#just for your own peace of mind if nothing else

[myownwholewildworld]

a man called joel (part 2)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | AO3 summary: worried about your exchange with joel, you decide to go to tommy's house, see if there's somthing you can do to help. little do you know, it just makes things worse. author's note: hi! tyvm to everyone who has shown some love to this series so far <3 it's taken me a bit but here's part 2! i'm posting it before i change my mind haha. please heed the warnings and if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. topics of death/murder and losing a child. dealing with the grief and guilt joel feels about sarah, ellie & tess. suicide attempt. tommy, maria and benji make an appearance. joel being a good uncle but a dick to everyone else. arguments. mean/cruel!joel. there's a suicide letter from joel to tommy. dual pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is in his late fifties and reader in her 40s. wordcount: ~7.4k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

He was such a failure, he couldn’t even kill himself properly. What a fucking shame of a human being.

After closing the door right in your face, Joel trudged towards the couch in his living room, exhausted, mind still buzzing from the near-death experience. He sighed heavily, eyeing the noose and broken hook on the floor, pieces of plasterboard dotted around the mess where he had laid just a few minutes before.

He should have died. Death had been so close, within reach… At his fingertips. And now felt distant again, like a dream he’d woken up too early from. And despite the heartache, the vision of Sarah silently begging him not to do it, Joel needed to chase that illusion. Yearned for another peaceful moment with his daughter, longed for the moment he would see her again. Alive and young and well. Like no time had passed, like she’d been by his side for the past two decades—his personal guardian angel.

His heart was still mourning the loss, his pipedream gone. Hadn’t thought of God and Heaven in a very long while, his wavering faith lost when Sarah was taken away from him. But now, perhaps, there was a chance that Sarah was waiting for him. Somewhere, somehow—and Joel was determined to find her. Whatever it cost—even his life.

Had you not interrupted, his dream may as well have come true. But the banging on the door and window along with your incessant calls had ended up filtering into his brain. Like a motherfucking, unwanted wake-up call. You’d brought him back when he truly just wanted to die, to reunite with his baby girl. Damn you.

He’d only had to try again. Try harder next time. Because he wasn’t done. Not yet, not until he put an end to his own misery. Joel was determined to finish what he had started, and nothing nor no one could stop him.

Not even you, with your pleading doe eyes. His stomach twisted at the thought of your hand reaching up to his face. How your eyes roved over his neck, worryingly and intensely. How your nose scrunched a little and your lips fell into a pout. How your brows creased with concern for a stranger, an old man you didn’t know. Joel could only hope you hadn’t put the pieces of the picture together.

His heavy sight wandered around the room, his hand palming the wrist where Sarah’s watch rested.

Time.

“Fuck, what’s the time?” Joel mouthed, throat dry and tender, while he stood up.

In the kitchen, the clock on the wall told him he was already late. Ten minutes late to a dinner he hadn’t planned on attending. And now he’d have to go, pretend nothing had happened, because of you.

Joel walked towards the door, his back stiff like a wooden plank. His left knee cracked loudly, and a burning thunder went up his thigh. At the same time, the dull pain on the back of his head shot all the way through his skull, piercing his eyeballs. The sudden sting almost made him lose his footing, feeling dizzy and unsteady. He crouched down a little, his hand grasping the armrest of the couch as Joel fought an unexpected wave of nausea.

The fall had definitely been a bad one. Regrettably, not bad enough to have him killed. Only if he had hit his head a bit harder…

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing his eyes together while bile rose up his throat, leaving an acidic, bitter taste on his tongue. Groaning, he palmed the nape of his neck and then a bit further up, just to notice how his fingertips became wet. Frowning, Joel squinted one eye open to inspect his fingers.

Blood. Fucking great. Now he’d have to deal with that before going to Tommy’s. And of course, he blamed you. For all of it.

Thirty minutes later, Joel was at his brother’s doorstep, curls damp and nose cold. Rubbing his gloved hands together, he blew some warm air into his cupped palms to heat up his face, mind drifting back to today’s events.

“Joel?”

His eyes focused, travelling up from his boots to the frowning face in front of him. Seemed like his little brother had already spoken and was waiting on his reply.

“Are you gonna come in or are you gonna stay out there in the cold?” Tommy asked with a huff, moving aside to let him in.

“Right. Mind’s somewhere else today,” Joel mumbled an excuse while Tommy closed the door behind him.

“You’re late,” Tommy warned. “Maria ain’t happy, turkey’s going cold.”

Joel hmphed, removing his gloves and then his coat. Hung them on the hook by the door. When he turned around, he almost bumped into Tommy, who was standing too close.

“What’s that?” his brother’s eyes squinted, head tilted.

“What’s what?”

“Your neck. It’s… bruising. The heck have you been doing?” Tommy’s fingers reached up to the neckline of his shirt, pushing it down to have a better look. Just as you had tried to do.

Joel swatted his hand away, huffing dismissively. His skin crawled, the idea of being touched unbearable, even by a friendly hand.

“‘S nothing. Had an accident, that’s all,” he mumbled, sauntering towards the dining room.

“An accident? Did you accidentally put a rope around your neck or what?” Tommy laughed at his own occurrence, palming Joel’s shoulder as he walked besides him.

Internally, Joel flinched—a gesture he didn’t let break through the surface. “I have. I’m tired, brother. I want this to be over. It’s… I feel like my life is slipping away through my fingers. I’ve survived insufferable things, and it just feels wrong now. I’m drained of purpose. I’m tired, so very tired. I need’a rest—lay my head on the pillow and drift away… forever. See my babygirl, hug Tess. God, Tess…” he thought. But those words never escaped his mind, tucked away in the confines of his guilt, of his dread. Of his desperation.

Perhaps he should have spoken then—crack the shell of his feelings open, ask for help. But what had help gotten him so far besides heartache? Besides an overwhelming sense of failure? Speaking to Gail had only made things worse for him, forcing him to paint the picture of a crude reality with a clarity he’d been evading for years. Decades.

But he didn’t speak—wouldn’t burden his brother with his thoughts. Because it wouldn’t make a difference, Joel had made up his mind. No words would change everything he’d done, all the decisions that had led him to Death’s door.

“Benji’s been asking about his uncle the whole day. He’s got two new toys, a couple of miniature dinosaurs. Ellie gave them to him this morning,” Tommy happily chirped away, unaware of the hole he was digging in Joel’s chest. Deep and throbbing like an open, infected wound—a wound that would never heal, that would fester until his heart would rot past mending. Past salvation.

Was Ellie getting rid of everything he’d gifted her? Was she trying to erase the memory of him? Of everything they had shared up until that fateful day?

Joel had found those dinosaur toys in their visit to the Wyoming Museum of Science and History for her sixteenth birthday. Ellie had been so impressed with the life-size sculpture of the Tyrannosaurus Rex in the thick woods of the museum, Joel knew she would appreciate to have those as a memento. She’d been so elated with his gift, those two miniatures had had a special place of on her bedroom’s shelves up until she moved out to the garage.

And now she had gotten rid of them, passed them on to Benji. “At least she’s not thrown them away,” Joel weighed in his mind. Had he found those in the trash… it would have dented his rugged heart even more, that muscle condemned to the forgetfulness of death.

“Uncle!” Benji jumped off the chair, running towards him with his arms extended.

Joel’s whole demeanour shifted, a ray of sunlight slipping through the cracks of his darkness. Benji was a blessing in his life, loved him as his own. His nephew would never fill the hole of his loss but softened the edges of the gaping wound in his chest.

He knelt on the creaking wooden planks, arms outstretched to give Benji a big hug. The little Miller laughed, the sound so full of life, Joel wondered when was the last time he felt so at ease, so problem-free.

“Look! Ellie gave me these!” and then Benji shot off his embrace, skipping towards the table.

Besides an almost empty plate—Benji always had an earlier dinner than the adults and already had a dinosaur-themed pyjamas on—laid the two toys that held a special place in his heart. Benji tiptoed near the table and managed to grab them before he returned to Joel, still kneeling on the floor.

“This one’s my favourite, Uncle. Ellie said it’s a Tydono… I dunno, something-saurus! Big, big dino, he was the king of the jungle! Would eat anyone in his path. And look at this one!” Benji kept on babbling, explaining everything Ellie had told him about the figurines.

Joel listened attentively, a softness tugging at the corners of his mouth. His nephew was recounting the same stories he’d chronicled for Ellie three years ago. A part of him—the one that held to a fragile shard of hope—wanted to believe that Ellie still thought fondly of him, that perhaps she didn’t hate him as much as she’d yelled.

“Benji, it’s bedtime,” Maria chipped in, entering the dining room from the kitchen. “Hi, Joel.”

“Hey,” he greeted back with a nod, eyes going back to the Brachiosaurus toy Benji was still talking about, purposefully ignoring his mom. “I can put him to sleep, read him a bedtime story.”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. Thanks,” Maria agreed. “But quick, I’m reheating the turkey.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel agreed. “Come on, big guy.”

Joel picked Benji up, his knees and lower back loudly protesting when he stood up. Helped his nephew get into bed, read a passage of his favourite children’s book and stealthily walked out of his room when Benji drifted off. He’d enjoyed this bedtime routines with Sarah—but unlike Benji, she would get too excited about the story and ramble about it endlessly. She’d talk so much, she’d tire herself out and fall asleep halfway through a sentence.

With bated breath and an aching heart again, Joel carefully closed the door behind him with a soft click. When he arrived downstairs, Tommy was carving the last of the turkey and setting it down on a plate.

Joel reached for the dish and mumbled a “thank you” before he sat down at the table with his brother and sister-in-law. For a moment, the silence was hefty and thick, like trying to breath through a wall of water.

“Tommy said you have a new neighbour. Don’t scare her away like you did with the last one,” Maria warned him, a mighty brow cocked, looking at him over the fork she held.

Joel huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Agnes was a pain in the ass. Still is. In the span of a week, she knocked my mailbox down twice, and not by mistake,” Joel shook his head in disapproval, stuffing his mouth with the turkey.

“That’s what you said. Both times I checked, your mailbox was still standing,” Tommy butted in, a glitter of joke in his eyes.

“Because I fixed it before you came round,” he hissed, eyes averted, focused on the food.

Had he been looking up, Joel would have caught the hint of worry in Maria’s eyes. How she’d thrown a sideway glance at Tommy when she saw the bruising around his neck. How Tommy had shrugged, downplaying her concern.

Solitude is a silent storm that breaks down all our dead branches.

And the silent storm was brewing with every metal clink of cutlery. A storm Joel had been avoiding, playing ignorant to how things looked on the outside.

“How’s everything with Ellie?” Maria asked out of nowhere.

Joel’s heart plummeted to the bottom of his stomach—a strangling twist contorting his entrails when the simmering anxiety took a hold of him. But he couldn’t show it—how this all affected him, how the solitude wrecked him, playing mind games with him. As if Death was mindlessly toying with him.

“We’re good,” was his automatic answer.

“We ain’t blind, brother,” Tommy intervened. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Fuck everyone then and their stupid gossiping. People are fucking bored in this town if that’s the only thing they can talk about. Don’t they have anything better to worry about? We are fine,” Joel barked, throwing the fork at his plate, hand shaking. “‘S just a phase.”

“Problems don’t just resolve themselves if you don’t talk about them, Joel. They don’t disappear; they just grow bigger until they are blown out of proportion. If you need us to talk to her…” Maria offered calmly, unfazed by his sudden outburst.

“I said we are fucking okay, alright?” Joel’s tone grew louder, frustrated, the legs of his chair screeching against the wooden floor when he pushed it back to stand up. “Mind your fucking business, both of ya.”

“Hey. Watch your fucking mouth!” Tommy stood up, one hand pressed on the table while the other pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You don’t come to this house to disrespect us like that.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t come at all,” Joel gritted out, the tips of his ears hot with anger.

“Yeah, perhaps you fucking shouldn’t!”

“Both of you, calm down,” Maria spoke serenely, the only one keeping a cool demeanour. “No one is getting kicked out of our home, Tommy. You’re welcome here, Joel. We are just worried, that’s all. We don’t need to talk about it now, I’m sure you’ll come around when you’re ready.”

Just as Joel was about to reply, a gentle knock on the front door quickly dissipated the argument. Surely for the better—deep down, Joel appreciated the concern, his rage misplaced.

“I’ll get it,” Tommy muttered.

You twisted your hands resting on your lap, the loud noises of the community hall not reaching your ears at all. You were physically there, but your mind was elsewhere.

You really had tried to keep your mind busy for the rest of the day, pull out some dying weeds before running back inside to clean. But every time a task required some sort of focus, you just couldn’t do it. Your hands were too flimsy, trembling. An impending sense of doom had taken over your soul and you just couldn’t shake it off.

Joel Miller wasn’t well. So far, that was everything you knew. The whole exchange you had with him, how he became instantly defensive when you mentioned his fall… Any other person would have admitted what happened or at least downplayed if they were embarrassed. Not him, though. If your fingers had reached any closer to his neck, you were sure he would have bitten your hand off.

Perhaps he was just a grumpy old man. The type who would bark at every neighbour if they stepped on the grass or if something dropped from their back pockets, instantly accusing them of littering.

The type who would not let anyone help him, not even when he wasn’t okay. And that was what worried you the most. You had seen people falling to their demises just because they were too proud to admit they needed a hand. But his sin wasn’t pride, it was… something that was luring him into the dark. Something personal and painful. Something that was eating him alive.

A sudden noise startled you, jumping on the wooden bench, derailing your train of thought.

“Sorry!” A kid exclaimed happily, grabbing the football leaning against the leg of the bench.

You smiled at her, heart warm with memories of a life lived what seemed a century ago. A sparkle caught your eye—she was wearing a beautiful piece of jewellery around her neck, most probably a hand-me-down from a family member before the outbreak that changed everything.

“Don’t worry, it’s okay!” You replied before the girl giggled and ran away.

With a grin still curling your lips, your mind went back to the topic nagging at the back of your mind: Mister Joel Miller.

There and then, you decided you couldn’t just stand by with your arms crossed. And of course you were not about to knock on his door again, afraid he might actually kick your butt and throw you off his porch. Approaching Tommy was probably wiser, just to see if there was something you could do covertly, perhaps keeping an eye on Joel for him.

Standing up, you thanked the people around you on the table for the warm meal and waved them goodbye. A cacophony of “byes” followed suit—everyone was so nice here, it was like a blanket hugging your heart.

You stood just outside the main door, suddenly realising you didn’t know how to find Tommy. Thankfully, there was a woman smoking outside—Gail, as you found out when she introduced herself—who gave you directions to Tommy and Maria’s house when you explained to her where you wanted to go.

Wrapping yourself in your coat and securing your woolly scarf around your neck, you trudged forward through the thick blanket of fresh snow. A few minutes later you arrived at a cul-de-sac with just a handful of houses, not far from yours. Gail had said that the one you were looking for had a swing bench on the porch.

Scanning the area, you clicked your tongue when you saw it and ran towards the house—your toes were freezing in your winter boots, the cold nipping at the skin of your face. Determined with your mission, you walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

There was a rush of movement on the other side, some loud voices filtering through. Unable to make out what they were talking about, you just patiently waited for someone to open.

A minute later, Tommy appeared under the frame—a pronounced pinch on his brows, his mouth twisting angrily, as if you had inconveniently interrupted a heated argument.

Clearing your throat, you took a step back, realising this might not be the best time.

“Uh, hi, Tommy. Sorry, I didn’t mean to— I can come back lat—” you stumbled over your own words, feeling awkward and out of place.

“Hey,” Tommy greeted you by name. You were surprised he remembered, considering how many people he’d welcomed in. “Don’t worry. We were just having family dinner, you know how those go…”

You nodded with a weak smile—yes, you did. But it had been a long time since you sat around a table with your loved ones. A very long time, indeed.

“Who’s it?” A deep, husky voice inquired from the adjacent room.

You knew who it was before the booted steps betrayed his presence, your heart racing wildly in your chest as your mind tried to come up with some sort of excuse for your visit.

You gaped, a shaky sigh escaping your lips, when the source of your worries appeared behind Tommy. The reason you were here—to tell Tommy you thought Joel wasn’t okay, that he needed help. And you were doing it so behind Joel’s back.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he barked bitterly, nostrils flaring and a hand on his brother’s shoulder to push him out of his way. “Huh?!”

His unrequited rage took you aback. Stepping further back, you almost lost your footing with one of the steps but managed to grab onto the handrail before you fell backwards.

Why didn’t you think of this? That Joel might be here for dinner? What were you thinking?

You stared at Joel, then at a surprised Tommy, then back at Joel, all the while you just wanted to throw up your heart at their feet.

“I asked you a goddamn question,” Joel snapped, walking out onto the porch.

Your heart sank to your stomach. He was truly pissed off at you. Perhaps rightfully so—being sneaky like this was not a good start to any friendship.

“Whoa, whoa! Calm the fuck down, where are your fucking manners?!” Tommy quickly intervened, grabbing at his brother’s shoulder and pushing him back away from you. “What’s wrong with you today?!”

Your eardrums throbbed with the increased blood pressure, your heart pumping violently in your chest. You knew you had erred, but didn’t deserve such dreadful treatment—your intentions were pure, coming from a good place. You just wanted to help, make sure that Joel was surrounded by a loving support system.

As your mind raced and the two brothers confronted each other, Maria, Tommy’s partner, made an appearance. Her aura almost instantly put you at ease, her presence calming.

“Can the both of you keep quiet? You’re gonna wake Benji up,” she scolded them, stepping between the Millers before her eyes found yours. “What’s the matter?” she asked you with a smile, offering you a hand to walk inside with them.

You glanced at both Joel and Tommy, who were obviously locked in on each other, then back at Maria. Letting go of the handrail you were holding onto for dear life, you gestured with your hands.

“It’s nothing. Just a clogged pipe at home, nothing of importance. I can come back tomorrow so you can point me in the direction of someone who can help,” you stumbled over your own words. “I don’t want to interrupt, I’ll leave you guys be.”

“Nonsense,” Maria said, stepping aside to let you in. “Come on in, we were about to have dessert. We’ll send someone first thing tomorrow to help you out.”

“I’m going. M’not hungry,” Joel mumbled, jaw tight like a bow.

Was he leaving because he didn’t want to be in the same room as you? Did he despise you that much with so little interaction? You two had really started off on the wrong foot.

“Don’t be a child, Joel. I’ve got my hands full with Benji already. You’re having dessert too. Let’s go,” Maria reprimanded him, and you felt bad for forcing this situation onto him.

“I can go…”

“No, you’re staying. Everyone’s staying,” and with those final, indisputable words, Tommy, Joe and you followed Maria inside.

The house was warm, the smell inviting—cinnamon mixed with vanilla lingered in the air. The soft orangey shadow the lamps and ceiling lights casted was very comforting, pleasant to the eye. When you followed Maria’s lead into the dining room, you spied some toys scattered on an empty spot on the table. This wasn’t a house, it was a home. Lived in, cared for, full of life. Of hope too—Jackson was a permanent stronghold, a place where families could settle and blossom.

“Any allergies?” Maria asked you, tipping her head towards the empty chair besides Joel in invitation.

“No, none.”

You hesitated, Joel’s discomfort radiating off him, enveloping you. But considering there were no other empty chairs, you had no other option than to sit next to him.

Maria left the room, quickly followed by Tommy. You could hear them bickering in whispers because the silence between Joel and you was loud. Your hands nervously twisted on your lap, deciding whether to apologise or just put the matter to rest.

Before you could make up your mind, Maria and Tommy returned. The younger Miller was carrying a tray with some delicious cinnamon rolls, while Maria set down some porcelain mugs on the table.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

Her hospitality was touching, especially considering the state of the world outside Jackson’s palisade. You’d only encountered hatred and greed out there, a thirst for power so potent and pungent it would consume a human’s soul within seconds. Jackson and its people felt… different—neighbourly, kind, altruistic. The town seemed to run smoothly.

Maria and you did your best to fill the silence with chitchat once you’d relaxed a little. On the other hand, the brothers appeared to be in some sort of mean staring contest between themselves. Which, truth be told, made you feel a tad better—perhaps Joel wasn’t really mad at you but at Tommy, and you just happened to be in the crossfire.

“Yeah, of course I would like to help,” you said instantly when Maria mentioned that they were one person down on tomorrow’s afternoon patrol. “I’ve been out there for longer than I care to admit, I know my way around this area too.”

“Perfect. Joel’s patrol partner is in the infirmary with a fever. I was going to cancel it but if you don’t mind joining him, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

You almost choked on the last bite of cinnamon roll, which you had to force down by sipping on your tea. Being on patrol with Joel did not sound appealing at all—not because you would be uncomfortable, but because you knew he would.

