowed, the casual smirk on his face fading.

“What happened there?” he asked, nodding toward her arm.

She followed his gaze, quickly tugging her sleeve down to cover the mark. “Oh, that?” She gave a small, nervous laugh. “It’s nothing. I play volleyball sometimes with the girls from church. Just got a little too close to the net.”

Max didn’t buy it. The way she spoke, the way her fingers tightened on the fabric of her dress—it didn’t add up. But he didn’t push. Not yet.

“You sure about that?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

She nodded quickly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Positive.”

The silence between them stretched, and Max could feel the distance growing, even though they were sitting inches apart.

“I should get home,” she said suddenly, standing and smoothing out her skirt. “It’s getting late.”

He watched as she picked up her book and slung her bag over her shoulder, the hesitant smile she gave him feeling more like a goodbye than a see-you-later.

“You walking?” he asked, standing as well.

She nodded. “It’s not far.”

He didn’t offer to walk her, knowing she’d probably say no. Instead, he stayed where he was, watching her disappear down the path until she was out of sight.

The next Wednesday, Max found himself back at the church. He hadn’t planned it—at least, that’s what he told himself—but when he saw her locking up the doors again, he couldn’t stop himself from approaching.

She glanced up as he stepped up to the doors, her face lighting up with a mixture of surprise and something softer that made his chest tighten.

“You’re here again,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of teasing.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he replied, leaning casually against the doorframe.

She hesitated for a moment, then tilted her head toward the doors. “Do you want to see the inside?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You offering to give me a tour?”

“Maybe,” she said with a small smile. “If you’re interested.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Show me.”

She unlocked the doors and pushed them open, leading him into the dimly lit sanctuary. The air was cool and quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavier than normal.

“This is where we hold services,” she said, gesturing toward the rows of wooden pews. “And over there is the choir loft.”

Max followed her, his eyes drifting over the stained-glass windows and the simple but elegant decor. It wasn’t the kind of place he ever pictured himself in, but being here with her made it feel… different.

“And where do you ask for forgiveness?” he asked, his voice low as he stepped closer to her.

She paused, then turned and led him to the front of the church. “Here,” she said, motioning toward the altar. “This is where people kneel to pray.”

Max’s gaze flicked from the altar to her, and for a moment, he couldn’t help the thought that slipped into his mind. The idea of her on her knees, not in prayer but for him, sent a rush of something dark and hungry through him.

She knelt down, her hands clasped in front of her as if demonstrating. “You just… let it all out here. Whatever’s on your heart, you bring it to God.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched her, his throat tightening as the image burned itself into his memory. He wondered, fleetingly, what she’d look like if she weren’t here for forgiveness but for him.

“You going to try?” she asked, looking up at him, her expression earnest and full of trust.

He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. “Not my thing,” he muttered, stepping back.

She stood, brushing off her skirt. “Maybe one day,” she said softly.

Max wasn’t so sure. But he’d come back, if only to see her again.

He didn’t ever think he’d see her in his stomping ground, ever.

The garage smelled like oil and metal, the kind of earthy, gritty scent that clung to Max no matter how much he scrubbed his hands. He was leaned under the hood of an old Chevy—her dad’s car—when he heard the soft jingle of the bell above the shop door.

He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag as she stepped inside. Her presence was like sunlight cutting through the dim, grease-streaked world he lived in.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, leaning against the car and smirking. “Ain’t I usually the one picking you up?”

She stopped a few steps in, her hands clasping the strap of her bag. “I left some college work in my daddy’s car,” she said, her voice steady but careful, like she wasn’t sure how to navigate him in this setting.

Max raised an eyebrow, tossing the rag onto a workbench. “Well, aren’t you lucky I’ve got it right here.”

She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the car before meeting his. “Can I…?”

He stepped aside, gesturing toward the passenger door. “Be my guest.”

She nodded, walking over and leaning into the open door to retrieve her things. Max’s eyes flicked down before he could stop himself, catching a glimpse of her skirt riding up as she bent over, exposing plain white cotton panties that clung to her hips.

It was innocent, unintentional—but it made his pulse spike, his throat tightening as he quickly looked away. His hand clenched into a fist, nails biting into his palm as he forced himself to focus.

Then he saw it—a jagged gash on the side of her thigh, red and raw against her pale skin. His smirk faded, replaced by a frown as something twisted in his gut.

“You gonna tell me what happened there?” he asked, nodding toward her leg.