“Listen—” Joel began to complain, but as soon as Maria shot a warning glance at him, he stopped right in his tracks. “Alright.”

“It’s settled then,” Maria concluded with finality, she wasn’t going to let Joel argue with her.

Fifteen minutes later, you were saying your goodbyes to the Millers and thanking them for having you. When the door closed behind you, you ventured a bashful look in Joel’s direction.

“We don’t need to walk together,” you gave him a way out of this uncomfortable situation.

“You want to walk the streets alone at night?” Joel questioned, raising a thick, silvery brow.

“Do I have something to worry about?”

“As idyllic as Jackson is, not every single one of us are saints.”

The veiled truth behind his words confirmed what you suspected—Joel didn’t see himself as one of the “good guys”, as worthy of the tranquillity this town offered. How much truth there was to that… you’d only have to unearth it yourself.

“Do… do I need to worry about being alone with you then?”

“What? No,” his reaction was instantaneous. His eyes had widened when his brain caught up with his own words. “Fuck, no. That’s not what I meant. I just— Well, you shouldn’t trust someone just because they are from Jackson.”

“It’s okay, Joel.” A little smile had softened your lips, his mortification somewhat endearing. “We can walk together. I trust you, I think.”

Joel hmphed but didn’t oppose. In silence you walked, but this time wasn’t as excruciating as you had feared. Perhaps he was a man of few words, and that was okay. You understood that when there was nothing of importance to say, it was better to remain silent.

Arriving at your street, your paths parted when it was time to hide in your respective homes. But before you disappeared through your door, you turned around.

Joel was standing in the middle of the road, watching you go up the steps of your porch—as if he was making sure you were getting home safely. When he found himself caught, Joel shoved his hands in the pockets of his furry coat and veered.

“Joel?” You waited for him to face you. “I’m sorry. I know how that looked like, but I wasn’t trying to… I just, you know—”

“It’s okay. I overreacted. Hope they can sort out the pipe for you tomorrow. Don’t be late for patrol,” and with that warning, he trudged forward through the snow and climbed up the steps of his porch.

You pouted—he’d misunderstood. You meant to apologise, “I wasn’t trying to go behind your back. I just worry unnecessarily, I’m sorry I overstepped your boundaries.” But he didn’t give you a chance.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed the door open and locked it behind your back. There had to be something in this house you could block a pipe with, so the plumber’s trip wouldn’t be in vain.

It gnawed at him—how you cheerfully tried to make some small talk while the only thing he could do was grunt and huff in response. Joel wasn’t trying to be rude on purpose, he just didn’t enjoy the proximity of humanity anymore. Not that he had been a big fan of socialisation in the past anyway, but since losing almost everyone he held dear, Joel didn’t see the appeal in connecting with someone else.

And after his confrontation with Tommy, the abyss separating him from the rest of the world just cracked further apart. Everything he touched, died—not everything, but everyone. As if Death was chasing after him, patiently waiting to claim him.

Death followed him everywhere, sniffing at the cuffs of his pants, but never deciding to give him the final clutch of its claws.

Joel was tired of this waiting game. Wanted it over, to be put to rest. Besides Sarah’s grave back in their Austin home. He’d even dared to put those thoughts into words a few days ago.

As soon as the ink had dried on the parchment, Joel had regretted it—asking such a thing from Tommy was cruel, evil. Selfish. But deep down, it was his dying wish; he truly believed that his bones wouldn’t find solace sitting alone six feet under, that Sarah’s presence would sooth the ache he’d left behind in this world.

He’d also written a note to Ellie. But that one… it wrecked his soul just remembering it—how the tears had blurred his vision, some falling onto the paper, smudging his calligraphy. All the things he wished to say when the silence between them would stretch, the unspoken, broken words that would hang in the void, pestering and rotting what little was left of their bond.

Did he hide them well?

“Do you like to read?” your question caught him off guard. “I saw you with a book when I met you yesterday.”

Joel looked at you askance, riding beside him. Blinking rapidly and watching his twelve, he’d hoped you hadn’t noticed the dampness in his eyes—the only visible tale of his agony.

“Mhm, sometimes,” Joel conceded, sharpening his senses to ensure the surroundings were safe.

“Anything you’ve read lately?” you insisted, your mare coming too close to his horse, rubbing necks together, neighing softly.

His stallion didn’t appreciate the caress, pulling from the reins and swaying away. The subtlety of the animals’ exchange didn’t go unnoticed by any of you, your expression wavering for a moment—were you so hurt too when he openly rejected your hand yesterday afternoon?

“Easy, Old Beardy,” Joel whispered, leaning forward to pat the horse’s neck. When the animal calmed down, he straightened his back and gave you a stern nod. “Yeah. Been reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. Dunno if you’ve heard of it.”

“Are you kidding?” your hearty laugh piqued his interest, a frown creasing his brows. “I love Gabrial García Márquez’s writing. My favourite book is Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Have you read it?”

“‘M afraid not,” was his succinct reply.

You were insistent, he’d give you that.

“Oh, I have a copy you can borrow. It’s been with me since, well, all of this happened,” you gestured around you. “While I was working in my family’s garden center, I was also getting my degree in literature. My thesis was going to be about Gabo’s writing, actually.”

“You didn’t finish?”

“The outbreak happened in my third year. Didn’t have a chance,” your excitement died off with your words, a pout painted on your lips.

“Sorry,” he apologised, even though he wasn’t sure why.

“It’s okay. I’ve made my peace with losing the life I had before that ominous day.”

You’d made your peace. What an alien thought—one Joel couldn’t grasp. It’d take a very strong, determined person to let go of the tethers of the past. Perhaps you were braver than him, at least on the outside.

Was he the only one who crumbled to his knees whenever the memories flooded back? Had age weakened him? Broken him past mending?

“Anyways, about the book you’ve been reading! There are so many beautiful passages in there. Any favourites so far?”

You were assuming he’d only read it once, but reality was, he’d lost count.

“Yeah, uhm…” Joel cleared his throat, the words coming back to him as if he’d been mentally reciting them for weeks. “He felt himself forgotten, not with the irremediable forgetfulness of the heart, but with a different kind of forgetfulness, which was more cruel and irrevocable and which he knew very well because it was the forgetfulness of death.”

He should have thought before that quote slipped. To anyone, it’d have been a quirky answer, a dark one at that. But you, it seemed, had picked up on the sadness of his heartfelt delivery—how it spoke more about himself than he’d ever admit—because the silence that followed was telling, consuming.

“It… it is a beautiful quote,” you whispered, and Joel felt the full weight of your eyes on him. “The forgetfulness of death is what we all are condemned to if we don’t nudge a dent on the people we leave behind when we pass. Is that…?”

Joel raised a hand, signalling to halt.

A faint sound that he’d grown too familiar to—a clicking, throaty call. Subtle, but enough to make his senses flare, the hair on the back of his neck stand. As far as Joel could tell, it might only be one, but the noise the clicker emitted could summon others.

Reeling your mount closer to his, you listened in silence. And when Joel’s eyes searched for yours, you gave him an understanding nod.

“We’re too close to Jackson,” you muttered.

“Yeah, gotta take care of it before it becomes a bigger problem,” Joel dismounted Old Beardy and you followed suit, tying both horses to a rail guarding the dilapidated building you both were circumventing. “Go right, sweep the area. Make sure there’re no others. I’ll go left.”

You didn’t question his decision—the alertness in your orbs bright enough to make him understand you’d encountered hundreds of clickers. Your body language had shifted too, your stance stiffer, your shoulders squared as you unsheathed a knife from your belt.

He did the same and turned around, hunting knife on hand.

The building was a wooden structure, possibly an old shed for the farmland besides it. The wood had rotten, blackened with the passage of time. The ceiling was half collapsed, an outbuilding with barn doors attached to the side.

The clicking became clearer as Joel sauntered towards the outbuilding, fingers clutching around the hilt. Crouching a little, his free hand caressed the O-shaped rusty handle and pulled, taking a step back to put some distance between himself and the threat.

A woman laid among the mouldy straw, wriggling in pain. She was in the first stages of the infection, at the point where one could still see their humanity. She had greying brown hair, wavy and long.

It wasn’t her suffering what froze him in place, but her eyes. In the darkness of the shed, they were green as a blooming meadow. The same eyes he’d woken up to for thirteen years—Tess’s. The similarities were striking, like a dagger of the past staring right at him.

Since Tess’s death, Joel had drowned the memories of her, locked them away in a godforsaken drawer of his mind and threw away the key. Because he’d never done good by her—never said what she really meant to him, how she kept his mind cool and his path straight. And in the decade they’d spent together, Joel never dared to say the three words that would have settled their relationship. Never told her how much he cared for her either—because he was a man of acts of service, wasn’t eloquent enough with the spoken word.

And then she died, sacrificing herself for the greater good, for him and Ellie to escape unscathed. Succumbed to clickers alone, with no one by her side. Without a chance to right the wrong he’d carried in his soul, his heart.

Had she known? Joel regretted never whispering an “I love you” when she’d fallen asleep in his embrace. Never opened up to her—his feelings too messed up, entangled with a fear of loss, with a caution he’d learnt after losing Sarah. Because he’d thought that if he ever said the words out loud, Joel would lose Tess. Because everyone he touched, died.

And that wasn’t the worst part, not telling her how much she meant to him. It was how Joel had stepped back away from her when she walked towards him after becoming infected, how he’d built a wall to guard his own sanity, without considering how Tess must have felt. How she’d whispered “oops, right?” to hide her own hurt at his rejection.

“I never asked you for anything. Not to feel the way I felt—”

How his breath had hitched after muttering a breathless negative. “No, you didn’t have to ask, Tess. I do feel the same way. You mean the world to me—we’ve been together for thirteen years. How could I not?”

But instead he’d been too stunted to speak, to voice his feelings, to crack the dam he’d been hiding behind for so many years.

“Joel, save who you can save,” and with that, he’d grabbed Ellie and got the fuck out. Didn’t even hesitate, didn’t mutter a goodbye, didn’t look back—his protective instinct taking over, needing to take Ellie to safety.

It still haunted him. Wrecked him even to only think about how he’d wronged her till the very end. He was a bastard, deserving of all the bad things that had happened so far. This was the universe’s retribution for all his wrongdoing.

The woman’s head snapped around in his direction, a deep clicking sound reverberating in her chest. Slowly she got up, dragging one of her feet along the straw, head tilting sideways in an unnatural, mechanical way.

And Joel simply froze. Was this poetic justice? How he was supposed to die? Perhaps it was—the end would most definitely be fitting. It was what he deserved. For being emotionally stunt, for being selfish, for being a coward, for being a murderer. For existing in this world and feeding into its malice. For being a part of the problem.

His shallow breath caught, a flood of memories drowning him—everyone he lost, appearing in front of his eyes like a grotesque newsreel. It felt like a heavy stone was crushing his chest, his lungs constrained within his ribs, his heart pounding fiercely while sweat gathered atop of his brows. Panic bubbling, clouding his mind to a point where Joel couldn’t think straight anymore.

The clicker approached, and this time, he didn’t step back away from her—from Tess. Joel dropped the knife, the woman snarling at him, his eyes shutting close.

The prospect of dying wasn’t daunting, but strangely soothing, his heartrate slowing down. Welcomed.

“Joel? Joel!”

A commotion took him back to the present—you had decked the clicker to the floor, the hilt of your knife gruesomely protruding out of her temple.

Joel blinked—not in relief, but gutted at the lost chance. The irreversibility of such a death would have been a balsam to the open wounds of his soul.

You got up to your feet and threw yourself at him, blissfully unaware of the situation. Or so he thought. You enveloped him in a crushing hug—your warmth seeping through the thick fabric of your coat, reaching his bones.

“Oh my God, Joel. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Has it bit you?” you stumbled over your own words, frantic with a rush of adrenaline.

Your hands patted his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his chest—your eyes wild with worry, searching for any sign of an infected wound. Inspecting him from head to toe, with a concern he’d not seen in someone’s eyes ever before.

Your eyes finally focused on his face and, for whatever reason, they darkened. Your eyebrows lifted into your forehead, the sadness washing over your features was a heartbreaking sight. As if you cared about him—a complete stranger who had only been rude to you, kept you at arm’s length.

“Joel,” you whispered, your ungloved hand raising up to his face.

This time, he didn’t retreat, still coming to terms with the fact that today he wouldn’t yield to the forgetfulness of death.

Your thumb brushed his cheek, a slow, sweet motion as your lips fell into a thin line, a sorrowful pout curling your mouth.

“Joel, why are you crying? What’s the matter?” you uttered, voice tinged with an anxiety he was feeling deep down in his aching bones.

Joel hadn’t realised the sheer magnitude of his emotions until then. Until your fingertips became wet from his unwanted tears. Then it hit him—not the sadness, but the anger.

“I ain’t crying,” he barked, taking a few steps back, the warmth of your hug turning cold. Running the inside of his elbow through his face, Joel turned away from you. “‘S nothing. I’m fine.”

You looked at him doe-eyed, but with a resolution he feared. You shortened the distance he had imposed, getting dangerously close to him, open hands reaching towards him.

“I said I’m fine!” he shouted at you, losing his composure. “What’s the fucking matter with all of you?! Why doesn’t it register in your fucking brains that I want to be left alone, huh? Is it so fucking difficult to comprehend? Are you fucking stupid or are you just pretending to be? God fucking dammit.”

He snarled like the animal he was—like a scared dog cornered, barking and showing teeth, because he dreaded the gentle hand that approached him.

Dreaded falling to his knees and breaking down in front of you, of anyone.

Dreaded opening the dams of his demons and not being able to herd them back inside.

Dreaded that once he spoke the words out loud, they would only be truer.

His heart was racing again, the vein in his neck bulging, blind with a misplaced rage you didn’t deserve. Deep down, he knew you didn’t. But his fear was louder than his reasoning.

Your whole expression folded, taking a step back away from him. Had Joel been the animal he thought himself to be, he would have smelt your fear. But he didn’t need to—the light behind your eyes dimmed, like a lighthouse running out of power in the middle of a stormy night.

You managed to hide your face from him, veering around without a word to head towards the horses.

Only then Joel realised he’d fucked up. He’d mistakenly taken his fury out on you. He wasn’t mad at you―damn, he wasn’t mad at anyone except himself. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Twice in a row.

“Hey,” Joel called out walking towards you, tone softer with remorse. You quickly glanced at him over your shoulder before your head snapped back to the horse. This time, your eyes transpired no emotion. “Look—”

“I got the message loud and clear, Joel,” you cut him off coldly, getting on your horse. “It’s getting dark. Let’s go back.”

You didn’t wait for him, trotting away before he could get on Old Beardy.

“Fuck,” he groaned under his breath, shaking the reins to catch up with you.

taglist: @wow-life-love4 @denisanoemi @wencontre @ccmoonshine @mystickittytaco @peelieblue @guelyury @marisemonteiroo @fangirlcentral1 @layaispunk @brittmb115 @mrsbilicablog @thedilfdiaries @eff4freddie @missadangel @moel-jiller @sunnytuliptime @queenofdisaster12 @lizzie-cakes @pedrofan @ladywraith @jessthebaker @readingiskeepingmegoing @aleariixx @anoverwhelmingdin @prose-before-hoes

[joyswonderland1108]

“Resident Registration Number? Just Girl Things 🥰”

Imagine this: You're on Tumblr, minding your own business, talking about how Jikook literally enlisted in the military through the BUDDY SYSTEM, which requires mutual trust, shared personal details, and—oh yeah—a whole-ass resident registration number. You're having a cute little delusional moment calling them husbands like we all do every other Tuesday. Life is good.

And then BAM — someone crawls into your replies with:

“Um actually 🤓☝🏻 maybe they just asked each other for their RRN casually?? Stop assuming.”

Stop. Assuming.

Babes. This is Tumblr. Not LinkedIn. Not a tax form. If you're new here, let me be the first to welcome you with a healthy dose of “shut up and let us delulu in peace.”

No one here is officiating Jikook’s wedding. We’re not the registrar general of Seoul. We’re just here, in our safe little corner, screaming into the void because two men who have dealt with IDENTITY THEFT and STALKING trusted each other enough to literally share their government-issued ID numbers and enlist together in the military. And some of you really think we’re gonna sit here and go “hmm let’s not read too much into this”? LMAOOO.

“But other friends have done it too!!”

Yes. And guess what? It was special for them too! Just like every couple who gets married isn’t invalidated by someone else also getting married on the same day. Wild concept, I know. Are we supposed to pretend that nothing means anything unless it’s exclusive to Jikook? Are we not allowed to celebrate anything unless it’s tattooed with “first time in history” and stamped by the Korean government?

Let’s also not forget that there are literal articles and testimonies about how friendships fell apart after applying through the buddy system. People out here shoould be glad they're not using RRNs to blackmail former friends. And yet Jungkook—one of the most private people alive—gave that level of access to Jimin. But you’re mad that I mentionned they know each other's RRNs?

Be serious.

And don’t even get me started on the Jikook Police. Y’all show up with your little badges like:

🚨“Are you making assumptions?” 🚨“Are you being too happy about this moment?” 🚨“Are you enjoying your fandom experience wrong?”

YES. YES, I AM. I’m on Tumblr, not in a court of law. I’m not testifying. I’m vibing. If you want “objective neutral fandom experience,” go to a spreadsheet. Or better yet, go back to Twitter where nuance goes to die.

Let me have my fun. Let us have our moment. Let Jikook share RRNs and soul contracts and half of their closet without you rushing in to say “Actually maybe it's not what you think it is.” You’re not fighting misinformation. You’re just fighting serotonin at this point.

[tocara]

A reader, who doesn't believe in love and then they met Satoru.

Part 5.

They met again after a year and a half.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

A year and a half have passed.

Life moved—slowly, then all at once. You don’t feel like a completely different person, not exactly. But you’re not the same girl who once came home from a condo party aching over a stranger’s smile.

Now, it’s the day of the wedding. The venue glows with warmth, soft laughter, and the hum of music. People swirl past you in pastel dresses and well-fitted suits. You stand by the corner table, fingers grazing the rim of your glass, eyes scanning the crowd without making it obvious that you’re searching for anyone.

You’re not even sure if he’ll be here.

You haven’t dared to ask. Rina never brought him up again—not that she had reason to. You and Satoru only met once. A brief evening a long time ago. One gathering. One hug. That was it.

And yet, when he walks in—your heart clenches like it recognizes him before your mind can catch up.

Taller than you remembered. Maybe not in height, but in presence. Clean-cut in a navy suit, hands tucked casually in his pockets, expression unreadable for a second—until his mouth curves into that same familiar smile.

That smile.

It disarms you all over again.

“Hey,” he says.

You feel your thoughts scatter like loose pages in a gust of wind. But somehow, you manage to meet his eyes. Even if only for a moment.

“Hi,” you reply softly.

That’s all.

No grand reunion. No awkward stammering. Just one word. A fragile thread stretched between you.

And then the others see him. Like a spark has gone off in the room, Rina and the rest of the group swarm in with bright greetings, laughter, arms thrown around shoulders. He’s swept away before another word can be exchanged.

You step back, letting the tide of their reunion pull him away. You stand quietly at the edge, clutching your glass again, pretending not to listen—but your ears catch everything.

The laughter. The stories. The teasing.

“You know, for a while there, I thought you were going to beat Rina to the altar.” someone from the group says it.

He gives a half-smile, casual and unbothered. “Yeah, well. Life had other plans.”

“Wait, what happened?” someone asks. “Didn’t you guys hit five years or something?”

“Almost six,” he says. His voice is light, not bitter. Just final. “We broke up. It’s been… almost half a year now.”

Your world stops.

Those words—“We broke up. It’s been… almost half a year now.”—hit you like a slow-moving wave.

A fragile tremor cracking through something you’ve kept tightly sealed for far too long.

You’re still standing there. Still technically part of the group. But suddenly, you’re not really there.

The noise fades. The chatter dulls.

The wedding, the lights, the laughter—it all feels distant, like you’re watching it through water.

Six months.

That’s enough time for the world to change. Enough time for someone to leave. Enough time for someone else to move on.

But not for you.

Not when you never had anything to begin with. You have no right to feel this way. No reason for your chest to feel like it’s unraveling thread by thread.

But it does.

And the worst part?

You realize you want something.

For so long, you wanted nothing. You drifted through your days like a ghost in your own skin. You made peace, quietly, with being invisible. With letting things pass you by. You never chased anything. Never fought. Never even hoped.

Most days, you simply wished to disappear—softly, without hurting anyone. Without a sound. Just… gone.

But this?

This is the first time you’ve wanted something so badly it aches.

A terrifying, impossible kind of want.