She froze for a moment before straightening, clutching her notebook tightly against her chest. “Oh,” she said, glancing down at the cut. “It’s nothing. I was playing with my brother in the park, and the ball rolled into some bushes. I went to get it and scratched myself on a branch.”

Max folded his arms, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. “You’ve got an awful lot of bad luck, don’t you? First volleyball, now this.”

Her eyes darted to his, wide and a little panicked. “It’s the truth,” she said quickly, but her voice wavered just enough to betray her.

He stepped closer, his presence looming as he leaned in, his voice a low whisper. “Lying’s a sin, you know.”

Her lips parted, and for a moment, she looked like she might crumble. But then her shoulders straightened, and she lifted her chin, defiance flashing in her eyes. “I believe you should worry about the long list of sins you’ve racked up,” she shot back, her voice trembling but firm.

Max smirked at that, the sharp edge of his grin making her swallow hard. “I thought you were praying for me,” he said, his tone almost teasing but laced with something darker.

She stared at him, her hands tightening on her notebook until her knuckles turned white. “I should go,” she said finally, her voice clipped.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he replied, stepping back just enough to let her pass.

She turned and walked out, her steps quick and purposeful, the door swinging shut behind her with a jingle that felt louder than it should have.

Max watched her go, the tension in his chest twisting into something heavier. He didn’t believe her for a second. But the look in her eyes—the mix of fear, defiance, and something else he couldn’t quite name—made him want to figure out exactly what she was hiding.

And he would. One way or another.

A few days later, Max was leaning under the hood of yet another clunker when his manager strolled over, clipboard in hand.

“Got a favor to ask,” the older man grumbled. “Preacher’s too busy to pick up his car. Needs it dropped off at his place.”

Max straightened, rubbing his hands on a rag, his pulse quickening at the mention of her house. He didn’t even have to think about it.

“I’ll do it,” he said casually, masking the eagerness bubbling under his skin. “Got time.”

His manager raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Max tossed the rag aside, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grin. “Consider it handled.”

By the time he pulled up to the preacher’s house in the old Chevy, the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting the house in a warm, golden light. He killed the engine, climbing out and leaning against the car for a moment.

That’s when he heard it.

The sound drifted through the open window—a soft, mournful piano melody that sent a shiver down his spine. It was beautiful, haunting even, and he knew immediately that it was her.

He stood there, listening, his chest tightening as each note seemed to carry a weight he couldn’t quite place. Then, as the song trailed off, he forced himself to move, stepping up to the door and knocking firmly.

The music stopped. A few seconds later, the door creaked open, and there she was.

She looked different. Vulnerable.

Her hair was loose, falling in soft waves over her shoulders, and she was wearing a simple pair of pyjamas—pale blue cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hung loosely on her frame. She blinked up at him, clearly surprised, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Brought your dad’s car back.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice soft and a little hoarse.

His eyes drifted lower, and that’s when he saw it—a dark, fresh bruise blooming along her forearm, just visible under the edge of her sleeve.

His chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, his hand reached out, his rough fingers brushing against the tender skin.

She flinched, but not away. Her lips parted, her eyes flicking up to meet his, wide and uncertain.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice low but laced with tension.

She pulled her arm back, wrapping it around herself like a shield. “I’ve been sick,” she murmured, her words hesitant. “That’s why I’ve been home. Just… clumsy, I guess.”

He didn’t believe her. Not for a second.

“Sick, huh?” he said, his voice edged with scepticism.

She nodded, but the way her gaze darted to the floor gave her away.

For a moment, the air between them felt heavy, charged with something neither of them seemed able to name. Max’s hand hovered at his side, aching to reach out again, but he forced himself to step back.

The sound of heavy footsteps broke the moment, and Max turned just as her father appeared in the doorway.

“Evening,” the preacher said, his voice warm but commanding, his eyes flicking between Max and his daughter.

“Car’s good as new,” Max said, holding out the keys. “She’ll run smooth for you.”

“Appreciate it,” the preacher replied, taking the keys with a nod.

Max hesitated, glancing at her one last time. “You know where to find me if you need anything. Always here for you to rely on the car.”

His words were meant for her father, but his eyes stayed on her, making sure she understood the double meaning.

The preacher didn’t seem to notice. “Thank you, son,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crisp bill. He handed it to Max with a firm handshake.

Max nodded, pocketing the tip without looking at it. As he stepped back, the preacher gave him a polite smile before closing the door firmly, leaving Max staring at the wood grain.