You don’t even know what it means.

Is it love? Obsession? Just a cruel illusion tied to one night and a few gentle memories?

Maybe.

But for once, the weight of uncertainty isn’t enough to stop you.

You don’t expect anything. Not love in return. Not some sweeping, perfect moment.

You just want him to know.

That he made you feel something real. That he made you want to be more.

That somehow, with just one night and a smile that saw through the quiet shell of you, he changed something.

And even if it goes nowhere—

Even if it breaks you—

At least you won’t regret being silent.

Not this time.

[flowercrownsandherondales]

Against the Odds Pt. 22

Buckle in y’all. We are in for a ride. 

XXII: Time is Never TIme At All. 

Haymitch sat me down a few days later, Twyla spending the day with her new favorite person, Peeta, while I watched the recap of the games. 

I had to give it to them, the berries stunt was stupid, but it was brave. 

And it would eventually cost all of us something. 

The train for the Victory Tour would be rounding the corner soon, Haymitch uneasily boarding. Before he left, he’d spent the day repairing and reinstalling the phone in the wall. 

“I need to have a line to communicate with you, case somethin’ goes wrong and you and Twyla have to get to safety.” 

We bid him goodbye a week or so later, big smiles and tearful kisses for the cameras as all three pieces of my heart bounded the train. I held the last piece tight, promising her lots of cookies and sweets if she helped me check on Peeta’s house and the Everdeen’s each day. 

I allowed our TV to play the live footage of the tour as we had dinner each night, Twyla smiling bright at each glimpse of Peeta and Katniss. It went smooth for the most part, Katniss monotone, reciting whatever Effie had trained her to read. Peeta was charming, pulling her in for kisses when he could, laying it on thicker and thicker as they reached more districts. 

Something else was being laid on thicker and thicker the longer they were gone. 

Peacekeepers arrived in droves, hellbent on keeping District 12 in line while we waited for our new victors to return. I had taken Twyla out the day before, and as we trekked by I caught another circle forming around the square, yelps and hollars echoing throughout the district. 

“Momma? What that sound?” My hands shook in hers, flashes of my own time spent on the post reappearing. I had snatched her up after that, practically sprinting us home and bolting the door. We hadn’t left the house since, not even when Twyla begged and screamed to visit Prim and feed Lady. 

Astrid was back to a semi normal state, functioning completely yet still battling moments where her eyes glazed over, lost in a nightmare. Gale had been stopping by to check on them, which eased my mind a bit. 

I waited until Twyla was tucked in bed before calling Haymitch. The peacekeeper presence had me on edge, and I needed to know if something had happened on the tour to cause it. They always were heavy during winter, but it seemed that even the smallest offenses were going noticed. 

“They’re everywhere. There’s talk of public executions too.” Haymitch sighed heavily over the crackle of the cord, something unsaid trapped in his throat. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised. There was an incident in 11. Peeta publicly promised Rue’s family he would donate a portion of their winnings, a few people from the crowd held up three fingers, it got ugly, Y/N. I barely got the kids out before they hauled up a few people to shoot.” I nodded solemnly, nothing I could say without my voice shaking. 

Haymitch just let out a heavy breath. “Just promise me you’ll both stay home. With your track record, I’m not sure I trust you won’t sacrifice yourself again.” That earned a scoff from me, a glimmer of rage bubbling up. He wouldn’t let that one go. 

“I have a daughter to think about, thank you very much.” My voice turned into a sneer before I could stop it, a humorless chuckle coming from the other end of the phone. 

“Yeah yeah. I gotta go, Katniss is pretty shaken up. We’ll be home in two days.” He promised me, allowing the space to stay silent where I love you should be. 

Too risky to say over the phone. 

I allowed Twyla to watch coverage from the Presidential party, indicating the end of the tour. She cooed at the fashion, the bright lights and colors bouncing off her skin as she attempted to critique each person’s outfit. If she lived another life, raised in the Capitol, I might have bragged she’d grow up to be a stylist for the games. 

Once my victors returned things settled into a soft peace. Katniss hunted, Peeta baked, and Haymitch drank. More often than not the blonde boy joined us for dinner, breaking me down until I allowed him to make any of the rolls or desserts. I was secretly relieved as I bit into his newest creation, he had a gift. Katniss didn’t usually stay for dinner, but she could be coaxed to come for coffee once she got done hunting, listening to Tywla go on endlessly about something or other while I tried to tread around what was going on with her and Peeta. 

The winter came harsher than any other. The constant threat kept Haymitch on alert, his usual little grips coming with a rougher edge than usual. A few times I snapped back at him for making Twyla’s lip quiver in tears, our toddler not understanding why her daddy was so upset. 

It all came to a horrible head when Gale was whipped. 

Haymitch had gone to the Hob to grab another bottle, ignoring my pleas for him to try and tone it down. He hadn’t come back for hours, the sun starting to set low when our front door opened. 

I wiped my hands on my apron before ripping it off, anger radiating through my body. He said he’d be back in a few minutes, I’d spent the last few hours answering Twyla a million times as she asked where daddy went, if we could go get him, etc. 

Haymitch’s eyes widened as he took me in, a guilty look taking over his face as he raised a hand to stop me, taking a deep breath. 

“I know. I know, love. Gale Hawthorne was the latest victim of the whipping post. Katniss tried to step in front of him, and Peeta tried to protect her. Fuckin’ mess.” The heat coming off me lessened, my shoulders deflating. 

“He gonna be alright?” I was honestly too scared to ask. The whip had made a mess of me, and I only had a few striked compared to what they were dishing out these days. 

“Yeah, Astrid’s tending to him now. They’re in for a long night.” I nodded. 

“Katniss and Peeta alright?” A half smile pulled the corner of his mouth, muttering something about me being a mama bear. 

“Fine. Katniss has a small strike on her face, but it ain’t nothing she hasn’t felt before. Peeta’s gonna stay with her while they make sure Gale is okay.” I let out the breath I’d been holding. Kids were fine. Husband’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

He opened his arms out, pulling me in. 

“Sorry I was late. Sorry we’ve been fightin’. Been worried something like this would happen.” I answered with a kiss to his jaw, nuzzling my head further into him and drinking in his warmth. 

“It’s alright. I know everything feels like it’s not right now, but we’re okay.” I mumbled into him, earning a nod and kiss to the head, arms squeezing me just an inch tighter. 

“Another Quell is coming up.” Haymitch and I hadn’t spoken about it. The rules changed for a Quarter Quell, as we had both seen first hand. The worry of it was eating me alive. One thing repeated in my head over and over again. 

What if they decide to go younger

Surely it was irrational. There was no way in hell they could throw my now 4 year old in that arena. 

But Snow wasn’t against killing children. Why should he care if they were 8 years younger than normal? 

We got our answer a few weeks later. The snow was just beginning to melt, Gale had healed, and the rift between Peeta and Katniss was starting to look less like a chasm and more like a river. 

The broadcast had interrupted Twyla’s favorite show. Something made for Capitol kids, the actors dressed more insane than they normally did. 

“Mommy, where’s my show?” She pouted, arms crossed over her chest as she willed the TV to turn back. Our girl had finally gotten sentences down, even if they were small. 

Haymitch paled when the President’s face took over the screen. He went through the importance of having one, reminding citizens why they sent their children to the slaughterhouse. 

This year's tributes will be selected from the existing pool of victors. 

No one in the house moved an inch. 

Haymitch stood, letting out a guttural sound before tossing his bottle at the hologram TV, the glass passing through it and shattering on impact. 

Twyla started to scream, terrified for the first time in her life of her father’s actions. Fat tears rolled down her chubby cheeks, eyes red and looking for protection. 

“Haymitch…” I whispered, hands starting to shake as I took slow steps towards my daughter, scooping her up in one quick motion and rubbing her back. Her hands latched onto my shirt, sobs continuing to ricochet through the house. 

My husband crumpled on the couch, hands fisted in his hair, forearms on his knees and he rocked himself back and forth. 

I wordlessly left the room, letting him have a moment to break down while I soothed Twyla. 

“Mommy, why is daddy upset?” she asked as I tucked her in, smoothing her hair back and humming softly. 

How do you explain to a four year old that her father might have to fight her older sister to the death?

“He might have to go back to the Capitol for a while. That’s all, baby. He just doesn’t want to leave us again.” 

She took a minute to take in what I said, hugging her stuffed bear he’d gotten her from the Capitol tighter to her chest. Her room was filled with small trinkets Haymitch picked up for her when he went, stuffed animals in all different colors, dolls, even an elaborate house I couldn’t think about him carrying around without laughing my ass off. 

“Daddy’s gonna come home, right?” I nodded instantly, not allowing myself to think otherwise.

“Doesn’t he always? He’d never leave us, you know that.” My reassurance was barely there, anxiety crawled through my stomach at the thought of lying to her. 

One day I’d explain it all. I just hoped Haymitch held my hand while I did. 

I didn’t read a book to her that night, instead leaving a few kisses in her hair and shutting off the lights, standing in the doorway just a little longer than normal to ensure she was fast asleep. I didn’t typically shut the door, keeping it mostly cracked in case she had a nightmare or needed us. Tonight though, I shut it firmly, not wanting her to wake up to her father and I crying in the living room. 

Hushed voices filled our living room. Haymitch’s voice sounded resigned, though I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The other voice was softer, but much more confident. 

“Please Haymitch, you have to make sure she makes it out. She has so much more here than I do.” 

Peeta Mellark was begging my husband to save Katniss’s life. 

I stopped on the stairs, straining to hear Haymitch’s response. 

He just sighed, a dark and harsh thing. 

“I’ll do what I can, kid. If it’s me, I don’t want you pulling any stupid shit. All I ask is that you take care of Twyla and Y/N. She’s gonna need help, you can’t let her… end herself over me.” 

I clamped a hand over my mouth before the sob could escape. I didn’t know when I started crying, heavy tears streaming down my face as it hit me. 

I was going to lose them. I was going to lose at least one of them if I was lucky. Katniss, Peeta, Haymitch. A russian roulette to see who gets the bullet. Who leaves me behind. 

Peeta didn’t stay long after that, opting to go home and try to sleep his predetermined fate away. 

“I know you’re there, sweetpea. C’mere.” Haymitch’s voice was so dejected, yet so gentle. As if he were coaxing a frightened kitten out of hiding. 

I slinked down the stairs, taking a good look at my husband. His hair was a mess, falling limply towards his shoulders. Shirt rumpled, bottle in hand. His stubble had grown back since he’d returned from the Victory Tour, making him all the more handsome. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there when we met again. He was the most beautiful, most precious thing I’d ever seen. 

My knees hit the ground before I could process I was dropping. I buried my face in my hands, the raw grief of it all flushing through my system like a tidal wave. 

“Oh honey, my baby, I’m so sorry.” Haymitch croaked, his own voice filling with the same emotions I felt as he crawled towards me, enveloping me in his strong arms. 

“I–I can’t… I cannot l-oose you.” I blubbered, my sobs turning to wails that he tried to quiet. 

“Shh, you ain’t gonna lose me.” he soothed, hands soft against my back as he attempted to calm me. 

“How am I gonna– I mean what will I— I can’t do it again. How do I even… Twyla can’t.” My breaths felt sharper in my chest, the air being squeezed out more and more as I worked myself up to a frenzy. He pulled back, hands still firm on my shoulder blades, tear tracks running down his face. 

“In and out, Y/N. In and out. It’s all gonna be okay. You aren’t gonna raise Twyla by yourself, not if I have any say in it. Just take some breaths for me, okay?” I followed his breathing, laying a hand on his chest to match his inhales and exhales. 

I wasn’t sure how long it took me to calm down, exhaustion slamming into me like a truck. 

“I need you to hear me, Y/N. You are not going to raise another child by yourself. Our daughter will not be sent to the arena. Everything is going to be absolutely fine, I just need you to trust me.” His voice was barely above a whisper, eyes searching mine with a certain finality I didn’t understand. 

“What do you mean?” He just shook his head, pressing a finger to his lips. Something was happening, something he knew about with more certainty I hadn’t seen in years. A glimmer of something, hope. 

And I wasn’t allowed to know. 

The door creaked open again, Katniss moving like a dead man walking, stopping in her tracks once she saw us on the floor. 

“Y/N?” she breathed, taking in my devastating state. I opened my arms as I so often did, letting her crumple into them. I held her to my chest, rocking us softly back and forth on hardwood. Another set of arms came to wrap around the both of us, Haymitch deciding to break his facade with her for just a moment to offer his girls some comfort. 

Before Katniss could say anything, he stopped her. 

“Peeta’s going to be fine. He was just here.” Instead of looking at him, she moved her head up to look at me, eyes filling with tears. 

“I… you can’t.” Her voice was broken, whimpering. 

“We’ll do what we have to do.” was all my husband said, going back to holding us tight to him, everyone taking a moment to grieve. 

The reaping came quicker than I could ever be ready for. 

I spent all of my time keeping my family as close as humanly possible. I somehow convinced Katniss to let me accompany her while she hunted a few times a week. I baked with Peeta, shutting him down when he offered to write down recipes. Trying to give me something to remember him by. I spent any spare moment wrapped up in Haymitch, breathing him in as if I could install him into my own body, into every cell that made me human. 

We got ready in complete silence. My shaky hands braided Twyla’s hair in two, running my hands over the cotton of her dress. Haymitch zipped mine for me, motioning me to sit as he clasped my shoes together, then Twyla’s. It was filled with small touches between the three of us, memorizing our family unit as it had been, preparing for what it might become. 

Our daughter was quiet all morning, as if she unconsciously knew what was about to happen. 

He kept us close as we walked to the square, taking a deep breath and dropping kisses all over Twyla’s face. Once he was done he pulled me into him, kissing my lips like I was the only source of air left on Earth. I kissed back ten times harder. 

Effie Trinket was dressed in a yellow butterfly number, looking regal as always. I caught her hands shaking as she reached into the bowl, calling off the girls first. 

Or rather, one girl. 

Katniss stood as straight as she could, stepping forward. 

And now for the boys, Haymitch Abernathy. 

My chest tightened. Twyla tugged on my dress. 

“Mommy, does that mean daddy has to go?” she whispered, eyes on her father. I did a brief nod, attempting to keep a scream at bay. 

I volunteer as tribute. 

Peeta Mellark, one of the kindest and most gentle boys I had ever known, stepped forward, much to Haymitch’s protest. 

“I can’t let you do that.” He tried. 

“You can’t stop me.” and with that we had our tributes. 

Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen. 

Haymitch looked helpless, shoulders slumping as he caught me in the crowd. I didn’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or let out an ear piercing yell.

But there was one thing I could do. 

I brought three fingers to my lips, a kiss filled with all the love I had for my two kids. All the broken dreams, the broken future. 

And I raised my hand. 

Haymitch looked absolutely terrified. His mouth was moving, no, no, stop, no. I stayed focused on Katniss, who looked ready to collapse. The crowd around me raised their hands in unison. 

And then the peacekeepers came to drag them away. 

Katniss yelled for Prim, for me. Haymitch looked ready to throw a punch, “I need to say goodbye to my wife and child. Get your fucking hands off me.” His growls of protest went completely unheard.  

I sent him a small smile. He was safe, he’d come back to me. 

Even if I wasn’t here when he did. 

[rickktish]

unpopular opinion on tumblrstake:

the abortion question (at least as far as the world goes) comes down to the question of whose agency is more important: the mother's or the child's

pro-lifers believe the child's agency(life) is more important than the mother's life

pro-choicers believe the mother's agency is more important than the child's life

both of these solutions are bad actually! and i'd even go so far as to say that they are equally bad, because ACCORDING TO MORMON THEOLOGY, the mother and the child are equal as children of god!!

the church policy elder anderson was going over was actually the church's solution to this moral dilemma: if you chose to have sex (were not raped, because rape is NOT A CHOICE on the victim's part), and if you got pregnant as a result of that choice, then the moral choice to make is to carry the baby so long as 1) it will not put your life or health at risk and 2) the baby is not going to die shortly after birth anyway. This way the agency of the mother (the choice to have sex, REMEMBER THAT ABORTION IS NOT LOOKED DOWN UPON IN CASES OF RAPE) is fulfilled because it is her agency alongside her partner's which has led to the conception of this child, and the agency of the child (who, if you will recall, the church views as a fully realized person waiting for a physical body to be able to enact their god-given right to life and agency) is not violated.

And the important thing about anderson's talk is that if you do or have made the choice to get an abortion due to reasons other than rape, incest, or medical need, IT IS NOT THE END. It was NOT the morally correct choice, but that does not mean that you are cast out! You can repent. You might need to let go of some things to be willing to accept that there is a need for repentance (looks pointedly at the talk chatter where people were going off about how terrible Anderson was for talking about elective abortion being morally wrong) but repentance is always there. Christ will never turn you away.

[pseudowho]

"Oh! Kento-- wait-- please please please--"

Kento turned back on the bustling Tokyo street, the night bullied away by neon signs, light pollution, and the pollution of the wayward drunken laughers. He only came on staff nights out, now, because you'd be there. He peered at you, tie-loose, hair-mussed and bleary, as you knelt in front of a Gacha machine. You rummaged in your purse for a coin.

Kento grunted, smirking, and reached into his clinking pocket, swaying back to you with liquor-rusted words.

"You're drunk. Here--"

"A-ha!" You birthed a 500 yen coin from your purse, triumphant, and Kento felt childishly disappointed that he couldn't pay for your inebriation treat for you. He watched you fumble the coin into the Gacha machine, and turn the wheel, crank, crank, cranking until there sounded a hollow tok, and a skrrr-skrrr-skrrr, tok.

The Gacha pod landed in the dispenser. You gasped, biting your lip in sweet anticipation, and looking up at Kento. He could barely contain himself from his own adoration, wanting nothing more than to reach down and grasp your plush cheeks and press his lips to yours and taste the drink off your tongue and--

"Kiss, Kento."

Kento frog-blinked, wondering if he'd spoken such impurities aloud, and opened his mouth to apologise. But he paused again, leaning down over you, knelt on the pavement, where you held the Gacha pod up to him, and repeated yourself, ditzy-drunk.

"Kiss it, Kento. For luck. For me."

Self-conscious, and grumbling in a way that only deepened your grin, Kento leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to the Gacha pod as you laughed. He straightened up, looking up and down the street to see if anyone saw, his vision a few seconds slower than his mind, wading through whiskey.

Heat rose up Kento's neck, and he opened his mouth again to suggest something stupid like why don't you come back to mine for another drink and--

"Awww, damn! This one again!" Kento looked down at you, owlish and inquisitive. You held up a little keychain, with a disappointed half-smile on your lips. You grimaced up at him, shrugging.

"That was my last shot I think. This line discontinues next week. Never mind." You tapped the front of the Gacha machine, stroking the green image of the one you were after, wistful.

Kento pulled you to your feet, and you linked your arm through his, swaying down the street together. Kento swallowed hard, wishing you were on his back, but instead blurted out;

"I'm sorry my kiss wasn't lucky enough."

You sighed, pensive, swinging your keychain on one finger.

"I'm sure they're plenty lucky. Just, maybe not for me."

Kento barely registered your words, distracted and glancing back down the street at the flashing Gacha machine, growing ever more distant.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Between lessons a few days later, you crept into your office to dump essays on your desk, and snatch five minutes of peace. Settling your mug down, you saw the glimmer of brightly coloured plastic on the centre of your keyboard.

You blinked, curious, before a smile of realisation broke out across your face. A Gacha pod. You recalled, with your cheeks growing hot, how you had begged Kento for his lucky kiss, and how he hadn't corrected you when you told him that his lucky kisses would only be lucky for another girl. You felt a sting of humiliation...

...but, nobody else could have left this gift. Taking a deep breath, and pressing your lips to the pod (unknowingly stealing a kiss that had already been left there for you), you cracked it open-- and squealed with delight, ecstatic and fizzing with joy, to find your collection completed in the eleventh hour.

Later, at the first ring of the lunchtime bell, you knocked on the door to Kento's office. No answer. You knocked again, and gently opened the door, peering round and calling out.

"Kento...?"

Still, no answer. You crept in, closing the door behind you. His office was empty, his desk sparse and functional as always, not wanting to turn his desk into anything that would suggest he thought of work as home. The cupboard on his desk, was, however, straining at its latch, wonky at the closing seam from something stuffed inside.

Curious once more, you stroked the bursting seam of the cupboard, and undid the latch.

A veritable ball-pit burst forth over the office, with Gacha pods of yellow and red and orange and pink and blue and purple and black and white and--

--and every colour, except for green. Dozens and dozens of Gacha pods...except, for green. That one, you held in your purse. You swallowed hard, blinking back tears, and collected Gacha after Gacha, from beneath cupboards and radiators, rolled to all four corners of Kento's office.