The following morning sun filtered weakly through the dusty blinds of Max’s trailer, casting long shadows over the cluttered space. He was sprawled on his bed, one leg hanging off the side, barely awake when he heard it—a soft, hesitant knock at the door.

For a moment, he thought he was imagining it, the sound so light it could’ve been the wind rattling the screen. But then it came again, firmer this time.

Grumbling under his breath, Max swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face. He shuffled to the door in nothing but his boxers, too groggy to care about decency.

When he pulled the door open, he froze.

There she was, standing on the cracked wooden steps of his trailer.

She looked like she’d stepped out of another world—her crisp white blouse tucked into a pale blue skirt that swayed lightly in the breeze, her hair perfectly combed and pinned back. But her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks blotchy, and there was a tremble in her lip that told him she’d been crying.

Her gaze flicked downward, catching sight of his bare chest and boxer-clad frame. Her face flushed pink, and she quickly looked away, clutching the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Max blinked, his grogginess evaporating in an instant. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice rough from sleep.

She didn’t answer right away, just stared down at the ground like she couldn’t meet his eyes. He stepped back, holding the door open wider. “You wanna come in?”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, stepping over the threshold.

As she entered, the contrast between her polished appearance and the rough, lived-in state of his trailer couldn’t have been starker. The cramped space was cluttered with tools, half-empty coffee mugs, and a laundry basket overflowing with clothes. She looked out of place, like a dove dropped into the middle of a storm.

Max closed the door behind her, leaning against it as he crossed his arms. “You okay?” he asked, his tone softer now.

She stood in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around herself. “I… I didn’t want to stay at home,” she said quietly.

The way her voice cracked on the last word made his chest tighten.

“What happened?” he asked, stepping closer but keeping his distance, giving her space to speak.

She shook her head, her fingers gripping her bag tighter. “I… I snuck out,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I couldn’t stay there anymore.”

Max’s jaw tightened. He wanted to ask why, but he already knew. He’d known for weeks.

Finally, she looked up at him, tears brimming in her wide, frightened eyes. “It’s my daddy,” she whispered. “He… he hits me.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

Max’s fists clenched at his sides, his whole body going rigid. “How long’s this been going on?” he asked, his voice low and tight.

She looked away, her gaze darting to the corner of the room as if she could hide from the question. “As long as I can remember,” she said finally, her voice barely audible.

Max swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to punch something, to drag her father out into the street and make him pay. But more than anything, he wanted to make her feel safe.

“You should’ve told someone,” he said, his voice softer now, though the anger still simmered just beneath the surface.

Her eyes snapped back to his, a flash of fear and desperation in them. “I couldn’t,” she said quickly. “I can’t. If people knew, it’d ruin everything. My daddy’s the preacher. People look up to him. They’d never believe me.”

Max stepped closer, his rough hands itching to reach out and touch her, to ground her somehow. But he didn’t. Not yet.

“You don’t have to go back there,” he said firmly. “You can stay here. No one’s gonna hurt you while I’m around.”

Her gaze softened, her lips trembling as she whispered, “Why do you care so much?”

Max let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You think I can just stand by and let this happen? After everything I’ve seen…” He paused, meeting her gaze head-on. “You’re not like the rest of us. You don’t belong in a place like that.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the space between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken words. She looked like she might say something, but then a tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” she said suddenly, backing toward the door. “I didn’t mean to bother you—”

“You’re not bothering me,” Max said firmly, cutting her off.

She hesitated, her hand hovering near the door handle.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if trying to decide whether she could trust him. Finally, she nodded, just barely, and let her hand fall away from the door.

Max rubbed the back of his neck again, his eyes never leaving her face as she stood there, caught between leaving and staying. He could see the battle in her—wanting to run but needing something, someone, to anchor her.

“You can stay here tonight,” he said, his voice steady but gentle, like he was trying not to spook her.

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, she didn’t respond. She looked around the cramped trailer, at the cluttered counters and the sagging couch, her delicate hands gripping the strap of her bag like it was a lifeline.

“I don’t know…” she started, her voice faltering.

“No one’ll bother you here,” Max said, stepping closer. “You’ll be safe. And if you want to leave in the morning, you can. No strings.”

She bit her lip, the hesitation etched in every line of her face.

“But…” she whispered, looking up at him, “I need to go to Sunday service.”

Max blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in her tone.

“While I’m mad at my daddy,” she continued, her voice growing steadier, “I still have to go. I can’t not be there. It’s… it’s important to me.”

Her words hung in the air, a quiet plea wrapped in conviction.

Max nodded without hesitation. “I’ll take you,” he said simply. “First thing in the morning.”

She blinked up at him, a flicker of relief crossing her features. “You promise?”

“Yeah,” he said, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Scout’s honor.”

That drew a small, hesitant smile from her, though it quickly faded as her gaze dropped to the floor again.

“I’ll stay,” she said softly, almost like she didn’t believe the words herself.

Max exhaled, the tension in his chest easing just slightly. “Good. Make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing vaguely around the trailer. “It’s not much, but it’s better than where you came from.”

She nodded, her movements stiff and unsure, like she didn’t quite know how to exist in this space.

“I gotta get to work,” Max added, glancing at the clock on the wall. “But you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. Bed is yours, and there’s food in the fridge—though, fair warning, it’s mostly leftovers and beer.”

That earned him a faint, almost amused look, and he felt a strange sense of satisfaction at the sight.

“I’ll be fine,” she said quietly.

Max hesitated for a moment, then reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. His touch was light, careful, but firm enough to ground her.

“You’re safe here,” he said, his voice low but certain.

She nodded again, her gaze flicking up to meet his, and for a moment, the silence between them felt warm, comforting.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said, stepping toward his makeshift bedroom grabbing some clothes and slipping them on. “If you need anything—anything at all—you call me, alright? Danny down the road has my number, he’s got the graffiti all over his trailer.”

“Alright,” she replied, her voice steadier now.

With one last glance over his shoulder, Max stepped out into the morning light, the door clicking shut behind him. As he walked toward his beat-up car, a strange mix of emotions swirled in his chest—anger, protectiveness, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

She’d taken a risk coming to him, and he wasn’t about to let her down. Not now. Not ever.

Max worked through the afternoon with his head barely in the game. The thought of her in his trailer—his space—kept creeping into his mind. He couldn’t shake the image of her standing there, looking so out of place, like she belonged somewhere far away from this rundown world he inhabited. The image of her soft eyes and trembling lip haunted him as he fixed engines and cleaned up at the shop.

By the time he came back to the trailer, the evening sun had already dipped behind the horizon, casting a pale, dusky glow over everything. He turned the key in the door, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing in the quiet.

And then he froze.

The trailer didn’t look the same.

It was spotless.

The clutter on the counters, the dirty dishes, the laundry piled up in the corner—all of it was gone. The floor was swept, the counters wiped down, and there was even a faint smell of something cooking, something hearty and savory. Max took a step inside, his eyes scanning the room as if he was seeing it for the first time.

And there she was, standing in the kitchen.

She had slipped into one of his old band t-shirts—black and faded with the edges curling up—and paired it with the skirt she’d worn earlier. Her hair was still down, a little messy from the day, but there was something about the way she moved around his space that made her seem... at ease. She was focused on the stove, stirring something in a pot, humming quietly to herself as if she belonged.

Max felt a sudden knot in his stomach, a wave of desire mixed with something deeper—something protective. He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping down to her legs, exposed beneath the hem of the shirt, and then back up to her face. She didn’t notice him at first, too absorbed in what she was doing, and he took a few moments to just watch her.

She looked so out of place in his world—his messy, cluttered world—but at the same time, she fit perfectly.

She caught sight of him, and a warm, almost shy smile spread across her face. "I wasn’t sure what you liked, but I found some stuff in the cupboard. It’s not much, but I thought… I could make you something."

Max’s chest tightened at the sincerity in her voice. He had no idea she could cook.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, his voice rough with something unspoken. He stepped further into the trailer, noticing that she’d even made the bed. The blankets were neatly arranged, the pillow fluffed, the whole room looking like it belonged in some kind of hotel. It felt... new.

She shrugged, a little embarrassed. "It's the least I could do. You’ve been so kind to me... I wanted to help, in some way."

Max ran a hand over his jaw, fighting the urge to reach out and pull her close. Her presence was intoxicating, her gentle kindness disarming. The way she stood there, so effortless in his space, made something inside him shift. His heart beat faster as he moved toward the kitchen, unable to resist the pull of her.

She turned back to the stove, unaware of the war going on inside him. He couldn’t help but glance at the way her shirt rode up on her thighs, the curve of her hips, and the soft skin of her exposed legs. His mind flashed to earlier—when she’d stepped into his trailer with those wide eyes, trembling and vulnerable. And now, she was here, looking like she belonged to him in ways she probably didn’t even realise.