Setting to work, you sat cross-legged on the floor, emptying the pods of their keychains one by one. Thousands and thousands of yen tallied before your eyes, and the plain, unassuming desk behind you said nothing of your coworker's secret obsession. And how he couldn't face you. And how you would never have known.

You sat in silence, with a lap full of empty Gacha pods, and listening to the birds singing songs of summer outside the window. You thought, and thought, and thought. You ripped pages from your notebook, tearing them to shreds, and set to work once more. By the time you were finished, the lunch bell rang again. You crammed the final Gacha back into the cupboard.

You could only wait, and hope.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The warm summer rain started as evening began to roll in. You looked out of the Bistro window from your table for two, your belly twisted with nerves. Your green prize was clasped in your hand, a lucky charm; one earned with far more luck than a simple kiss could give.

You heard the jangling of a bell behind you. You dared not look up, instead just listening-- slow, familiar footsteps. The rattling clunk of a tote bag being placed before you, filled with Gacha pods. The rustle of a stack of carefully unfolded little notes, all with one word on; 'tomorrow'. 'Café'. 'You'. 'Me'. '8pm.'

"You broke into my cupboard."

You pursed the smile between your lips, your eyes closing with the silken chastisement, made without venom. Kento's cologne washed over you as he sat on the chair opposite, removing his glasses in a way that softened his face completely, looking at his lap with a smile. When he looked up at you, it was with a love so unapologetic that you could have cried.

You felt your nose stinging again, and set your green Gacha prize on the table between the two of you. Sheets of rain washed down the Bistro windows, and you cleared your throat, your voice cracking.

"This is quite the prize."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Kento! I'm home!"

You dumped your shoes and bag at the door, padding into the living room on bare feet. Kento leaned away from the stove, twirling spaghetti, and offering you the smiles he offered nobody else. He anticipated you, as your mouth opened.

"--yes, I went to the Gachapon. They're on the sofa. Pre-kissed."

You gasped in delight, in the same way you had that night, and bounced onto the sofa, two Gacha leaping with you.

"Two?" You cried, to his shrug, "I only said one-- you can't keep funding my habit, Kento--"

"I'm sure one would have been fine. But, just in case."

You barely registered Kento stepping over to you in his apron, with two steaming bowls, so focused were you on cracking open your Gacha pods. Taking a deep breath, you undid the wrapper...and cheered, your arms flinging into the air.

"Your kisses really are lucky, Kento, gosh...well, one more, then, I--"

You had cracked open the final Gacha. A ring tumbled into your hand, and your brain short-circuited. You trembled, rolling it around in your palm. The two halves of the pod clattered to the floor, forgotten. Your vision swam, and you sniffled, and looked up.

Kento had dipped onto one knee before you, aproned and still, with two bowls of pasta In his hands. In the crucial moment, he seemed anxious. He cleared his throat, his voice thickening.

"I would...like to fund your habit for the rest of our lives. If you'll have me."

A laugh bubbled through your tears, and you wiped your cheeks, allowing Kento to slide the ring into place on your finger. You held his broad hand in serene silence, time standing still, before you spoke.

"...so this ring is just...just one in the collection, right? Wait-- no, Kento, COME BACK, PLEASE-- I'M JUST FUCKING WITH YOU--"

[yieldtotemptation]

PYTHON ft. Danielle

danielle x male reader smut

17k words

“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”

“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”

“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”

You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.

Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.

Accidents—yeah right. 

Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it. 

“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.

She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.

“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”

—

(Okay, okay, okay.

You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.

But maybe consider the following points:

1)      You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;

2)      Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and

3)      If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.

Counterpoint:

She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)

 —

Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her. 

You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.

The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.

“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”

No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.

Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.

“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.

To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.

“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.

At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.

Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—

Fuck.

Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—

Again. Fuck.

“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.

“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.

“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”

That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.

It’s eerily intimate.

Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.

(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)

There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.

And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.

But it tries it’s best. You do too.

You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.

“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”

You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”

Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”

No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.

Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.

You hardly trust yourself at the moment.

“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”

Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.

Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.

(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)

—

(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”

“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.

“Dani.”

“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”

There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”

And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.

So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.

That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.

All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)

—

“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.

Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.

Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.

She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”

You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”

Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”

“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.

“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”

“She said what?”

She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”

“M-M-A. I do MMA.”

“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”

“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”

“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”

“I’m very straight.”

Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”

She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.

All perfectly normal.

Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.

Erase that thought.

“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.

You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?

It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.

The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.

“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”

It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.

She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.

“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.

Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.

Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—

“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”

Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”

“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”

You sigh, “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”

Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.

Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.

That’s all.

She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?

Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.

“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”

You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.  

Correction—your room.

But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.

Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.

—

(You really should’ve seen this coming.

Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.

Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.

You read them, pretend to ignore them.

You choose not to reply.

She chooses to start sending photos.)

—

It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.

She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?

You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.

Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.

It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.

The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.

She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.

“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”

“What?” —the fuck.

“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”

“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—

You shake your head, clearing the fog.

"Not going there."

Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"

“Anywhere. With you.”

“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"

“Danielle—”

“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”

Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.

But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”

And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”

“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”

“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”

Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.

Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.

The towel holds on for dear life.

—

It all goes to shit in a matter of days.

Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.

Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.

(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)

Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.

She wants you, badly.

You want her too.

It’s all you think about.

So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.

You know he’s right.

And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.

You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.

You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.

No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.

A moan from down the hall.

Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.

You push open your door.

Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.

Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.

Crying out your name.

It’s game over.

Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.

Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.

“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.

Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.

You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.

You shouldn’t look.

You should turn around.

You should do anything but stay.

But you don’t.

You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.

Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”

She keeps going.

One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.

The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.

But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.

Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.

And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.

Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same. 

“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.

She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.

“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.

“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.

“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”

You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.

Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”

And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”

Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”

You repeat. “Stop.”

She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”

“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.

Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.

“Stop and let me.”

Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”

You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.

Nothing like this.

Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.

Make her come apart in your fucking hands.

The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”

You start small.

A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.

She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.

You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.

“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”

A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.

“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.

But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.

Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.

Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.

She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.

Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.

“Right—yes—fuck!”

Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.

Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.

All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”

“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.

It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.

And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.

“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”

“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”

And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.

You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.

Fuck that.

Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”

The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.

“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.

“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”

“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.

“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”

You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.

“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."

“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

A barely there—“Me?”

“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”

“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”

“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.

But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.

“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.

You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.

“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.

Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.

You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.

Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—

She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.

“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.

And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.

“This is—this is too much—"

Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.

“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"

You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.

You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.

And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.

“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”

For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.

Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.

Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—

“Daddy!”

There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.

The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.

It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.

“You’re fucking—yes!”

You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.

A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.

Danielle exhales.

Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.

Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.

“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.

“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.

Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”

And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.

Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.

You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.

Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.

But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.

“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.

She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.

“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.

Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.

She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”  

—

(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.

A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?

The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.

She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.

Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.

It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.

You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.

Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.

Fuck it.

It’s as good a time to drink as any.)

—

You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.

Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.

Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.

The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.

Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.

It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.

And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.

And you hate that you miss her.

Hate that you’re calling her.

She answers.

“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.

You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”

“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.

“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”

There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."

"You're drunk too?"

"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."

“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.

Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”

You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.

You still remember how they felt against your lips.

“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—

There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.

No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.

“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”

Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”

“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”

“I always look good.”

“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”

“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”

“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”

It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”

Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”

“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”

Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.

Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:

“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.

You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”

“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.

Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.

It’s what she wants.

“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”

Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”

It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.

And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Show me.”

There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.

Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.

It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.

Fuck.

Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”

A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.

It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”

And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—

“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.

But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.

“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”

“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”

“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”

“Sweet cunt.”

“You would know.”

You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”

“Dani, please.”

“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”

Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”

“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”

Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”

You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.

There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.

Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.

Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated,  and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”

“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”

Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”

A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”

The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”

This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.

“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”

“Was never much a secret.”

“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

One word and she fucking loves it.  

“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”

“God!”

“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”

Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.

“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”

“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”

It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”

“You’d pull my hair too, right?”

“You wouldn’t have a choice.”

Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.

But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.

With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.

She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.

How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.

She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.

She’s just dying for release. For your permission.

“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”

“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.

She follows without question.

Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.

Fucking God, she cums hard.

You do too.

You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.

Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Cum for me please, Daddy!”

Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.

A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.

And then it’s over.

You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.

Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.

The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.

Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“When?”

“As soon as I fucking can.”

 —

(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.

The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.

It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.

And then the escalation.

Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?

Reciprocate.

Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.

And fuck, you do look.

And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.

One word.

Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.

Tomorrow.)

—

It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.

Danielle's here again.

She’s fucking back.

And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.

But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.

Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.

There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.

“You’re late.”

You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”

And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”

She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”

She’s too real now.

In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.

You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.

And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.

You do.

A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.

You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”

She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”

You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”

“Then show me.”

So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.

A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.

Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.

“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”

“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”

You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.

Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.

“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”

You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.

“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.

And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.

“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”

You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”

To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”

You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”

“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”

But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.

Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.

But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.

And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.

It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”

“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.” 

Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”

That’s an unfair callback.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.

You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.

"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”

Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”

“And pull your hair.”

“Then go ahead and do it.”

But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.

Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”

She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.

All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.

She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.

“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.

Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.

“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”

A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.

Her moan.

You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.

So fucking nice.

“God—fuck—finally—”

Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.

Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.

It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.

She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.

It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”

A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.

“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”

You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”

“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.

“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”

Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.

Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”

And then just—

“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”

But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.

Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.

It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.

Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”

A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.

“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.

So you give her another.

A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.

And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.

Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.

“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"

You smack her again.

And again.

And again.

Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.

It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.

Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.

There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.

“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.

You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.

You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”

And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.

“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”

It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.

But she’s wrong.

You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.

“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

Locked in place, cumming.

Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.

And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.

She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.

But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.

You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.

“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.

Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.

“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.

There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.

Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.

“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.

Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”

She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.

So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.

Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.

“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.

“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”

She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.

“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”

Yeah.

Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.

Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.

You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.

And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”

“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.

Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.

It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.

Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.

She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”

Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.

Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.

“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.

“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”

“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.

It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.

Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.

And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.

You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.

Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.

“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.

“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”

Christ, this is going to become a problem.

You can never go back.

Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.

To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.

“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”

“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now—just—cum!”

Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.

She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.

You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.

But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

You do hear your name.

“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”

She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.

Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"

Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.

Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.

And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.

Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.

Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.

Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.

And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.

But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.

You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.

“Told you we’d be perfect together.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

"I said that."

"And yet here I am, voice still intact."

You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

Anything to keep her here.

Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.

You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”

Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”

—

Again, there’s the kiss.

Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.

And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.

You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.

She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."

"Really?"

Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."

And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.

Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.

"Of course, I'll remember that."

"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."

Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"

Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."

"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."

"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."

"Even more than you already are?"

Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"

And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.

To the winner, goes the spoils.

Everything she wants, everything she needs.

With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.

She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.

“At least let a girl earn it first.”

And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.

Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.

“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”

[navybrat817]

I'll Be Okay

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: When Bucky accidentally harms you, he questions whether or not he's worthy of you and your love.

Word Count: Over 3.7k

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, accidental injury (small cut), mention of blood, mention of past injuries (not reader's), slight canon divergence (aftermath of torture, PTSD), self-loathing, angst, insecurities, feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: This idea hit me and here we are! The quote is a partial lyric change from "I'll Be OK" by Nothing More. Thanks to @yenzys-lucky-charm and @starlightcrystalline for their help. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky had an established routine before he went to bed each night. Screen time stopped an hour before he went to sleep so his mind and body could start to wind down. He changed into his pajamas, washed his face, and brushed his teeth. He read for fifteen minutes, nothing too intense or emotional since heavy topics would make his mind start to race again. The last thing he did were deep breathing exercises, imagining relaxing scenes as he inhaled, exhaled, and released the tension in his body.

Relaxing into the mattress, he smiled to himself. It took him some time to get accustomed to it, but he was glad he gave it a chance since he was determined to make his bedroom a safe haven. It took time and effort, but it worked. The atmosphere was relaxing and soothing. The blackout curtains helped him embrace the darkness since it was darkness of his choice. He hadn’t slept on the floor in months. He felt a sense of peace.

“Night,” you yawned.

It was difficult to see you in the pitch-black room, but he smiled more when he heard your heartbeat. The perfume you wore earlier today still lingered on your skin. Your hand touched his and he felt that sense of peace all over again.

The two of you started dating almost a year ago, short enough that it still felt new but also long enough that he felt comfortable. He didn't feel the need to hide his thoughts or feelings from you and you understood when he had his bad days. You were so patient, so caring. You were everything he wanted and nothing he deserved.

You didn't start spending the night until you hit the six-month mark. It worried him the first night because even sex didn’t disrupt his routine, and he didn’t want that to bother you. Just like you supported him in everything else, you were more than happy to support his evening habits. You even took a page from his book and started cutting out your screen time early so it wouldn’t disturb him. You were thoughtful like that, and he considered himself a lucky guy to have someone like you.

Especially when it came to his nightmares.

You were gentle and calm whenever he woke up from a nightmare, never trying to wake him abruptly and risk causing further distress. Respecting boundaries was something you both cultivated, so you never forced or pushed him to talk about his experiences or what he dreamed about. When he did, you listened without judgement and didn't dismiss his concerns or fears. No matter what, you were quick to offer comfort and help him get back to sleep or stay awake with him.

For all his crimes, he somehow ended up with a wonderful and understanding partner.

“Night,” he whispered into the darkness, pressing a kiss to your temple.

It didn’t take you long to fall asleep, your breathing steady. Closing his eyes, he slid his hand under his pillow and instinctively closed his hand around the small knife handle. His eyes opened immediately, his next breath caught in his throat. Why did he have his knife there?

Sleeping with a knife had been a coping mechanism and he typically did so on missions, but he tried to let it go at home once you started sleeping over. Tightening his grip, he remembered he had it there the night before because you had to sleep at your apartment. He swore he moved it to the nightstand before you came over. Did he… Shit, did he mean to do that and forget about it?

As much as his memory improved, he still had moments of forgetfulness. A likely permanent side effect thanks to the years of torture. It was one of the reasons why he liked having a routine. It helped him cope as well as improved his memory thanks to the repeated steps. Making lists helped, too.

“I’m safe. She’s safe,” he whispered.

The debate of having weapons in the bedroom was a tough choice since it was meant to be a safe space. He wanted to have weapons nearby for protection, but also wanted them far away in case something triggered him. He convinced himself that one knife was okay. One knife wouldn't hurt him.

But after his last nightmare, he didn’t think it was a good idea to have a knife under the pillow.

It had been a rough night, one of the roughest he could recall in ages. Surrounded by his demons and sins, he felt utterly alone. It was better that way. No one else should ever hear the agony or see the twisted horrors in his head. It was for an audience of one. But, still, he fought. He tried.

And his hand moved.

Bucky had been on autopilot, wanting desperately to fully wake himself up. His body tried to protect him while his mind continued to cling to his neverending nightmare. He just needed to open his eyes and be free for one more day.

He had sat up with a gasp, this haze in his mind finally lifting. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I go by Bucky,” he panted to remind himself that he wasn’t dreaming. “I was born on March 17th, 1917. I’m in my bed, and I’m holding a knife.”

He had been holding a knife.

And he sliced through the sheet where you would’ve been laying.

He barely made it to the toilet before he wretched. He had nightmares of you being tortured, your screams driving him to the brink of insanity when he wanted so desperately to save you. There were nightmares, too, where outside forces made him inflict pain on you. He swore he’d never harm you. If you had been asleep beside him… It made him sick all over again.

Which was why he tried not to sleep with a knife in bed anymore.

Carefully slipping his hand out from under the pillow, he kept an ear out for you. He didn’t want to risk waking or jolting you. He just had to put the knife away so he could cuddle with you and get some much needed rest.

But some higher being or life itself enjoyed messing with Bucky Barnes.

You rolled from your back to your side the second his hand moved through the air. He was fast, should’ve been faster, but it didn’t stop the blade from slicing your skin before he could pull his hand back. He knew the second you woke up, a startled and pained cry escaping. No… no.

He dropped the knife on the nightstand with a shaky hand and turned on the light. The first thing he saw was your face scrunched in pain as you sat up in bed and examined your arm. The crimson drew his attention next because he knew your body better than he knew his own and there shouldn't be a cut there… or blood. There shouldn't be pain etched on your beautiful face.

For a split second, Bucky thought he was having a nightmare. He wanted it to be a nightmare, didn't want it to be real, but the cry he heard wasn't in his head. It wasn't a dream.

It was a living nightmare.

“What did I do?” His voice shook. Tears stung his eyes.

God, what did he do?

Your lips moved, but he felt like he was hearing the words underwater. “Bucky? Did you have a nightmare? Are you okay?”

You were asking if he was okay?

“Oh, my God.” he whispered in horror, his eyes wide. “I…” He cut you. He hurt you. Something he vowed to never do. “I’m sorry. Fuck. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you tried to assure him, clutching your arm closer like you were trying not to get blood on the sheets. “It was an accident.”

“It’s not okay!” he said, trying not to raise his voice. Frightening you was the last thing he wanted to do. “Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry,” he said, carefully rounding the bed and making sure he kept himself in your line of sight. “I-I didn't mean to. I was trying to move it to the nightstand. I thought I put it back.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you assured him, showing him the small wound. “But I need your help.”

He tried not to panic, but his heart wouldn't stop racing and his next breath felt ragged. “I…”

How could you possibly want his help? He was no longer the Winter Soldier, yet he was still a weapon who destroyed everything he touched. He fooled himself into believing that you were the exception, but look what he did? Your beautiful skin might have a scar now because of him, a constant reminder that he brought nothing but pain and destruction.

“Bucky, please,” you whispered, slowly lifting your hand. You let it hover near his cheek, silently asking for permission, the way you always did after he had a bad dream. He allowed himself to lean in, selfishly accepting it and taking from you the way he always took from you. “Help me.”

He dared to look in your eyes with the hope of centering himself and prayed he wouldn't see fear or disgust. There was none, only trust and love when you looked back at him. It was enough to push the panic away. He could be upset later. Right now he had to take care of you and fix his mistake.

“Okay,” he breathed.

He took your arm with infinite tenderness to examine it and blinked away the mist in his eyes. The cut, thankfully, didn’t look jagged or deep. It was a clean cut. In fact, it looked superficial compared to the damage it could've done. It still had to hurt since a sharp blade sliced your skin and there was still blood.

A wounded sound left Bucky’s lips when his gaze flickered up and he spotted a tear slide down your cheek. As if he had any right to make a sound like that when he caused you pain. The angel that you were, you offered him a soft smile. Any other night your voice and smile would’ve soothed him, but he didn't deserve that tonight. He didn't deserve comfort. He was unworthy of it, unworthy of any of your kindness or care.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” he said, his voice rough. He wasn't a doctor by any stretch of the imagination, but he certainly experienced enough of his own cuts and stitched up enough wounds to know. “Can I carry you to the bathroom?”

Logically, he knew you were capable of walking there on your own, but he wanted to hold you. Make himself useful. You must've sensed it since you nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

Picking you up in his arms, he felt numb as he carried you. Why couldn’t he have accidentally cut himself instead? He experienced plenty of wounds, and had plenty of scars. What was one more?

He took a second to breathe in your scent before he set you on the edge of the tub, worried he might not smell it again if you decided to leave for the rest of the night. “I need to apply pressure to it,” he said, saying the steps out loud for both of you as he washed his hands and grabbed the first aid kit. “Once the bleeding stops, I can clean it.”

You nodded, keeping your arm elevated. “Okay,” you said, your gaze going to his shaking hands. “Deep breath, Bucky.”

Breathing in slowly and releasing it, he willed himself to stop shaking. He didn’t realize the metal arm could shake, but it made sense since it was an extension of himself. Avoiding your gaze as he pressed the gauze to your wound, his teeth snapped together when he heard the wince you tried not to let out. As if he didn’t hate himself enough for the damage he’d done, you were trying to be brave and strong for him.

Once the bleeding stopped, he turned the water on. The sight of the red on the gauze made his stomach turn since it was your blood. “Soap and water next.”

You offered him a small smile again while he cleaned it, but he couldn’t smile back. “The cut doesn't look bad at all. Barely a scratch,” you mused once he finished and grabbed the tweezers. “What are those for?”

“It was a small blade,” he said, swallowing hard. “I know it isn’t a deep cut, but I’m just making sure there isn’t anything in it. We don’t want it to get infected.” Both of you kept the bedroom clean and he also took great care of his knives, but that didn’t mean dust or something else didn’t seep its way in.

You nodded again, letting him do what he needed to before he applied petroleum jelly. “That helps with the healing, right?”