His hands clenched at his sides. He needed to calm down.

“You didn’t have to clean everything up,” he said, trying to focus on something other than how badly he wanted to kiss her, touch her, feel her beneath his hands.

“I don’t mind,” she replied, her voice soft. “It felt wrong to just sit around, so I figured I could do something. It’s a mess here, but I… I wanted it to feel like home for a bit.”

Home.

The word hit him harder than he expected. Max didn’t know what it meant to feel at home. His life had always been a constant hustle, scraping by, living in his car, barely getting by. But here, with her, in the middle of this trailer—he felt like maybe he could understand it, just a little bit.

She stirred the pot again, and Max took a deep breath. His body was tight with the need to do something—to touch her, hold her—but he fought it down.

He stepped closer, casually leaning against the counter. “You sure you’re okay with all this?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, casual.

She glanced at him, her eyes soft but unreadable. “I’m okay,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. She seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing, her gaze steady. “I just… I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m scared, Max.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and before he could stop himself, he reached out, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. Her skin was soft, delicate, and his pulse skipped in response. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t look at him either.

Max leaned in just slightly, his breath catching in his throat as he whispered, “I’ll keep you safe, I swear.”

There was a moment of silence. And then, in the quietest voice, almost as if she were speaking to herself, she whispered, “I believe you.”

And in that moment, something inside Max shifted completely. He didn’t just want her. He needed to protect her. To keep her from harm.

The tension in the air was thick, and he knew if he didn’t walk away now, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. His hand lingered on hers for just a second longer before he pulled away, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Let’s eat,” he said, trying to mask the urgency in his voice, trying to ground himself again.

Max didn’t have a proper dining table—hell, he barely had enough room for his sofa—but tonight, that didn’t matter.

He took a seat on the old sofa, and she settled beside him, carefully placing the plates of food between them. The smell of whatever she’d made filled the air—something simple but satisfying, with just a hint of warmth that made it feel like a real meal. It was the first time in a while that Max had felt something other than hunger when he sat down to eat.

As she set her fork down and looked at her hands, she murmured something under her breath, her voice soft and steady. Max was halfway through a bite when he realised she was praying.

He watched her quietly, noting the calmness in her demeanor, the way her hands were folded neatly in front of her. Her lips moved with the words, a quiet reverence that made the air in the room feel still, almost sacred.

When she finished, she looked at him, a small, shy smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “It’s just… habit.”

Max shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No need to apologise,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He found it cute—no, charming—how she prayed before every meal, how that simple act of faith seemed to give her some semblance of peace. He had no idea what that kind of peace felt like.

They ate quietly, the sound of forks scraping against plates the only noise between them. There was something almost intimate about this simple moment—the way she sat beside him, the way she kept her space but still seemed to fill the room.

It wasn’t long before Max’s mind started to wander again, and his gaze drifted down to her hand as she picked up her glass of water. He noticed the ring on her finger, the simple silver band catching the light.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice casual, though his stomach clenched slightly.

She looked down at it, almost absentmindedly, before meeting his gaze. “It’s a purity ring,” she said, her voice quiet, almost reverent.

Max froze, his fork half-raised to his mouth. A purity ring. The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, a wave of something dark and primal swirling beneath the surface. She wore it like a promise, a promise to stay pure, to wait for marriage, to avoid the kinds of things he’d spent most of his life seeking out—things he wasn’t sure he could even offer her if she wanted them.

His thoughts scrambled, his chest tightening. He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat and shifted on the couch, trying to ignore the tightening in his jeans. He couldn’t help himself. The idea of her—innocent, pure, wearing a ring like that—drove him mad. It made him think things he shouldn’t, things that went against the very core of who she was.

He cleared his throat, trying to distract himself from the thoughts swirling in his head. “I, uh… I think you should take the bed,” he said abruptly. “I’ll crash here on the couch.”

She gave him a soft look, her expression kind, though there was something in her eyes that told him she wasn’t used to accepting charity—or favours of any kind.

“Thank you,” she said, glancing at the bed and then back at him.

She stood up, taking both their plates to the sink and left him in the makeshift living room.

Max settled back onto the small couch, but sleep didn’t come easy. He was restless, his mind too filled with thoughts of her, her innocence, her sweetness, and that damn purity ring. Even though there was a whole doorframe separating the two of them, the room felt too small. His chest too tight. His body too aware of everything that was happening in that tiny space between them.

Eventually, he shifted again, sighing in frustration as he tossed the blanket off of himself. The couch wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was too small for someone his size. He needed to stretch out.

A few minutes later, he heard the soft creak of the floorboards. He turned his head slightly, squinting through the dim light. She was standing in the doorway, her silhouette outlined by the faint glow of his beside table.

“Max?” Her voice was soft, tentative.

He sat up, blinking. “Yeah?”

“I—uh, I can’t sleep,” she admitted, stepping further into the room. “And you look... uncomfortable on the couch.” She hesitated, then bit her lip. “Would you, um, want to sleep in the bed with me? Just... just for tonight?”

Max felt his breath catch in his throat. He should’ve said no. He knew he should’ve. But she was standing there in his shirt, her hair falling messily around her shoulders, and her eyes—those soft, uncertain eyes—were pleading with him in a way that made him feel like he was the one who needed her comfort.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice tight.

She nodded, her hands trembling just slightly as she pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Please. I just—” She paused, biting her lip, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Max’s heart twisted in his chest. He could’ve said something else—told her it was fine, that she should rest, or something like that. But he was done with pretending he didn’t want to be close to her, to feel her next to him.

“Alright,” he muttered, standing up. “But, uh... let me put on a shirt.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and he could’ve sworn he saw the smallest flicker of a smile on her lips. “Okay,” she whispered, turning her back to give him some space.

He grabbed a random shirt from the pile of clean laundry on the floor, pulling it on over his bare chest, and then slipped under the covers beside her. She had already crawled under the blankets, pulling them tightly around her.

Max settled in beside her, keeping a careful distance at first. But the bed was small, and it didn’t take long for her to inch closer. He could feel her warmth at his side, the soft rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the delicate scent of her hair mixing with the familiar scent of his worn sheets.

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains of the trailer, casting a soft glow across the room. Max slowly woke up, his eyes still heavy with sleep. He shifted slightly, feeling the warmth of her body pressed against his side. Her head rested on his chest, her soft breathing filling the quiet room.

For a moment, Max just stayed still, letting the comfort of her closeness wash over him. His arm had instinctively wrapped around her while they slept, and he could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

But as his body began to wake up fully, so did a familiar discomfort: the pressure of his morning problem, straining against the fabric of his boxers. His breath caught, and he tried to shift subtly, hoping she wouldn’t wake up and notice the situation. She didn’t. She just remained nestled against him, her breath slow and steady.

Max let out a slow breath, trying to ignore the growing tension in his body. He kept his arm around her for a moment longer, relishing the softness of her against him, before reluctantly moving it.

Her movements eventually stirred him from his thoughts, though. He felt her shift and heard her small, quiet sigh as she began to stir. She slowly pushed herself up and away from him, the weight of her head leaving his chest.

Max watched as she stood up, stretching lightly before walking toward the small kitchen area. The simple act of her moving around his trailer felt domestic, a little surreal. He never imagined a girl like her would be here, in his space, making herself at home.

She turned on the old coffee maker and started washing the dishes from the night before, humming softly to herself. Her bare feet moved across the worn linoleum floor as she worked, picking up the plates, scrubbing them clean with a kind of focused determination. Max watched her, a little mesmerised by the way she went about everything with ease. She was so domestic, so... pure.

After a while, she glanced over her shoulder, catching his eye. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said quietly. “I usually make something nice on a Sunday.”

Max shook his head, trying to get his bearings. “I don’t mind at all.” His voice was still rough with sleep. “Thank you.”

She smiled softly and got to work, preparing eggs, toast, and whatever else she could find in his meager supplies. Max sat up, rubbing his eyes. He watched her as she moved, the way her shirt clung to her in all the right places, how she seemed so comfortable here despite how out of place she looked in his world.

Eventually, she finished up with the dishes and turned to him. “I need to get ready for church.” Her eyes softened a little, as though she could sense the hesitation in his. “Can y—“

“I’ll take you. I just don’t have a car right now. It’s in the garage.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, and for a moment, Max thought she might protest, but instead, she just nodded. “Okay.”

He took a quick shower and threw on some old jeans and a t-shirt. He didn’t exactly have a wardrobe that screamed “church-going,” but it was the best he could do. He wasn’t there to make a statement anyway—just to get her there and make sure she was safe.