His heart turned over. You were keeping him talking and not allowing his mind to slip into a dark place. “That’s right. I know you’re not a big fan of the word ‘moist’, but, well, keeping it moist helps,” he said, putting the bandage on. You wrinkled your nose, something he usually found adorable. Seeing you do it now, he wanted to cry. “I think that should do it. Do you… need anything for the pain?”

“You did a great job,” you smiled gently, which only made his heart ache more. “I don't need anything, but thank you for asking.”

“You sure you aren't being stubborn?” he tried to tease.

Cuts and bruises, he could handle those. Things like aspirin didn't do anything for him anyway thanks to the serum. What about you? What if your arm ached?

You laughed a little. “If I do need something, you'll be the first to know.”

You looked past your arm into the tub. He looked, too, watching the last trace of blood go down the drain. Or maybe he imagined it. The last time he came back from a bad mission, you helped him wash his hair and wipe away the remaining blood and dirt. You made him feel clean again as every speck disappeared. And what had he given you in return?

What good was he?

“Are you okay?” he barely whispered. God, he wanted you to be okay.

“I am,” you answered without hesitation, turning his face toward you. “Seriously, Bucky. It’s just a scratch, and it was an accident.”

“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” he said, pulling away from your touch. He feared he’d taint you if you kept touching him. “And you shouldn’t have to put up with me.”

You inhaled so sharply he thought you’d choke on your breath. “I don’t put up with you. I love you.”

How could your love break his heart?

Emotions whirled inside him as he sank to the cold floor. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared off with vacant eyes. Faces of the people he harmed and killed over the years passed in his mind. Blaming him. Telling him he didn't deserve you.

He didn't, did he?

He didn’t see you move to the floor beside him, but he felt your presence. It was his job to comfort you, make you feel better. Instead he began to shut down. He didn’t want to. Why was he allowing himself to go under?

“Bucky?” you asked after a few minutes passed.

His good and his bad days, you always stayed beside him. But you had to be afraid of him now, right? He wouldn’t blame you if you were. He also wouldn’t blame you if you never trusted him again.

“One of the happiest days of my life was when you and I started dating. Luck was finally on my side,” he said, remembering the smile on your face when he asked you to go out with him. He was on cloud nine when you said yes. “And then you eventually started sleeping over and I thought my luck was continuing to turn around.” He laughed a watery laugh. “I was going to ask you to move in with me soon.”

You placed your hand over his, not wanting to interrupt, but wanting him to know that you were listening and taking in every word.

“But I lied to you. I said I’d never hurt you and I did,” he said, biting his lip to the point where he almost drew blood. “You were the one person I was supposed to protect and take care of and…” He whimpered, doing his damnedest not to sob. “I can’t even protect you from myself.”

He couldn't even blame a nightmare for what he did because it was all him.

“You do protect and take care of me. You do it every single day,” you said. If he could see himself through your eyes, he’d believe it. “You're my hero.”

He finally looked at you and he didn't stop you from holding his face in your hands. How could he be your hero when felt like a villain? “Take care of you? Look what I did to your arm.” Tonight was a small cut and an accident, truly, but would if one day he did something worse? He still feared the day something triggered him and he went after the ones he loved the most.

You barely gave your arm a glance, like it didn't bother you at all. “That wasn't done on purpose. I would never hold something like that over your head and you wouldn't do it to me if the roles were reversed.”

The lump in his throat made it hard to speak. “But I’m supposed to be faster.”

Bucky faced his share of punishments when he wasn't the perfect machine. He wasn't supposed to feel. Only follow orders. It was hard to accept some days that he was truly free, that he was allowed to make mistakes. Being with you reminded him that he wasn't a machine, but that he was a human being.

And human beings weren't perfect no matter how hard they tried to be.

“You’re still fast. Still strong,” you said, your voice steady and firm, urging him to believe you. “But, Bucky, at the end of the day, accidents happen and we can't always protect each other from pain. That’s just not possible.”

He wanted to argue that he should keep you safe from pain, but he knew in his heart that you were right. “So we help and comfort each other?” he asked.

“Exactly. And I promise you I’m okay.”

“You’re really okay?” he whispered.

“I’m really okay,” you whispered back.

His shoulders dropped and tears spilled over before he could stop them. You weren't going to let him shoulder the blame no matter how hard he tried. “If you want to leave…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, but he’d get it if you wanted to go back to your place instead.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, giving him renewed strength and relief. “Especially since you were going to ask me to move in. What kind of partner would I be if I just left?”

“You’re the best,” he swore. The best person, partner, everything. “And I’m sorry.”

He had to say it once more and he wasn't sure how he’d make it up to you, but he’d find a way.

“There's nothing to be sorry for,” you whispered, brushing the softest of kisses against his lips as you wiped his tears away. “But if you really feel like you have to say it, then I forgive you.”

He couldn't believe some days how forgiving you were, how deep your love for him ran. “You still love me? Because I love you so much.”

“Always,” you promised.

Your answer allowed him to cry harder. In the safe space of his home with the woman he loved holding him and not running away, he didn't have to suppress his emotions. He could embrace it, the bad and the good, the ugly and the beautiful.

“Thank you,” he whispered once his crying slowed. Tears fell from your eyes, too. He tasted them when he kissed your cheeks. “It really was an accident.”

“I know,” you softly smiled. “How about we add checking the bed for knives and anything else to your bedtime routine?”

“That’s a good idea,” he said. It would be easy to add that to his nightly list. “I don’t…”

He looked toward the door, not wanting to say he couldn’t sleep in the bed tonight. At least not until he changed the sheets, even if there wasn’t a drop of blood on them. Even then he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to sleep at all.

“Maybe we can curl up on the floor together with some blankets and pillows?” you offered, letting him make the choice.

There you went again being the understanding and patient partner, willing to curl up on an uncomfortable floor to make him feel better. “I’d like that.”

“Are you going to be okay?” you asked before he pressed a kiss to your lips.

It was a question you asked after every nightmare, every bad day.

He considered his answer before he uttered, “I will be.”

The truth was, he believed he had wounds that would never fully heal no matter how hard he tried. Something would come along out of nowhere and tear them open. If he were a better man, he’d let you go so you could find someone not so damaged. Instead he chained you to his side and dragged you down with him. But he remembered something you once said to him.

“We can learn to forgive and be forgiven by learning to heal with our hearts wide open.”

He opened his heart to you, and you accepted his love and gave it back tenfold. You took as much of his pain away as you could and made his days brighter. He was still learning how to be forgiven, but you helped him get better every day.

And both of you were going to be okay.

Oh, he deserves a hug and more. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[tiramissyoucake]

Escape attempt gone wrong (not clickbait)(my husband gets pissed?!?!)

Viltrumite Mark x fem reader, forced marriage, the whole shabang, I know nothing about Viltrum♡ word vomitted, lame fade to black scene because idk how to end this

You see a few ships zip by your windows on some days, you know they don't need ships, so a lot of them were dormant in landing zones.

"What're you thinking about?" Your husband's hands snaked onto your shoulders as his voice reached your ear, a small smile on his face.

"... nothing, I'm just wondering why you have ships since Viltrumites can fly." You noted, Mark hummed. "... honestly? I can't tell you either, maybe it's for longer journeys or cargo." He kissed your cheek gently. "Why? Planning to take one on a joy ride?"

The idea was tempting. "Don't be ridiculous," you scoffed. "I can't fly those."

Later that night, a formal meeting between a few powerful Viltrumites you didn't care about busied Mark and a majority of your guards have turned in for the night, you were left to your own devices in a big bedroom stockpiled with gifts from every corner of the galaxy.

You tossed and turned, sleeping early didn't help. You were restless, you've been restless since you've been demanded to remain in one building and one building only. It infuriated you, your supposed husband most likely saw you as a reward for decimating a planet and not a living being with autonomy.

You sat up, glancing aside to the empty space next to you. He had some nerve, locking you up then leaving to play emperor like this, anywhere else in the galaxy would be better now.

... 'anywhere else' wasn't impossible.

. . .

"You need to mind your manners," Nolan scolded as Mark left the room the 'conference' was held in. "I know you're doing a good job in power, but that doesn't mean you can disrespect your seniors."

"I don't respect those who don't respect me." Mark spoke, his tone grated through gritted teeth. "All I want to do is get this stupid cape off me and see my wife."

Nolan restrained an eye roll, the human pet. "You're too attached to that human, what do you see in her anyway?"

"Everything. She's kind, interesting, she sees me beyond my strength, it's like..." he let out a sigh, holding back a shiver from showing, the sigh almost sounded lovesick. "It's like she sees right through me to my core, sees me for who I am, not what I am."

Gag. His father ignored the romance ramble. "You'll learn to see her as a tool for the good of the empire."

Mark rolled his eyes, parting ways at a hallway. "I'm going to bed, I neglected her enough." He didn't wait for a 'goodnight' or any last comments from his father as he left.

The grand doors to the bedroom creaked open, nothing changed. Your body under the sheets, gifts untouched and floors clean, he let out a sigh of relief as he threw aside the cape, loosening the collar of his clothes. "Are you awake?" His voice was soft compared to the usual commanding tone. "I missed you, dear.."

He came to his side of the bed. "I've been waiting to—"

Pillows. Not your peaceful sleeping figure. A stack of pillows. Confusion flooded his head as he got up.

"... oh, oh! Haha! very funny, love." He looked around. "You can come out now!" He waited for a beat, eyes glancing around for any movement.

None, nothing, not even a shuffle. Panic tingled at his fingertips, as he tugged the sheets off the bed, rapidly looking under the bed his eyes darted around the room. His heart raced, looking in any and every compartment that you could possibly squeeze into.

The room grew into a mess but he couldn't care less, sweat coated his forehead from the frenzy of pure panic. "You're not here." He finally admitted to himself, his heart pounding.

Silently cursing the meeting in his head, he sped off to collect whoever he can from guards or staff to form a search party, you couldn't have gone far. Humans were weak, vulnerable, he'll find you. He'll find you. He'll find you.

. . .

You held the cloak you found in the back of the closet close to your chest, you didn't know if Viltrumites recognised you but you wouldn't risk it, but your feet hurt as you ran through the unfamiliar structures.

The hallways were empty, the doors were loose. It was a miracle. You got a chance to leave this nightmare of a marriage, you had no clear idea on where you'd be headed, but you heard stories of galaxy nomads and travellers making ends meet and surviving! You're a smart person, you've got common sense. How hard could it be..?

The landing zone. You just needed to get to the landing zone.

A gasp escaped you, you heard a few barks of commands. "Spread out! She couldn't have gone far!"

You needed to get to that landing zone.

Keep low, keep hidden. You repeated that in your head as you ran, you thought you'd never get there or that you may have gotten lost, then the landing zone came into view, you saw a few ships and suddenly, hope seemed within your reach.

The search party seemed too focused on the buildings and structures, you thanked whatever architect decided to put that place outside of populated areas, the shouting dwindled, turning more distant as you got closer.

You tossed the hood off seeing a few Viltrumites guarding a gate, spotting you as you closed in, they grew confused. "Your imperial majesty? What happ—"

"Open the gates!!" For the first time, you commanded them. "Open them, now!!"

They had no choice but to listen, the gates opened and your heart almost pounded out of your chest. The ships lined up and their states were clear, maintenence, maintenence, offline, maintenence, offline, reserved, offline, reserved.

Finally, 'Ready'.

You could hear the shouting return, but you didn't care, the ship took you in so easily and you could see a new life for yourself outside of this miserable planet, now you just need to learn how to get the controls to listen to you.

It was quiet inside the ship, save for the rapid button clicking and switch flicking from you, everything was coming to life in the ship's mechanics, you held onto the yoke of the ship as you saw the landscape shift, it would levitate off the ground soon.

. . .

He saw it in the distance, hovering high over the empire he saw a ship start to levitate, he knew about every ship, item and living being that entered and left Viltrum.

"No. No. Nononono." His body moved, launching him to the landing zone area with his fists clenched ready to tear through metal.

Mark mumbled to himself as he closed the distance quickly, angered at your audacity to try to escape him.

. . .

Freedom was on the horizon, you were out of here, out of this nightmare. Your hands readjusted repeatedly on the yolk as the ship moved.

A booming sound caused you to whip your head to the back of the ship, your heart dropped seeing an indent in the metal.

"I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!" You never heard Mark's voice reach that level of volume, the pounding continued. "COME OUT!"

You stood your ground, even as the fear of what he might do if he gets you caused your hands to tremble and your heart to race quickly, you repeatedly tapped a few buttons, didn't this stupid ship have thrusters or whatever?!

An alarm blared, one meant to let a pilot know the ship wouldn't listen, you had a feeling it had to do with more rumbling from below, curse his monstrous strength, you heard a piercing noise, followed by a grating, screeching noise. He was peeling the metal with his bare hands.

"You'd rather DIE in the cold of the galaxy? You despise me to THAT extent?!" He screeched at the top of his lungs, the ship sparking after he destroyed its engine from the outside and it's structure being torn apart.

Your hands rapidly tried to find any button that could reverse or override the damage. "Please," you mumbled as if the ship could hear you. "Please work, please! I can't stay here..!"

"(NAME)!! TURN THIS SHIP OFF!! NOW!!"

His yelling scared you, you gripped a lever and before you knew it, a flury of sparks flew from the control panel, so powerful it almost knocked you out, but the ship being pummeled back to the ground beat the sparks to it, the tilt of the ship causing you to fall out the pilot's chair and hit your head on the way down to the ship's floor.

Your head hurts, your heart hurts, are you going to die on this ship? You didn't want to succumb to the pounding in your head, you were scared you'd wake up chained or worse. A burning sensation collected at the point of impact on your head.

The ship was useless now, Mark made sure of it, the engine being destroyed in an instant, tugging the metal back until there was enough of an opening for him to slip through, he bent his head down to enter the ship. its lights flickering off, he looked up with a piercing glare, a scowl on his lips and eyebrows furrowed, his knuckles were reddened from the sheer force of his strikes against the metal.

It was quiet for a moment as he watched the consciousness slip away from you, his footsteps that approached you quiet compared to the powerful banging of his fists from seconds ago.

"You've got some nerve." He started, a look of anger, sadness, frustration and heartbreak in his eyes. "You think it's that easy, don't you?"

Black spots formed in your vision, your expression was one he couldn't dissect, it pissed him off more, and he knew he'd still take care of that bump on your head after bringing you back home.

It doesn't matter, he'd indulge in his win for now and seethe about the insolence after. And right when he thought you were becoming more obedient too.

"I'm not letting you go." Mark stated to make the situation clear to your fuzzy state of mind, "Not now. Not ever. I'll make sure of it."

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: In The Serpent's Den.

Pairing: Yandere!Suguru x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 4.7k.

TW: Non/Con, Hybrid AU, AFAB!Reader, Cobra!Suguru, Rabbit!Reader, Biting, Aphrodisiacs, Heat Cycles, Oviposition, Manipulation, Biting, Breeding Kinks, and Predator/Prey Dynamics.

“It’s time to come out, little rabbit.”

 His tone was sickly sweet, lulled into something saccharine and tempting, only slightly distorted by the uncommon shape of his tongue. Despite his melodic coaxing, you curled further into yourself – pulling your thighs flush to your chest and burying your knees in your face, doing your best not to breathe, not to cry, not to make a sound. The temptation to uncurl yourself entirely and run, run, run until you found somewhere small and dark and safe gnawed on the back of your mind, but it never would’ve worked. You were in Suguru’s enclosure, Suguru’s territory, and there was nowhere to run where he wouldn’t be able to follow.

“I’m losing my patience, little rabbit. If you come out now, I promise I’ll try to hold myself back.”

Why was he even looking for you? It’d been weeks since his eccentric, white-haired owner forced you into the sprawling greenhouse that made up Suguru’s enclosure, and he’d never paid you a second glance. You did your best to avoid him, to make sure you never crossed his path while he was prowling for a meal. You could count the number of times he’d acknowledged you on a single hand, and he’d never so much as lunged at you. You couldn’t imagine why he’d decided you’d make a good meal now, after weeks of relatively peaceful cohabitation. Maybe he’d gotten tired of keeping you around, of having to share his territory with another hybrid – one so far below him on the food chain. Maybe, this was just the first time he’d gotten hungry enough to hunt you down.

You heard branches shift, twigs break, and instantly, all of your thoughts (rational and otherwise) were replaced with a frantic, buzzing static. “You’re only making this worse for yourself,” Suguru went on, and his voice was too loud, too close. You’d tucked yourself into the densest patch of foliage you could find, but your white ears and cottony tail stood out like blood on snow against the vivid greens and blacks of the flora. Suddenly, trying to hide at all felt stupid. Rabbits weren’t supposed to hide. Rabbits were supposed to die and get eaten by the big, mean snakes who preyed on them. “I’m going to find you, and when I do, you’re only going to be sorry you made me wait as long as I have.”

You could hear the dull drag of scales moving over rough stone, the ebbing ‘hiss’ that formed a slight lisp at the end of each sentence. You raised your head just far enough to see a large, black shape move in front of you, and something buried deep inside of you cracked and spilled open.

Running wasn’t a choice – it was the only option. You were on your feet in a second, sprinting deeper into the greenhouse in another. The direction didn’t matter. As long as you got away from him, nothing else mattered.

Blindly, you vaulted over fallen branches and overgrown roots, rotting leaf litter threatening to steal your balance as you veered away from the beaten path and threw yourself into the tangled wilderness. If Suguru was chasing you, you couldn’t hear him – the world little more than a blur of color and your own racing pulse. You just needed to find somewhere better to hide, somewhere he’d forgotten. A tunnel, or a tree hollow, or a cave dark enough to hide your snowy pelt from prying eyes. You just needed to—

 Your trek came to an abrupt end as your collided with a pane of thick, emerald-tinted glass and were sent crashing to the ground. It took you a second to process what you’d run into – the wall of the greenhouse, the edge of Suguru’s enclosure – and another to remember that you weren’t in the wilderness, anymore, that you wouldn’t find a tunnel or a cave or anywhere else to hide that hadn’t been created deliberately to trick animals like you into to think they were safe. You might’ve cried, if you hadn’t been so desperate. You might’ve gone looking for Suguru yourself, if you hadn’t been too scared to remember what it meant to be caged.

Fighting back tears, you started to scramble onto your feet, but it was already too late. There was no sound, no warning, just a sudden pressure against your back and an agonizing pain burrowed into the side of your throat. His fangs were planted in your neck before you could so much as scream, his strong tail wrapped around your legs and his arms crossed over your midriff, keeping your body locked against his as he pinned you to the ground. You expected his venom to burn, to be able to feel death as it flooded into your veins, but instead, there was only a slight numbing sensation around the point of insertion, a distant fog over your senses that might’ve just been your own fading adrenaline. If anything, you felt…

You felt warm.

Suguru took his time pulling away, his ribbon-like tongue flickering over the skin of your throat before he lifted his head. You weren’t facing him, one of your cheeks pressed into the dirt, but you could just barely see him out of the corner of your eye, make out the dark hair tucked behind his shoulders, the pitch-black scales littered over his face, his chest. You knew he was a snake, but you thought you might’ve heard his owner call him something else, once or twice. A ‘cobra’, maybe, but you’d never met a cobra before. You felt safer thinking of him as a snake.

He opened his mouth, but you were already babbling. Trying not to cry had been useless. Tears poured down your cheeks unabashedly, blurring your vision and making it that much harder to spit something coherent out. “P-please don’t eat me – I’m really small for a rabbit, and I promise I won’t taste very good, and I—”

“Quiet, little rabbit.” You’d been wrong, before. You didn’t feel warm, no, you felt hot – something deep inside of you beginning to smolder at the sound of his voice. Immediately, you shut your mouth, and he rewarded you with a raspy chuckle. “You thought I was going to… to eat you?” You nodded stiltedly, and he went on. “Ah, no wonder you were so afraid. And here I thought my timid little bunny just didn’t like me very much.”

“…’m sorry.” You must’ve run farther than you realized. A few minutes of sprinting shouldn’t have left you this breathless, this dazed. “You… You aren’t going to eat me?”

“No, bunny. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“But, you bit—”

“I gave you a present.” Another dry chuckle, his tongue flitting over the back of your neck. “Just a little something to make sure you wouldn’t be so shy. You should already be feeling better.”

You weren’t sure that you felt better, but you didn’t feel scared, either. A different feeling had taken the place of your fear – the sensation viscous and churning and prone sending pangs of dull, burning pain to the pit of your stomach. You had to make a conscious effort to move your lips, and even then, it was hard to get any sound past your suddenly dry throat. Suguru waited patiently, seemingly more than happy to watch you stumble over your own tongue. “It’s really warm,” you managed, eventually. “I think I might be… tired?”

“Oh, of course. I forgot how easy it is for prey animals to wear themselves out. I’ll take you back to my nest, where you’ll be able to rest safely.” It wasn’t a question, but you nodded eagerly. Safe. You wanted to be safe. You couldn’t remember what you needed to be safe from anymore, though.

He uncurled, but didn’t pull away from you. Rather, your smaller body was pulled against his broad chest as he took you in his arms and carried you through the greenhouse. His destination was a raised loft – set above the wild foliage of his enclosure, accessible only by a sparsely wrung ladder you never would’ve had a hope of climbing on your own. His nest wasn’t at all like a rabbit’s nest, either. Rather than a deep, dark tunnel padded with fur and leaves, he’d taken you to a mess of tangled roots and woven blankets, all piled onto one another to form a box-like bed. Your form, limper than you would’ve liked it to be, was laid on a relatively soft patch, and Suguru positioned himself above you; upper body supported by his forearms, his never-ending tail taking up whatever space you left unoccupied. You wanted to sleep, to do what he said you should, but he was still touching you – dragging a single, clawed finger down your chest and over your midriff, only pausing at your waist to draw slow, swirling patterns into your hip. “My venom has a unique side-effect, you know,” he muttered, his voice low and soothing, the tapered tip of his tail lashing from side to side as he spoke. “A full dose would be fatal. It’d be fast, too – a few seconds of screaming, a few seconds of twitching, and then—” He paused, clicked his tongue. “—dead, just like that. It’s a little anti-climactic, to be honest.”

Something deep inside of you began to throb. You shrunk into yourself, trying to relieve the pulsing ache, but Suguru mistook your agony for fear. “In controlled portions,” he continued, splaying his open palm over your hip. “The symptoms are much more pronounced. Humans tend to get all feverish and clumsy, but hybrids—”

Again, he paused. His hand drifted lower – first to your thigh, then your cunt. You didn’t realize you were dripping until his cold fingertips skirted over your slit, gathering up the slick already staining the inside of your thighs.

“Hybrids go into heat.”

A cold wave of dread washed over you, and Suguru’s smile widened.

“…heat?”

“Heat, little rabbit.”

His hand lingered on your pussy, two of his massive fingers splitting apart your lips and making room for his tongue to lap gingerly over your entrance. The sensation was strange – not good and not bad, a little ticklish – but your hips bucked as it flickered over your clit. You knew better than to get so close to a snake’s mouth, but you couldn’t seem to move, to think about anything but getting closer, closer to anything that could touch and poke and lick you. “Is heat—” You started, only to be cut off by a cracked whimper as the throbbing in your core intensified. “Is it supposed to hurt?”

“Only for a while.” His deep voice reverberated against your cunt, and you couldn’t stop yourself; attempting to rock your hips against his mouth with a high-pitched whine. It was embarrassing to be so needy, so desperate, but Suguru didn’t seem to mind, only ghosting his lips over the inside of your thigh as he pushed you back down. “But, you’ll need a mate to help you through it. Do you want a mate?”

“Y-Yes! Mate!” You’d never felt this empty, before. It was a little like hunger, but not as jagged, not as desolate. It was more of an absence than anything more tangible; a total and complete vacancy that had to be filled. You tried to roll onto your stomach, to scramble onto your hands and knees and present yourself, but Suguru held you in place with minimal effort. Your protest came in the form of a drawn-out whine, a waving sound Suguru mocked with a low coo and an airy laugh. “Please, please, it hurts, Suguru, I can’t— I need—”

“You need cock,” he finished, his tone one of pure, undeniable satisfaction. With a sigh, he picked himself up, straightening his back and towering above you. You felt saliva pool at the bottom of your mouth as the junction between his upper body and his tail came into view – pale skin slowly giving way to ebony scales, the sculpted muscle of his chest meeting the plated armor below his hips. His hand fell away from you, but you couldn’t mourn the loss of contact, not when your attention was so fixated on the thin, almost invisible slit just below his pubic bone. His fingertips slipped shallowly inside of it, and his gaze shifted back to you. “Come, little bunny. I think you’ve earned another treat.”

The encouragement was appreciated, but unnecessary. You were already crawling towards him, your limbs uncooperative and your movements jolting but your resolve absolute. There was still a throbbing emptiness inside of you, getting worse and more demanding with each neglectful second, but all you could think about was settling onto your knees in front of Suguru and drooling at the sight of his fluttering slit. You weren’t sure what to do, whether to use your hands or your mouth, but Suguru didn’t leave much time for indecision. His free hand found its way to the back of your head, nudging you forward until your mouth was pressed against his slit, just starting to leak thick trails of translucent slick over his dark scales. Your tongue darted past your lips hesitantly, at first, but your trepidation didn’t last very long. It couldn’t, not when you had a hollow pit inside of you still begging to be filled.

Suguru’s fingers carded through your hair as you lapped and sucked at his slit. The taste was mildly acidic, but surprisingly sweet – your eyes quickly falling shut as you sank into a pattern of wet sounds and strange textures and point claws grazing over your scalp, scratching at your ears. Throaty moans (the loudest noise you would ever hear Suguru make, in hindsight) and mumbled praise trickled past his lips as you worked, letting you know that he liked the way you were curling your tongue, that the spongy spot you could just barely reach inside of him was particularly sensitive. It wasn’t long before a mix of your saliva and his arousal dripped past the corners of your mouth, before the end of his tail was lashing violently within the confines of his nest. Maybe Suguru was in heat, too. You hoped he was. You didn’t want to be the only one in so much pain.

You felt the tapered tip of something smooth and stiff against your tongue, and Suguru buckled forward, a ragged gasp tearing past his lips as he took your head in both hands and pressed you flush against his abdomen. Confused and panicked, you tried to pull away, but his grip was iron-clad and it was all you could do to whimper, to sit there helplessly while something filled your mouth – hard and ridged and hot enough to burn. Cock, the pulsing in your core filled in, but it couldn’t be. Suguru had made it sound like something you needed, something you were supposed to want, but you didn’t like the way the blunt head prodded at the back of your throat, the way the ridged underside ground against your tongue. For the first time since he’d caught you, your instincts agreed with your better judgement, both urging you to get away, to run, to put distance between yourself and this newfound threat.

Your pussy, though, couldn’t seem to do anything but chant mate, mate, mate.

You could feel something else, too – not in your mouth, but pressing into your chin, your throat. Reflexively, your hands shot up, wrapping around the thick intruder, and this time, Suguru let go of you entirely, biting back a half-choked groan as he pushed you away, leaving you sprawled out and alone in the center of his nest. The hollowness inside of you was nearly unbearable, and rubbing your thighs together only seemed to make it worse. You tried to look to Suguru, to ask him to do something, but instead, your eyes caught on the long, pale appendage pressed into his lower stomach. His cock. Or, his cocks, you guessed.

You hadn’t expected there to be two of them.

You hadn’t expected them to be so big, either. Even at a distance, it was clear they weren’t meant for a rabbit. Just one would’ve been more than you could handle – as long as your forearm, as thick as your wrist, the end tapered to a steep point but the base absolutely massive before they disappeared into his slit. The color was strange, too – the tip flushed a dull pink while the base was nearly as dark as his scales, creating an ombre that might’ve been pretty, if you weren’t so terrified. You couldn’t see any veins, but both were sculpted with pronounced, perfectly spaced ridges. You couldn’t imagine having something like that inside of you, but you couldn’t imagine not having anything inside of you, either.

You couldn’t be sure how long you spent staring up at him, trying to wrap your head around his size, trying to decide if you’d rather be torn apart by his cock or your own increasingly demanding needs. In the end, it wasn’t really your choice to make. His eyes darted from your clenched thighs to your heaving chest to yours, wide and watery, and a grin found its way back to his lips. For some reason, his smile wasn’t as comforting as it’d been, the first time you saw it. “I’m sorry, little rabbit. Did I startle you?” The tenderness in his voice was almost cloying. You didn’t move, didn’t respond, but he didn’t seem to need you to. “I didn’t mean to. Why don’t you spread your legs nice n’ wide for me, and I’ll make it up to you?”

Your gaze fell back to his cocks. One of his fists had wrapped around both, pumping idly while he stood above you. “Are those supposed to…?” You trailed off, shrinking into yourself. Suguru hummed, and you took it as confirmation. “But you’ll only use one, right? I don’t think I can— I mean, it won’t fit if you—”

“Really? I could’ve sworn you were begging to be fucked properly just a few minutes ago.” You stiffened, but he only laughed. “Fine, fine. If that’s what you think you want, I’ll only use one.”

You didn’t think you could trust him, but you could feel yourself getting hot, again, a haze forming over your mind. You could leave when he was finished, you figured, even if you weren’t entirely sure how to get out of his nest, or where to go once you’d escaped back into the greenhouse. After you got over your— your heat.

Hesitantly, you started to listen to the negging mantra still playing in the back of your mind, to obey the near-deafening voice in the back of your head urging you to get on your hands and knees and make him fuck you, but Suguru must’ve decided you weren’t moving fast enough. His tail shifted underneath you, a thick coil catching your side and leaving you bent over one of the thicker lengths, your stomach pressed into his cool scales and your feet barely able to reach the tangled roots of his nest. You scrambled for purchase, but Suguru was there to steady you – his hands finding your hips, his cocks pressing into your ass. The calloused pads of his fingertips pressed into your waist as he aligned one of his cocks – the upper one, you thought, just a little thicker than its twin – with your entrance. He was kind enough to give you a long, slow second to breathe before his hips rutted forward and he inside of you.

Immediately, it felt wrong.

You’d been right when you decided he was too big for you. He was only half-sheathed, and yet, the tip of his cock pressed into the floor of your cervix, the head of his cock alone enough to stretch your pussy as far as it could go. Thankfully, he didn’t try to force himself deeper, but feeling the smooth ridges of rub against the walls of your pussy as he pulled back wasn’t much better. Still, your cunt clenched around him eagerly, doing its best to suck him in despite your physical limitations. Suguru, of course, seemed more than happy to indulge you. His thrusts were slow and lethargic, as gentle as they could’ve been but still forceful enough to leave you pinned to the curve of his tail. You weren’t in control of your body, anymore. As he rolled his hips against your ass, you ground back against him, your greedy cunt never warm enough, never wet enough, never full enough. You tried to dig your blunt claws into his tail, to ground yourself, but it was a futile effort; a limping dear attempting to evade a wolf who’d already tasted its blood. Suguru’s only response was a stifled groan, a new roughness to the way he fucked into you. You felt his chest against your back as he bent at the waist, draping himself over you, his dark hair falling from his shoulder and replacing chunks of your vision with a curtain of thick, endless black. It didn’t matter. A fresh wave of tears would’ve left you just as helpless, not that Suguru seemed to mind the way you sniffled and sobbed between moans.

“They say— fuck, you know what they say about rabbits, don’t you, bunny?” His voice was barely audible, but it seemed to echo on and on and on in your overly sensitive ears. His cock ground against something softened and vulnerable inside of you and your back arched, your pussy clenching impossibly tighter around him. “That’s it,” Suguru encouraged, as you tried to pry yourself away from his freezing tail and chase the gentle warmth of his chest. “They say bunnies make the best sluts. Knock them up once, and they’ll never stop begging for it.”

Kits. A strong mate. A safe nest. The thought alone had you crying out for nothing, your convulsions growing that much more erratic, and Suguru chuckled in-turn. “Like that? Want me to make you into my little mate-whore?”

“Want it, please, w-want it so bad.” It was all you could do to force yourself to speak, to spit something out through the daze of lust and exhaustion and total, unrelenting fullness. You’d never been more sure of anything than you were in that moment, never knew something as deeply as you knew that you wanted Suguru’s kits inside of you. “Please, wanna be you mate, wanna—Suguru—!”

One more thrust, one more scape of his sleek scales against your clit, and you were coming undone around his cock in jolting, erratic convulsions. Suguru let out a ragged grunt and straightened his back, but the distance was short-lived. Strong arms snaked under your knees, spreading your legs and hauling you up to his height. Your back remained pressed against his chest as he pulled out of you entirely and slammed back in. Even through the overstimulation, the wrongness hit you immediately. His cock was too big, too thick, and—

And he was inside of you.

Completely inside of you.

You forced yourself to open your eyes, letting your head fall forward limply. The shock was minimal, but still devastating – both of Suguru’s cocks buried inside of you to their pitch-black bases, their outlines just barely visible against the plush flesh of your lower stomach. “You—You promised you wouldn’t—”

His face was buried in the dip of your shoulder, his lips parted as panted against you. You felt his teeth catch on your skin before sinking into you, had time to process the pure heat of his venom seeping into your veins. Instantly, anything you might’ve said died on your tongue, your mind going utterly, entirely blank save for a single thought: mate.

Your mouth fell open, your thighs spreading that much farther. Suguru pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss into the injection site, then pulled away, grinning wildly. “A few drops, and you’ll want everything I have to give you,” he muttered. “That’s better, isn’t it, bunny?”

Much better. You could feel something swelling at the base of his cock, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge anything other than the utter bliss as a small, round shape was milked up the length of his cock and emptied into your core. Kits, you thought, and did your best to settle onto his twin cocks, to hold still as another egg was forced through your tight pussy. You stopped trying to count after the fourth – giving in completely to the shuddering, splintering euphoria every new member of your little family brought you. By the time the final egg was safe and snug inside of you, you were limp, twitching, and so full, it was hard to imagine ever feeling empty again.

As the last aftershocks started to fade, Suguru sucked in a stilted gasp and pulled you flush against his chest. You felt his second cock twitch once, then twice inside of you before something warm and thick flooded into your pussy. You whined miserably as he pulled out of you, but he didn’t stay gone for very long. Your pliable body was turned around in his arms, his cocks slid back into your leaking cunt as he carefully lowered himself onto the floor of his nest – your body laid on top of his. You strung your arms around his neck and pressed yourself against his chest, closing your eyes and giving in to your well-earned exhaustion.

You lasted just long enough to hear him mutter something about mates and clutches before your consciousness faded entirely and your mind went mercifully, blissfully silent.

~

Hours later, you woke up to the sound of a low, long whistle. “Really did a number on the poor thing, huh, Suguru?”

It took you a second to blink your eyes open, to raise your head and glance toward the man standing at the top of the ladder that led to Suguru’s nest, and another to recognize him as Suguru’s owner. His white hair was in a state of disarray, his eyes hidden behind circles of tinted glass, and for some reason, he was looking at you. You shrunk further into Suguru, but he only laughed – the noise loud and piercing to your foggy senses.

Suguru’s cocks were no longer inside of you, the flushed tips just barely visible at the base of his slit. You were still on his chest, and his arms were wrapped around your waist, his hold loose but possessive. There was a small bump over your lower stomach, and you weren’t sure whether to grimace or beam at the feeling of Suguru’s eggs shifting inside of you with every little movement. He was already awake – had been for some time, judging by the unimpressed scowl pressed into his lips. Something sharp and icy lodged itself into your chest, but his glare was directed towards his owner, not you, and the very tip of his tail curled around your ankle protectively as his owner stepped into his nest.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to walk into a serpent’s den?”

“I don’t think it counts if I own the den.” He straddled the bulk of Suguru’s tail, then gestured to you. “Turn the pretty baby around. I wanna see the damage.”

You shook your head vehemently, clinging to Suguru’s neck, but his own response was an exasperated sigh, a fleeting hiss to your cheek as he flipped you over; leaving you slayed across his chest and exposed to his owner’s prying gaze. “Five minutes,” he said, as his owner shrugged the waistband of his pants down just far enough to free his cock, already half-hard, already enough to send a bolt of pure dread from your heart to the pit of your stomach. “I don’t want your scent on my mate.”

You opened your mouth, ready to whine that you were sore, that you were tired, that you didn’t want anyone but Suguru and your kits inside of you, but the words withered into nothing on your tongue as his owner eased himself into your dripping pussy, as Suguru caught you by the chin and pulled you into a shallow, lingering kiss – the points of his fangs just barely scraping over your bottom lip. Looking back on it, it had been silly to ever worry that he’d eat you.

You should’ve been worried that he wouldn’t.

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ butterfly ♡

♡ Pairing: personal trainer!boyfriend!mingyu x chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: fluff/smut/comfort

♡ Summary: When your boyfriend leaves his phone behind after a cozy morning at home you decide to do something sweet and bring his phone to him at work but an unexpected interaction leaves you questioning yourself and if you truly deserve your place in your relationship.

♡ Word Count: 6.3k

♡ Warnings: some body image insecurities/comments about the reader's body from someone else but plenty of comfort from Mingyu for them, unprotected sex, shower sex, a lil nibbling, lots of kissing, a lil manhandling, no pulling out, a lil nipple play, pet names (baby, sweetie, good girl).

♡ A/N: This is the first fic that I've written in a long, long, long time so I'm sorry if I'm a little rusty at this. I just wanted to write something comforting and sweet for all of my chubby babes out there. I also have to thank @anyamaris for supporting me in writing this and checking in on me so much. I love youuu.

Peace. That’s all Mingyu knows when he’s around you. Even in this moment.

Lost deep in some dream he probably won’t remember, his arms wrapped around you as you snuggle against his bare chest lost in dreams of your own. He’s never felt safer. He’s never felt more at home. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away from this bed that you share together. Nor could his morning alarms that have gone ignored one after the other until his phone seemingly decided he was a lost cause and went back to sleep itself. 

How can you blame him when he was set up for failure to begin with? The sound of rain beating against the window of your 3rd story apartment, drowning out the rest of the world so that it feels as if he’s on a planet of his own. The warmth of the fluffy cotton blankets he’s been swimming in all night, protecting you both from the crisp chill of the early morning. The softness of your body pressed to his, every breath of yours so gentle and sweet. So perfectly timed with his that you’re almost dueting a lullaby, dragging him deeper and deeper into his slumber. He could stay like this all day—snoozing the hours away, blissfully unaware of the fact that he has actual responsibilities—but someone else has other plans. 

The bedroom door creaks open but only barely. Just enough for a chubby orange cat affectionately known as Jellybean to skip her way into the bedroom and fling herself onto the bed. It’s 30 minutes past breakfast time and in her mind she’s withering away. If you two sleep any longer there’ll be nothing left of her to feed. Navigating the mess of blankets, she stops right on Mingyu’s chest, close enough for her fur to tickle your cheek. The cold, pink tip of her nose nudges at Mingyu’s chin. It’s time to wake up. 

“Mingyu, stop, that tickles” you mumble, cuddling closer to him. 

Mingyu shifts in bed, reaching down to stroke your hair, “Babe, are you licking me?” 

His hand comes down onto Jellybean’s back and it occurs to him that the hair he’s feeling isn’t yours. It’s also purring. Tilting his head up, he cracks one eye open to see the hungry little face staring back at him. 

“Bean, what are you doing up here?” he giggles, petting the crown of her head so that her ears perk up. 

You let out a groan, knowing that if the kitty’s on patrol then sleepy time is over. “Come on, you can’t eat your dad.” 

Scooping her into your arms, you force yourself up in bed only for Mingyu to drag you back down. Even half asleep he’s twice as strong as you. Not that you’re complaining. 

“Where are you going?” he pouts, kissing you on the cheek, “I’m not finished with you yet.” Jellybean chirps, pressing a paw to his lips as he comes in for another kiss and Mingyu frowns like a disappointed child. Curved by a cat.

“Cut it out” you say half heartedly, a barely awake smile on your face, “Bean is hungry. Plus you have work today don’t you?” 

Mingyu’s eyes widen in shock. His heart sinks to the floor. It hits him all at once. The realization that he has no clue what time it is when he probably should. He nearly knocks the two of you off the bed as he bolts from the bed, grabbing his phone and staring in complete terror at the sight of the four missed alarms on his lockscreen. The usual glowing, honeyed tone of his skin turns pale as the panic sets in. It’s 7:45am. Work starts in 15 minutes. Fuck. 

“So I guess you’re not eating breakfast” you tease as he tears out of the room, darting to the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

A few seconds later he scrambles back in, a toothbrush wedged between his pearly whites. He mumbles something, probably a comment about how you have a smart mouth and you’ll pay for it later, but you can’t take his threats seriously when he’s completely naked running around the bedroom like a chicken with its head cut off.

You try to be respectful to his current struggle, averting your eyes elsewhere, and yet they keep drifting back to the sight of his body. Those well defined arms, those abs you could spend all night running your fingertips across, an ass you could bounce a quarter off of—

Mingyu slips his underwear on, popping the toothbrush out of his mouth, “Am I a piece of meat to you?” 