When he stepped out of the small bathroom, he found her already dressed in her Sunday best—yesterday’s shirt and skirt with a cardigan she must have pulled out her bag. Her hair was perfectly styled, like she’d just walked out of a church bulletin. She looked so out of place in his trailer, so polished and pristine compared to the worn, dirty space they were in.

Max grabbed his helmet and walked over to her, holding it out. “Here,” he said, the words laced with a slight smirk. “You’re gonna need this.”

She looked at him curiously but didn’t argue. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. You’re not walking to church, and you’re definitely not riding behind me without it.” He grinned, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

With a small, reluctant smile, she took the helmet from him, adjusting it over her head, the loose strands of her hair sticking out slightly. Max handed her the extra jacket he had and then motioned to the door. “Let’s get going. I’ll get you there early so no one sees you.”

She nodded, slipping on the jacket and walking toward the door with him. Max grabbed the keys to his bike and headed outside, securing the helmet on her head.

The engine of his old bike roared to life, the sound rattling the air around them. Max felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, the wind in his face as they drove, but his focus wasn’t on the speed or the feel of the bike. It was on her, sitting behind him, her body pressed close to his, the weight of her on his back both grounding and electrifying him.

They took the back roads, keeping a low profile, making sure no one would notice them together. Max didn’t want to bring any attention to her. He didn’t want anyone to see her with him, not yet. She was too pure, too innocent to be caught up in his world.

They arrived just before everyone else, the small church looming in front of them as the sun began to rise. Max parked the bike in the back and cut the engine, then turned to look at her.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she said softly, slipping off the bike.

Max nodded, watching her walk toward the steps of the church, her figure straight and composed. As she walked away from him, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of something—something he couldn’t quite name. It was a mix of jealousy, admiration, and something darker that he didn’t want to acknowledge.

He didn’t know why he stayed in the parking lot. Maybe it was the quiet that clung to the air after the service ended, or maybe it was the feeling of something unfinished between him and her. He waited, watching as the congregation filed out of the church, families chatting, some with smiles on their faces, others with the weight of the week still on their shoulders.

He saw her mother, walking alongside her brother, exchanging a few words with the other churchgoers. But no sign of her. His gaze swept over the parking lot once more, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Maybe she had stayed behind for a little longer.

Minutes passed, and Max’s unease grew. She hadn’t come out.

Frowning, he swung his leg off the bike and walked toward the church’s front doors. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to check on her, but something in him insisted. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, as if sensing danger.

Max approached the side of the church, his boots scraping the gravel beneath him. A faint voice reached his ears—just a whisper at first, but then it grew louder, more frantic. It sounded like shouting, distorted by the walls of the building, but it was unmistakably hers.

His heart skipped a beat.

He moved quickly toward the sound, pushing open a side door. The hallway inside was dimly lit, the walls cold and echoing with every step. He followed the noise, barely hearing his own footsteps as he crept closer to the source.

And then he saw them.

She was on the floor, her hands trembling in front of her, her back hunched as though she was trying to make herself as small as possible. Her father was standing over her, his voice a low growl of fury, loud enough to rattle the air between them.

“You’re a dirty slut!” he spat. “You’re going to hell for what you’ve done!”

Max’s blood ran cold, and for a moment, he didn’t think.

With a quick motion, he stepped forward, his voice calm but cold. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The preacher spun around, his face twisted with rage, recognizing Max.

“Stay out of this, boy,” the preacher growled, his hand still raised in the air.

But before the preacher could make another move, she stood up, her breath ragged, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and something else—hope? Maybe it was desperation.

Without a second thought, she ran toward Max. She didn’t hesitate, her arms reaching out to him as if he were her only anchor in the storm.

“Max,” she whispered, almost too softly to hear, but Max felt the weight of it all the same.

Max put his hands on her shoulders, turning her so that she was standing slightly behind him. His eyes never left the preacher, his voice steady.

“You know, preacher,” Max began, his voice low and measured, “God loves justice and establishes equity.” He tilted his head slightly, as if recalling something. “Psalm 99:4, right? I’m sure that’s a scripture I heard your daughter read once in Bible study. Can’t be exerting your authority in such ways, can you?”

The preacher’s face went red with anger, his hands balling into fists. “Get out of here, boy. This is none of your business.”

Max didn’t flinch. “You’re right,” he said calmly. “It’s none of my business. But I’ll make sure it’s yours.”

He motioned to her. “Go wait by the bike.” His voice softened just for her, the harshness fading away. “Go on, I’ll be right there.”

She hesitated for just a moment, looking at him like she wanted to say something, but instead, she turned and walked quickly toward the door. Max watched her go, his heart pounding in his chest.

The preacher made a move to stop her, but Max stepped forward, his patience snapping.

“Don’t you ever touch her again,” Max growled.

The preacher lunged at him, but Max was faster, his fist connecting with the preacher’s jaw before he had a chance to land a blow. The sound of the punch echoed in the small hallway, and the preacher staggered backward, his hands gripping the edge of the wall for support.

Max stepped forward, his voice cold. “I don’t care who you think you are. You put your hands on her again, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The preacher was on his knees now, his face a mixture of shock and fury. Max didn’t wait to hear more. He turned on his heel, walking out the door to find her standing by his bike, waiting as if she hadn’t just been on the receiving end of a storm.

He nodded to her, not saying anything more, his mind racing with the anger he’d just unleashed. But all he wanted now was to get her away from here, away from him.

“Let’s go,” he said softly, handing her the helmet.

She didn’t say anything as she put it on, but the silent understanding between them spoke volumes. Max revved the engine, feeling the rush of power beneath him as he led her away from the church, away from the hell that had just erupted there.

The ride back to the trailer was eerily quiet. Max could feel the tension in the air between them, thick and heavy, the weight of everything that had just happened hanging between them. She sat behind him, her grip tight on his waist, but there was no laughter, no playful banter like there had been before. It felt like the world had shifted somehow, and the silence stretched endlessly as they rode.

Max didn’t glance back at her. He kept his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the road, but all he could think about was what he’d just done. He knew he’d put himself in danger, confronting her father like that. He didn’t care. But for the first time, he couldn’t ignore the burning question: What did he really think he was doing?

The only sound on the road was the roar of the engine beneath them, a constant reminder of the distance they had yet to travel. Every twist and turn of the road seemed to reflect the turmoil inside of him, but he had no words for it, no way to express the chaos in his head.

When they finally pulled into the trailer park, the sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the worn pavement. Max parked the bike and cut the engine, the sudden silence of the world around them making the tension between them all the more palpable.

They didn’t speak as they walked inside, the door creaking as it opened into the small, dimly lit space. Max stepped aside to let her enter first, but the moment the door closed behind them, she removed the helmet and her composure seemed to crumble.

She stood there for a long moment, just breathing, as if she was trying to collect herself, but it was clear she wasn’t okay. Max watched her, his heart tightening when he saw the tears beginning to well in her eyes. She couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Before he could say anything, she collapsed into him. Her body shook as she buried her face against his chest, her sobs muffled against his shirt. Max’s arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her in close, his own breath shaky from the unexpected surge of emotion he felt at seeing her so broken.

“It’s okay,” he whispered softly, his voice a soothing murmur. “I’ve got you, shhh.”

She didn’t respond, just continued to cry, the sound raw and heartbreaking. Max gently ran his hand down her back, trying to comfort her in the only way he knew how. He wiped the tears off her face with his thumb, brushing her hair back from her forehead. His chest tightened with every sob that wracked her body, every quiet sob that he couldn’t take away.

“Don’t cry,” he said quietly, though his words felt powerless against the pain she was clearly feeling. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I swear it, sweetheart.”

She pulled away slightly, her tear-streaked face making his chest ache even more. Her eyes were wide and vulnerable, a rawness that shook him to his core. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to. He could see everything in her expression, the hurt and confusion and fear.

Without a word, Max guided her to the small bed in the corner of the trailer, not sure what else to do. He wanted to fix everything, to make her feel safe, but he knew that wasn’t something he could do with words alone.

They sat on the edge of the bed, and she let him help her lie down. He crawled in next to her, his arm draping over her shoulders as she curled up against him. The space felt small, but it was warm. She was warm.

Max didn’t say anything as he laid beside her, his chest rising and falling with every breath he took. He just held her. The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was quiet, like the calm after the storm, both of them lost in the stillness of the moment.

Her breathing eventually slowed, her sobs quieter now, though her body still trembled slightly from the emotions that had flooded her. Max stayed close, not letting go. His fingers gently traced the outline of her arm as he held her close, not knowing exactly what to say to make it better, but knowing that being there, holding her, was enough—for now.

“I’m here,” he whispered again, his voice soft and unwavering, as he placed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not anymore.”

Then a weird thought came to Max as he watched hee sleep in his arms.

She’d prayed for his peace.

And while he wasn’t a believer.

He sure as hell felt at peace.

the end.

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