You nuzzle Jellybean closer to your chest, offended at the audacity of your boyfriend to say such a thing. “Mingyu…”

Crawling back onto the bed, he brings his lips inches away from yours, a flirty grin playing on his them. “I can be a piece of meat to you if you want. I can make time. Just get the brat out of the way and…”

It’s oh so tempting but someone has to be the responsible one and, as much as you hate it, it has to be you. Stroking his cheek, you stare into the prettiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen and say words that pain you. “Not a chance. You’re already late for work.” 

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, shocked by the amount of restraint you’re showing. “If I’m already late. Why not make it later?”

His hand smooths over the blanket, massaging your plush thigh through the fabric. Now your body’s awakening in more ways than one. You dish out a light slap to his cheek, fighting off the tingle coming over you. “We’ll have time for that later but for now…work.”

Mingyu only stares back at you, devouring you with his gaze, patiently waiting for you to break but you never do. How he finds your stubbornness so annoying and so hot all at the same time is a mystery he’ll never solve. 

“Fine” he groans, giving you a toothpaste laced smooch on the lips before disappearing back into the bathroom. 

As he leaves, you let out a sigh of relief. “Close one, huh, Bean?” 

Turning the poor, starving kitty loose, you drag yourself out of bed and slip into the t-shirt thrown over the back of a nearby chair. You figure if Mingyu has to be productive then so should you. The walk to the kitchen feels eternal. You’re still yawning and rubbing your eyes when you fill Jellybean’s bowl with food, nearly losing your balance as you bend over to set it on the floor.

You consider for a brief second heading to the bathroom to get started on your morning routine but by the sound of it Mingyu’s bouncing off of the walls in there. Figuring it’s best to stay out of the way, you pop open the fridge and set out in search of a breakfast of your own. Having recently gone grocery shopping, the shelves are filled with every delicious food your heart could desire and every single dish requires you to cook. 

“Why does everything need to be cooked?” you whine, head thrown back in agony. “I don’t wanna.” 

Mingyu flies past you, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter, “Then don’t. Order out.”

“I thought we weren’t ordering out. Saving money and all that.”

“You can use my card. Just order the food, okay?” 

You stand there in silence staring into the void, hearing him but too lost in thought to acknowledge it. The ingredients in the fridge stare back at you. A useless array of items if nothing’s done with them. Mingyu slaps you on the butt. The quickest way he knows to snap you out of it. 

“Hey!” you squeal, spinning around to slap his hand away. 

Flinging the refrigerator door closed, he pushes you up against it, sweeping you into a kiss much deeper than the last. Not as tinged in toothpaste but more minty than you’re used to still. “Order the food” he mumbles, trailing kisses down your neck, “Promise.” His hands slip beneath your shirt, delighting in the plushness of your lovehandles. He’s getting himself started again. He probably shouldn’t but he can't help it. He never can with you. 

His palms are cold, sending a chill up your spine that makes you arch into him. “I promise” you relent, knowing you’re in no position not to give in. 

Giving your body one last squeeze, he swirls his tongue around yours, snatching himself away just as you’re really getting into it. “You said ‘later’, remember?” he teases, heading for the door. 

Picking up a nearby spatula, you wind your arm back in his direction. “I could throw this at you!” Your aim is immaculate. You have full faith in your abilities. Too bad Mingyu’s shoes are on and he’s already halfway out the door by the time you make up your mind to do it or not. 

“Love you!” he shouts over his shoulder, disappearing into the hallway, leaving you defeated and too horny for 7AM in the morning. 

“Love you too” you huff, tossing the spatula back onto the counter. You’ll get him when he gets home or he’ll get you. That second one doesn’t sound so bad actually.

Sparing another glance at what’s in the fridge, you abandon any thought of financial responsibility and make your way back to the bedroom in search of your phone. Jellybean pays you no mind as you pass. Her food has been secured. You’re on your own. Turning back into your bedroom, you spot a phone at the foot of the bed. You scoop it up, flopping back down onto the bed. You nearly melt into the comfort of it, contemplating just going back to sleep and forgoing breakfast altogether but you know you can’t. You promised Mingyu afterall.

There’s just one problem. You can’t unlock your phone. Tapping in the code, you frown as the phone rejects it. It’s fine. Maybe you put it in wrong. You did just wake up. Putting the numbers in again, slower this time, you’re met with the same result. Incorrect. Then you notice it. This phone’s wider than yours and thicker too. That isn’t even your lockscreen. 

“Shit! Mingyu!”

Phone in hand, you race out of the bedroom and into the living room as fast as your legs will carry you. You push the window nearest to you open with every intent of screaming his name out at the top of your lungs—he always parks his car across the street in perfect shouting distance—but it’s no use. His car’s already gone.

Without thinking, you scurry back into the bedroom and hop into a pair of sweatpants. You pay no mind to the messy state of your hair or the mismatched rain boots that you throw on. Breathless, you race out of the door, car keys in hand, to catch up to your boyfriend. Two minutes ago you were threatening to throw a spatula at his head. Now you’re dropping everything to make sure your baby has his phone. 

Ah, romance. 

It’s not that you don’t know where your boyfriend works. 

It’s more so that you only have a vague idea of where your boyfriend works. You know that it’s some super nice gym tucked away on a quiet street downtown, somewhere in the general vicinity of a bookstore. Or was it a thrift store? A thrift store that sells books? He’s driven you past it a few times when the two of you were headed out for dinner with friends but you’ve never actually been there. Had you considered that before you left the house you might’ve just waited for him to double back for his phone but knowing your boyfriend he wouldn’t have noticed until it was too late. 

Thankfully you didn’t get yourself completely lost. You recognized a few things here and there. Not enough to keep you from wasting a half hour driving in circles but enough to find it eventually. An unintended perk of  having wasted so much time is the current absence of rain. The clouds are clearing up, tiny slivers of sunshine breaking through as you push your way into the sleek air conditioned gym.

With all its shiny silver decor and glowing white accent lights everything here feels so sterile. The aesthetic is definitely clean. Almost medical in a way. On the walls are posters with barely dressed, muscular figures posing proudly on them. Motivational words paint the bottom of them. 

No excuses. 

Work harder.

Smile. Sweat. Repeat. 

You hear the faint sound of a 2000’s pop mix streaming from speakers strung high in each corner. In the distance there’s the thud of sneakers hitting a treadmill at full speed. Clearly this playlist has someone going hard. Good for them. You can’t say that you’ve ever been a gym girl. It’s never been your thing.

Honestly, when you first met Mingyu it was one of your biggest insecurities. A personal trainer who spends all of his time at a gym and a chubby girl who doesn’t even have a membership. What could you possibly have in common? As it turns out, everything. Well, almost everything. Mingyu never made you feel weird about it but, catching your reflection in a nearby mirror, you remember why you did. 

Most of the time you feel secure. Mingyu makes sure that you do. But there are other times, like now, that you question what exactly he’s doing with you. Fresh out of bed in your house clothes, wedged between “Sweat Is Just Fat Crying” and “No Days Off”, you feel utterly unfit to be here. 

“Um, excuse me, can I help you with something?” the receptionist calls out to you. 

“I—uh—” you stutter, blinking yourself back down to earth. Straightening yourself up a bit, you shyly approach the front desk and the drop dead gorgeous girl who runs it. 

In her expensive workout gear and her high slicked back ponytail, she’s the tiniest bubbliest thing you’ve ever seen. Her name tag reads “Lexi” and truly, what else would her name be? 

“Can I help you?” she repeats, twirling a gym branded pen around her fingers. She looks at you curiously. She’s smiling from ear to ear but you can feel her judgement...or is it all in your head? 

“Yes” you manage to get out, shrinking into yourself more and more by the second, “I’m looking for Kim Mingyu.” 

“Oh!” She seems thrilled at the sound of his name, “One second.” 

Swiveling around in her chair, she picks up the phone and clicks the button for the intercom. “Mingyu to the front desk please. Mingyu to the front desk.” Hanging the phone up, she turns her attention back to you. “He’ll be up in a second. So, have you been here before?”

“Aah, no. I haven’t—”

“First timer? Slay queen. It’s never too late to make a change.”

“Well, I’m not here for—”

“You’re gonna love, Mingyu. He’s great really. He’ll have all that extra weight off of you just like that.” 

She snaps her fingers. Poof. Magic. Chubby girl be gone.

“I’m actually—”

“And don’t tell him I said this…” she leans forward to whisper, a secret between two girls, “He’s, like, super hot. If getting in shape means getting a guy like that what other motivation do you need, am I right?” 

You woke up this morning feeling so nice. Loved. Desirable. How can all of that change so quickly? 

“Baby, what are you doing here?” Mingyu asks, freeing you from the smothering confines of this conversation. He appears around one of the corners, pulling you into a bear hug, “Everything okay?” 

“Baby?”  You catch the receptionist mouthing to herself. For her it’s the shock of the year. Of the century even. 

“Mmhmm” you nod, using what minimal free space you have to hold his phone up, “You forgot this.” 

“Oh my god, thank you. You drove all the way here for me?” Mingyu’s face lights up enough to blind you to the confused expression on your new friend Lexi’s face. Almost. 

“You’re the sweetest thing ever, you know that?” he gushes, smushing your cheeks together and kissing you all over your face. 

“Gyu, cut it out, there’s people around” you giggle, wiggling in his grasp. 

After a few more kisses he turns you loose, taking his phone and shoving it down into his pocket. “Now that you’re here, you wanna come meet my coworkers?”

That wasn’t a question. It was more of a command. You wanna come meet my coworkers? You’re gonna come meet my coworkers. Taking your hand, he’s got his heart set on dragging you to the back, but you resist, putting your full weight into staying right where you are. 

“I forgot. I have some errands to run.” You’re proud of yourself for thinking quickly on your feet. 

Mingyu turns to you, confused. “Errands? What errands? I thought today was ‘bedrot’ day. You even sang the celebratory ‘bedrot’ song last night.” 

You just laugh him off, gently running your hand along his bicep. “Well, ya know, a girl can’t bedrot forever.” Looking around the gym you see another poster. Another slogan. “No days off, right?” 

Unimpressed with your regurgitation of some cliche quote you saw on the gym wall, Mingyu narrows his eyes at you, more suspicious than ever. 

“Baby, I’m serious” you say, doubling down on your lie, “I’d love to meet them but I really do have to go. Another time?” 

The thought of meeting his coworkers makes you nauseous. The idea of what they’d think of you—of you two together—is enough to make you want to evaporate. What’s even worse, despite your insecurities, is the idea of Mingyu being upset with you. You give him the puppy dog eyes, the hardest thing for him to resist, and he melts that instant. 

“It’s okay, sweetie. Do what you need to do” he smiles and relief washes over you, “They actually invited me out for drinks tonight so you can come too, right?” Mingyu looks so hopeful, so sickeningly adorable. How dare he.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look happy about the trap you’ve fallen into. “Right. Sure. Drinks. Tonight.” 

A delighted Mingyu gives you another hug and a quick kiss. “Good and thank you again. I owe you” he winks and you wave goodbye, watching as he heads back to work and leaves you with the unrelenting stare you’ve been trying to avoid this whole time. 

“Have a nice day” you mumble, scurrying back towards the front door. 

Something is said behind you. The stiff, uncomfortable farewell of a person who realized that they’ve just said all of the wrong things. Even if she were to apologize now it wouldn’t matter. By the time you hop back into your car you’re already spiraling. Any thoughts about grabbing breakfast are pushed to the farthest reaches of your mind. You don’t wanna eat. You certainly don’t wanna go out for drinks later. All you want is to pick up the pieces of your shattered self-confidence but they’re scattered all over the floor of that gym and there’s just no way you’re going back for them.

Bedrot?

No, couch rot, actually. You aren’t sure if that’s a thing. If not, you’re pioneering it. The queen of couch rotting. With the exception of feeding Jellybean her dinner and a few quick trips to the bathroom, you haven’t left your spot on the couch all day. It’s almost 6PM. Not that you’d know the exact time. You haven’t so much as glanced at your phone since you got in. Your only hint of the hours having passed by is the arrival of dusk quietly creeping in beyond your curtains.

Draped across the couch, you stare at the TV as scenes of a show you’re hardly watching flash on the screen. You’ve cried, you’ve slept, you’ve cried again. When you’re feeling down a couple of naps typically do the trick. They make you forget all about the problem, if only for a little bit, but how can you forget the problem when you can’t stop wondering if you’re it. Is it really such a hard thing to imagine? That Mingyu could be your boyfriend and not your trainer? Is it really such a stretch of the imagination? 

“If getting in shape means getting a guy like that what other motivation do you need, am I right?”

Does everyone think that? That to earn someone like your boyfriend you need to get in shape? Get thinner? The possibility weighs you down like an anchor, assuring that you’ll never stop drowning. Never stop wondering. 

You’ll have to come up with an excuse for tonight. Something believable. Maybe you’ll say that you aren’t feeling well. You have been lying around the house all day. Method acting is what they call it. You never did order that food. He can check his card and see that you haven’t. Even more support for the fact that you just aren’t feeling well. As much as you want to meet his coworkers, you think, mentally rehearsing your story, the alcohol would only make things worse but he should go and have fun. 

“Next time” you’ll say, “Pinky swear.” 

A new episode of your show kicks on, a wistful theme song playing as the leading actor’s faces and names fade in and out. A rose tinted sequence of beautiful faces. You close your eyes, pulling the blanket over your head. Time for another nap—maybe this will be the one that fixes it all—but there’s no time. The sound of a set of keys jingling on the other side of the door sends your lids shooting back open. The door knob turns. The curtain’s rising. You hear those familiar footsteps. It’s time for your performance, kid. Begin scene. 

“Sweetie! Are you here?” Mingyu calls out, kicking his shoes off. He scans the apartment, noticing that the only source of light is from outside and what little is provided by the TV. 

You cough weakly, sitting up on the couch, “I’m here.”

Why did you cough? Terrible acting already. No Oscar for you.. 

Mingyu leans over the back of the couch, arms thrown over your shoulders. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?” 

“No, I was just resting. I haven’t really been feeling so good today” you say, trying your hardest to look and sound the worst that you can. 

Circling around the couch, Mingyu kneels in front of you, taking your hands into his. With your eyes all red and puffy it’s an easier sell than you expected. His face twists with worry and you can’t fight the guilt brewing inside of you at the sight of him. 

“What’s going on? Are you sick? Do you need to go to the hospital?” 

“No, no. It’s not that bad” you assure him, subtly gaining strength in hopes that it’ll ease his concerns. “It’s just a stomach bug or something.” 

“Lay back down, okay?” he insists, thumbs petting the back of your hands, “I’ll go make you some soup.” 

“Mingyu, you really don’t have to” you start but he’s already guiding you back down onto the couch, hurrying into the kitchen to get some soup started for you. 

The clanking of pots and pans fills the space where any further protest from you might fit. “You just rest!” he shouts, “Let me take care of everything and don’t worry about tonight. We can always wait until you’re feeling better.”

You sink further into the couch at his words. “Until you’re feeling better” means he’ll bring it up again. It means you’ll have to fake sick every single time he mentions it but how long could you play that card before he started to get suspicious? Mingyu can only be distracted by his concern for you for so long before he suspects the truth, that you’re just trying to avoid it, and you’ll have to tell him why. 

“Mingyu, can you come here?”

Too busy raiding the fridge for ingredients, Mingyu barely hears you. “Hmm? You say something?” 

“Come here for a second, please!” 

You push yourself up on the couch, tossing the blanket aside. Mingyu’s there in a flash, ready to do whatever it is that you need. His eagerness to help you only makes you feel worse for having lied to him. You pat the cushion beside you and he takes a seat, bracing himself for whatever news you’re about to break to him. 

“Are you pregnant?” he blurts out and you clutch your chest in shock. 

“Pregnant? What? No. I’m not pregnant. Why would you think I was pregnant?” 

“Messy hair, baggy clothes, you’ve definitely been crying all day, and the ‘stomach bug’” he says, making air quotations at your fake ailment. “I know what that means, I’m not stupid.” 

Even at your lowest moment you can’t stop the laugh that escapes you at how absolutely adorable he is. “Oh, my love, I’m not pregnant.”

“Then what is? Tell me” he begs too sincerely to deny, “You know whatever it is, I’ve got your back. We’re a team, remember?” 

Leaning your head on his shoulder, you lace your fingers between his and settle into the comfort of his presence. Why are you lying to someone you don’t have to lie to? Mingyu’s your person. What is there to hide?

“You know the receptionist at the gym?” 

“Yeah, Lexi, what about her?”

“She…well…she thought I was your client.” 

“Why would she think that?” 

You pause, giving him time to process it. You can feel it when he does. His body tenses, the energy in the room shifting at the realization. 

“Did she say something to you?” he asks, standing up as if he’s ready to run back to that gym to confront her. 

You’re positive that he would. Mingyu’s probably the most gentle man you’ve ever met, you’ve rarely seen him get angry or raise his voice, but when it comes to you it’s never a problem to get a bit out of character. 

Your chest aches recalling the interaction. The casual tone of her voice. The shock on her face when he called you baby. “She was just surprised. I guess I can’t blame her. A girl like me walks into a gym asking for you and what else is she supposed to think? You’re literally built like a god and I’m built like—” 

Mingyu interrupts you on purpose, refusing to let you even attempt to put yourself down. “A goddess. You’re built like a goddess. Stand up.”

“Mingyu, no” you protest but he insists, grabbing your arms and forcing you up from the couch. Gathering the loose fabric of your t-shirt in his fists, he brings it flush against your body, defining every curve. “This body is the body of a goddess. It’s the body of the woman I love. I think it looks perfect next to mine.” Mingyu’s eyes are brimming with admiration and all he wants in this world is for you to feel it but you just hang your head, unable to meet his gaze. 

“But that’s not what other people think.”

“I don't give a shit what other people think. Look at me.” He scoops your cheeks into his hands, giving you no option other than to look at him—to accept the way he looks at you. “When we’re together I think that I can’t imagine being with any other girl. I think I’d lose my mind if I ever woke up next to anybody else. Don’t you feel that way too?”

Of course you do. That’s the silliest question he’s ever asked. You wouldn’t trade being with him for anything. It’s never even crossed your mind to question it. “I always feel like I’m right where I should be when I’m next to you, Mingyu.”

“Because you are,” he smiles, kissing the bridge of your nose, “You belong with me and nothing anyone else says could ever change that.” 

If you had any tears left to cry, even a single one to spare, you’d shed it for him and it wouldn’t be one of heartache or pain. It’d be pure love. Pure appreciation for the existence of a man who can so effortlessly fight off the fears you can’t face on your own, making them feel smaller and smaller until the only thing you can feel is his love for you. 

“I’m gonna go shower. Come with me” he says, his palm skating down your arm to take your hand in his. 

This time you don’t resist. Not when he leads you down the hall to the bathroom, humming as he flicks the light on. Not when he strips you of your clothes, slowly peeling them away until they’re nothing more than a pile of fabric at your feet. And certainly not when he wraps his arms around your naked figure, his tongue exploring your mouth as he pulls you under the warm water sprinkling from the shower head. 

And just like that you’re right back to where you were this morning. Before you walked into that gym, before the insecurities. You’re on your own planet again. Just the two of you. His soapy hands gliding along the contours of your hips. Your fingers combing through his slick, dark hair as he kisses his way down to your chin, burying his face in your neck to nip gently at your sensitive skin. You let out a whimper, your body shivering in his grasp, and Mingyu laughs, never sick of how cute you are when you make that sound. 

Your back arches, jutting your pillowy breasts forward, tempting Mingyu to take one into his hand. He can’t fight the urge to touch you. To feel the weight of it in his hand. So soft and bouncy. Your perky nipple slips eagerly between his fingers, just begging to be pinched the slightest bit. 

“Mingyu” you moan, nibbling at your bottom lip, a flash of heat hitting you so intensely you’d swear someone changed the water temperature. But no, it’s only Mingyu. It always is. 

“Do you remember what you were wearing the first day we met?” he whispers, his voice lost somewhere between lust and fluffy nostalgia. “It was really hot out that. I was walking through the park when I saw you in that crop top and those shorts…fuck…I know I shouldn’t have looked at you like that but your body was so beautiful, baby. Your belly. Your hips. Your thighs.”

Mingyu’s hands patiently glide down your figure, taking their time to indulge in the shape of you. It radiates from him—the admiration, the longing—and it has you melting. You part your lips to release another floaty moan and Mingyu’s right there, his mouth pressed to yours, hungry for the taste of it on his tongue.

“I can’t forget your face” he hums, breaking from the kiss, stars dancing in those brown eyes, “It’s my favorite thing about you. Just look at you.” One hand dances up to stroke your cheek while another dips between your legs, his fingertips ghosting your clit just enough to make you tremble. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Especially when you make faces like that.”

You don’t want to make faces. You want to look cool, calm, and collected—completely unaffected by his teasing—but it’s nothing you can help. Your body reacts to him just the way he wants it to every single time and there’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing he wants you to do about it. 

“Don’t start” you warn, playfully swatting him on the back of the head. Instinctively you wrap a leg around his waist, your actions immediately betraying your words. 

“Start?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed, “I don’t know what you mean. Start what?” 

Mingyu plays innocent but in the blink of an eye he sweeps you off of your feet, your back pressed to the wall and his arms tucked behind your knees. You lock your arms around his shoulders, terrified that you’re about to come crashing to the ground. 

“You can’t just pick me up like that!” 

Mingyu laughs, shifting your weight to make sure you’re secure, “I can actually. Don’t worry. All this muscle isn’t for nothing. I’ve got you.” He locks eyes with you, as serious as he’s ever been.

“I said, I’ve got you” he repeats, rocking his hips so that the head of his cock brushes your slit. You’re dripping, already clenching, and the slick warmth of you coating his tip has him licking his lips. “Just relax, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Relax? And put your full weight onto this man? You can’t. He’s out of his mind. He’s insane. He’s lifting into you and every thick, wonderfully veined inch of his cock makes you care less about how heavy you might be. The only thing on your mind is the motion of his hips, every stroke of his cock making your body sing the sweetest of songs. 

If he were honest he’d say that holding you up was harder than he thought but not because of your weight. Your walls are so velvety, hugging his length like you never want to let go. The pleasure’s almost too much. It takes everything in him to keep himself from falling apart. 

“Love you” he whispers, nibbling at your bottom lip, “Love you so much.” 

 “Love…mmph….you…aah…too” you squeak, the smile on your face making his heart skip a beat. 

Mingyu thrusts into you harder one good time just to watch your eyes roll back. Your nails dig into the tense muscles of his back but he’s too high from the feeling of you for the sting to feel anything other than good. 

“Say it again. Tell me you love me too” he demands, fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs. 

“I love you too” you utter between sloppy kisses. 

“And you belong with me.”

He’s throbbing so deep inside of you that you’d swear you can feel it in your stomach. Your vision’s hazy. Your pulse is racing. It feels as if your very cells are vibrating. “I belong with you”. 

“That’s it. My good girl. My perfect girl” he coos, feeling you tighten around his cock. “Aww, you gonna cum, baby?” 

“Mmhmm” you whine, mindlessly riding his lap, desperate for more. 

This image of you will be burned into his mind for weeks. Legs around his waist. Pinned to the wall. Beads of water glimmering on your naked form. Clenching. Needy. Juices leaking down his cock as you cum around him, your walls spasming wildly as you take every inch. Every thrust. Every drop of him when he finally breaks, filling you until the warm white liquid’s dripping from your pretty slit. 

Are you levitating? You must be because he can’t feel himself holding you and you can’t feel yourself being held. You’re just here together floating in ecstasy. Peacefully. Effortlessly. As it should be. You can’t discern how much time has passed when Mingyu’s carefully lowering your legs, refusing to let you go until he’s sure you can stand on your own. 

“I’ve gotta get away from you” you tease, hopping out of the shower as quickly as your wobbly legs will let you, “You’re trouble.” 

Mingyu shuts the shower off, jumping out right after you to drag you back into his arms. “But you like trouble” he says, assaulting your left cheek with kisses. 

You roll your eyes and pout but you know he’s right. Any trouble you get from Mingyu is trouble you want. You couldn’t go without it. “Maybe.” Grabbing your towel, you tuck it around your body before tossing Mingyu his. “Now hurry up and get ready.”

“Get ready for…”

“I thought we were meeting your coworkers for drinks.”

Mingyu freezes, his system’s malfunctioning. He’s sure you didn’t just say what you said. “I thought you didn’t wanna go.”

“People change their minds, baby. Especially when they have boyfriends like you who make them feel like the prettiest girl in the world” you say, pinching his cheek, “I wanna be wherever you are. Unless you don’t want—”.

“Shut up, we’re going” he interrupts, “But first I gotta talk to you about something.” 

“Okay, what is it?” 

“We can’t talk about it here. It’s better if we talk in the bedroom.”

You stare at him skeptically, arms folded across your chest, “What can you talk to me about in the bedroom that we can’t talk about here?”

Mingyu lulls you into another tender kiss, sliding your towel up to massage your ass. “Get in there and I’ll show you.” 

You place your full trust in him, letting him blindly back you out of the bathroom and down the hall where your bedroom awaits, kissing you and caressing you, throwing off your entire sense of direction. It occurs to you as you cross the threshold of what you assume to be your bedroom and your towel hits the ground that you probably aren’t going out for drinks tonight. 

Chances are you’ll spend the night in instead, ending your day the way it began. Tangled in the sheets. Lost in him. Lost in each other. And that suits you just fine. You’ll see his coworkers when you see them. There’s no nervousness about it anymore. No fear. You’ve never known peace the way that you have with Mingyu. As long as you’re together everything’s as it should be and nothing can make you question that ever again. 

[yandere-romanticaa]

"Oho, I did not see you there!" chirped the white haired hero, his blue cloak trailing behind him as he walked straight towards you. It was difficult trying to maintain a calm demeanor and your best to ignore the heat in your cheeks and thumping of your heart. Not too long ago, you had parted with a friend and said friend was not shy in expressing his feelings towards you.

His pride and ego would take a massive hit if he was even aware that you were even entertaining Lord Phainon to begin with, but that was its own beast.

Right now, a beast as white as snow stood before you, his lips stretched out in a wide grin, pearly white teeth shining so brightly beneath the sunlight that it had you wondering whether or not he was going to sink them in straight into your delicate neck.

He probably would if he was not so impeccable at keeping his desires at bay. Or so he liked to say.

Phainon was many things, many wonderful, glorious things. And the moment you stepped foot into the city, he had been nothing but attentive, sweet, kind, generous, suffocating...

And that was not going to change any time soon.

He stood before you, arms opened wide as he hoped you would leap into his arms for a hug. Fearing to see him upset, you obliged his request, just not with the vigor he so desired. His scent overtook your senses the moment his body came into contact with yours - pretty white hair tickled the side of your neck, big arms entangled together as you heard him mutter something but were ultimately unsure of what.

As suffocating as he was, it could be hard to resist him at times. This was one of them.

Staying in his arms felt like sweet bliss, sweeter than any ambrosia as Phainon cheekily brought his lips closer to your neck and blew a hot breath on it, causing you to yelp in surprise. He shook a little as he laughed, the sound loud as it rang in your ears but the chorus came to an abrupt end just as soon as it started.

Phainon stood still as a statue, his back stiff and arms tight like a vice, as if he was contemplating something.

Icy chills went down your spine once you felt him softly inhale your scent, knowing damn well that he was going to find something a little more extra there. The musk had been entangled with your own scent and you prayed to every god in the known universe to grant you the mercy of a peaceful afternoon, but that plan was simply not in the cards.

The man said nothing as he cradled you in his arms, the silence deafening as the world around you continued to spin and move. No one seemed to notice the two of you, which just added another layer of horror to this already bad situation. A brisk shadow covered Phainon's face but it vanished in an instant, his blue eyes sparkling like jewels as he gazed down at you with fondness.

"I see you bought a new perfume for yourself. I am not sure what to make of it!"

With a gulp, you chuckled as your mind kept going through the several possibilities at hand - was he giving you an out? Did he hope you would come clean and say that someone else had hugged you tightly just as he was right now?

Was he perhaps playing dumb? Acting ignorant on purpose to lower your guard down?

Who knows. Maybe he really did think that you had bought a new perfume. But, that uncertainty was what shook you to the core. You just could not know, not unless it was too late...

In a split second decision, you choose to coyly say that you had indeed picked something up for yourself in the market. It was on sale and it was so pretty, how could you not buy it?

Phainon laughed, the sound loud and boisterous.

"I could have bought it for you, it really wouldn't have been any trouble for me!"

His grip became impossibly tight once he felt you trying to pull away, that damn grin still plastered on his handsome face. He looked as if he wanted to swallow you whole and if he really wanted to, he probably could in some way.

Suddenly, the sound of a church bell chiming in the distance distracted you both, granting a moment of reprieve as you swiftly but carefully stepped away from him. You put on your most convincing grin and waved him goodbye and you made sure to blow him a kiss for extra measure.

Phainon pretended to catch it with his hand and pressed it close to his heart, his gaze never once leaving your form as you quickly became nothing but a shadow in the distance. Today, he would let you go. He needed to be calm and smart about this, he cannot just charge right in and have you as his own, it just did not work like that.

Besides, he was never one to turn down a challenge. Phainon simply just did not know the meaning of giving up.

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fight to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

next

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Better when you're here ⭑

Masterlist

Pairing: Sad!king!aegon x sister!reader

A/N: #needthat

Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, pure filth, aegon whines so much I lost count, heavy mommy kink, sub aegon, fingering, piv sex, slight handjob, titty sucking (yes again), sad aegon.

Summary: Sad and needy Aegon just needs mummy to make him feel better :((((

Word count: 2.2k (pretty short blurb)

The gardens were your favourite place in the Red Keep, it was often quiet. And not to mention the beautiful view of the sea. You sat at one of the table’s in an alcove, it was nice and tucked away, giving you your own private space.

You read some book for a while and enjoyed your wine and lemoncakes. Because you never knew when it would be the last time you could sit here. You had been of age for two years now, and even though you have avoided marriage for quite a while, you never knew what your grandsire Otto Hightower had in mind. 

Now you had at least some security since your eldest brother Aegon was now king and everyone was distracted by the war that loomed over Westeros like a black cloud. Only a few more drops of rain to form before the whole thing came crashing down. 

Frustration and anxiety filled everyone's hearts and it was hard to pretend nothing was wrong. But the person you feared most right now was Aemond, he seemed to lose control everyday and he shocked the realm when he killed his own fourteen year old nephew at Storm’s End. However he was now to marry too, to some Baratheon girl and you knew that soon they would use you too, to make alliances with houses. Binded by a meaningless marriage.

You felt like it was all you were good for, and you saw how it affected Helaena and Aegon. Your heart broke for her, she wanted nothing more than to be left alone and live in peace, yet she must be queen. Aegon was of course also affected by this, ever since he became king he drank more than ever before and had even grown a bit of a belly. Still he remained of a nice physique. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you rode your dragons with him. He didn’t have much of a relationship with Helaena, seeing her more as his quiet sister than his wife and queen and for some reason it seemed better that way. She would be left alone more. 

But you and Aegon were a different story, you liked to sneak around and have fun with him. He might not be a great king or a good man but he was a good brother to you. And you saw things in him that no one else seemed to. The crown seemed to only stress him out and you knew that he just wanted to live out his days drinking wine and relaxing but your mother and grandsire had other plans. 

As of late you couldn’t see him much, council meetings took a great part of the day and he would always hide in his chambers afterwards. Your mother seemed to keep you away from him, for what reason you didn’t know. Your days went from watching Aemond train, flying around KIng’s Landing with Aegon and running around the Red Keep with friends to praying at the Sept, locked inside your chamber or helping Helaena with embroidery. That is why the gardens offered a nice escape.

Soon you would pay a visit to your elder sister and her twins. After a morning at the sept with your mother and sister you needed some alone time. But Helaena was always a calming and nice presence and it was good to keep her company.

After reading the last sentence of a chapter you closed the book, and decided it would be nice to sow with Helaena. As you walked through the halls of the red keep numerous ‘your grace’ and ‘princes’ surrounded you, staff getting out of your way. You ascended the stairs in the throne room, it was empty. Soon it would be supper time but there was enough time.

When you reached Helaena’s door you could already hear your niece and nephew playing, which put a smile on your face. You knocked twice and a handmaiden opened, letting you inside. Helaena was sitting on some blankets and pillows, already embroidering what looked like a blanket. She looked up and slightly smiled when you joined her side, children playing on their own blanket. 

Getting handed some thread, a needle and a new fabric, as was the routine, you began to work on something for Aegon and if you worked hard enough you could bring it to him tonight. When you were about finished, a servant came in to fetch you and Helaena for supper with the family.

But when you arrived only Aemond, Alicent and Otto were there, Aegon’s seat was empty. Silently you both joined them and began eating without him. Supper was tense and silent as it had been for about a month now. When you had finished, you excused yourself and fetched the doublet you had finished before supper, wanting to bring a gift to your brother. 

When you had fetched it you hurriedly made your way up to the king's bedchambers, you knew something was wrong with Aegon, all the stress had probably gotten to him. When you had almost reached the door Ser Criston Cole stood guard there. He bowed his head before he spoke; “Princess, the king does not wish to be disturbed right now.” He said politely. 

“I understand, but I have something to cheer him up, so please, let me enter.” Ser Criston seemed to think about it, before releasing a sigh and opening the door for you, very softly as to not disturb his grace. You stepped inside and Cole just as softly as he opened the door, closed it again. It was now dark and Aegon’s fire was lit as he sat in a chair in front of it, you could hear the sobs coming from him. It broke your heart. 

You quietly made your way towards him. “Aegon?” You called out. He didn’t lift his head. You walked around him so you were standing in front of him, he looked up with red stained cheeks, and red, tear filled eyes. “Oh Aeg- what happened?” You asked him, instead of answering he buried his head into your stomach, his hand gripping your dress as he sobbed into it. The doublet falling on the ground.

You caressed his messy short silver locks and he continued to sob for a while, in your embrace. Then he seemed to speak up; “They- don’t care about- me-” He choked against you in between sobs. “Who doesn’t care about you?” You were confused but he lifted his head from your now tear stained dress. “The- the- council- mother- my own hand- they don’t- care-!” He sobbed as he looked at you desperately. 

But to your surprise he pulled you in his lap as his hands were still clinging to your dress. You gasped as you landed on his thighs, he buried his face in your chest instead and continued to cry, the doublet on the ground, forgotten. “Aegon they do care, especially mother, they just want the best for you. To help guide you since they have knowledge of war-” “No! They all hate me- everyone of them!” His breath on your skin gave you goosebumps. His hand now rested on your hip, keeping you in place. 

“You’re the only one who loves me- I see that now- my beautiful smart sister.” He seemed to have exhausted his tears as they now stopped, he breathed heavily against your chest, nuzzling his face against your breasts. He must have had wine. “You love me? Right sister?” He mumbled against your breasts. “Of course I do, so incredibly much. I would do anything for you.” You soothed him, hand still grazing through his silver locks. His purple eyes stared up at you and he smiled slightly.

“Anything?” He asked softly. “Of course, you are not only my brother but my king.” You smiled, placing a kiss on his forehead. This stirred something in him and he breathed heavier again. His face and especially his nose grazed your neck and jaw, lips ghosting over the warm skin. Your own breath hitched in your throat at the feeling. “Aeg-” He ignored you and started to kiss and nip at the soft skin. You lightly gasped at the feeling, and then you felt something hard against your thigh. 

“Brother I don’t think we should-” He stopped and looked at you with teary eyes. “I need this- I need you. Please- just- just let me make you feel good. To thank you. Please mummy.” That last part was whined against your chest where he let his hand graze the low neckline of your dress. Since it was warm earlier, it was quite thin and loose. Your body felt hot at his words, your lower stomach filled with an ache you didn’t understand.

His hand started then at the bottom of your leg, underneath your dress, as he caressed your leg moving up and up where you didn’t know you needed him. “I’m so hard for you mummy. All because of you.” He whined. His hand had finally reached your core, two of his fingers rubbing over your smallclothes, which were already wet with your slick. “Aegon-” You moaned, sparks went off in your body at his touch, you had no idea what he was doing to you but seven hells did it feel good. You hoped he would never stop, but still it felt wrong and guilt consumed you. Yet you didn’t stop him.

His other hand that didn’t tease your clothed clit was still busy with your neckline. The dress was loose enough for him to pull it down so your tits would fall out. He wasted no time in sucking on them. The feeling of his warm wet tongue sucking on your nipple made you release a moan. It felt way too good, it had to be a sin. Aegon himself moaned around your breast, bucking his hips up in need for friction. All your will to stop him had left you. Desire clouding your mind. You moved so that both of your legs were now on either side of his lap, the chair was big and comfortable enough to allow this. 

Aegon released your nipple but never moved his hand from teasing you. But when you sat down, his hand trapped, he removed it and pulled at your dress, eager to remove it. You didn’t know why you did it, but you needed him. You helped him remove your dress and shimmied out of your small clothes as well. “Need to be inside you mummy.” You gasped at his fingers sliding through your now bare slit. His fingers then stimulating your clit. Your breath hitched when he put a finger inside you, going deeper until he found that spot that would make you see stars. He stretched you out a bit for a while until he got too impatient and grabbed your hand to place between you, over his bulge. 

You instinctively squeezed it making him gasp. He moved your hand and quickly undid his breeches himself. He then reached for your hand again and helped you stroke his thick veiny cock. Pre cum started to dribble out over both your hands. And Aegon groaned at the sight. When he was almost about to cum for your hand alone, he removed it, as he did, he removed his fingers inside your cunt as well. Grabbing your hips instead, his cock was so hard it hurt and the feeling of his tip hitting your warm slick entrance almost made him cry out. He used one hand to guide his cock better inside you and you winced in pain. “It’ll be better soon, I promise.” He said softly. 

You whispered okay and he buried himself deeper inside until he was fully sheathed inside you. Your clit hit his pelvic bone and a bolt of pleasure shot through you. You felt so sensitive and weak. When you felt like the pain went away you slowly started to grind and bounce on his cock, testing the waters. He whimpered in response, it just felt so good for him. He held on to your hips so you could start a steady rhythm and he knew he wouldn't last long. “So tight mummy- feels so good.” He sobbed. Squelching and slapping noises filled the room and you both forgot all about a certain guard outside. 

Both of your moans filled each other's mouths as you held on tight to each other. Lost in pleasure you chase your release and started riding him faster, Aegon started to fuck up into you in response chasing his own high. “Mummy- I-I’m close- please- gonna fill you so good.” Aegon whined. This only spurred you on and soon you clenched down on his cock, fire striking through you, you had never felt such insane pleasure in your life. Aegon did not stop fucking into you though and only moments later he cried out as his warm seed filled you. He squeezed you against him tightly to hold you in place. 

He came so much it started to drip out along his shaft, onto his balls and some drops even landed on the floor. You both caught your breath and Aegon didn’t let go of you. But after a few moments his grip loosened and you winced when his softening cock left you. He whined at your warm body getting up but you soothed him, just getting the rest of his clothes off and helping him to the bed. You laid down as well and he immediately crawled up against your chest. “Thank you mummy.”

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Sleeves

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Short Fem!Reader

Warnings: Quinn thinking you're hot af, so slightly mature in that sense but nothing extreme.

Summary: Jersey sleeves are just a little too long for you.

Notes: Reader is described as short but not a specific height. I, a short person, could be wrong here, but I assume the taller you are the longer your arms are hense the height focus in this fic. Also it's a 43 Hughes jersey not Quinn's own one because we're all different sizes and I don't want anyone to be unable to imagine it, y'know????

Had this idea cause my Jack Jersey has super long sleeves and it makes me feel safe and silly (I'm getting a Quinn jersey for X-mas from my brother and i'm very excited)

It's baffling actually, when you really think about it, that you'd been dating a pro-Hockey player for nearly 8 months and hadn't owned a single jersey until now. Sure, Quinn had tried to convince you to just borrow one of his, his desire to see you in his jersey practically an obsession, but half the time they were sweat stained and stinky and you kind of just wanted one designed for you and your body. So you'd gone to his games in just your normal clothes, sometimes you wore the stupid t-shirt Jack and Luke got you with Quinn's face on it for your birthday, but you'd never worn a hockey jersey.

This had seemed a shame and you'd decided enough was enough. You went to all Quinn's home games and tried to go to as many away games as possible, you thought that surely you should, as a dutiful girlfriend wear a #43 jersey. It felt wrong, somehow, not to have at least one, to wear one at least once.

So you'd bought one, taken your time considering which version to get, which size you preferred. You hadn't told Quinn because any time you wanted to buy something for yourself he always did it for you, claiming he had more money than he knew what to do with. As sweet as it was, sometimes you wanted to spend your own hard earned money. Plus, you'd wanted it to be a surprise. It was practically on his bucket list at this point, it felt like something...big.

So you'd kept it quiet, bought a #43 Hughes black skate jersey in a size just this side of too big, oversized for the comfort factor. What you hadn't anticipated was how you felt wearing it...or Quinn's reaction.

It was just fabric, just a jersey but the moment you slipped it on you felt...safe. The fabric was soft against your skin, not tight or claustrophobic and the sleeves...oh the sleeves were your favourite part. You were short, that was a fact of life, you hadn't grown upwards since you were 14 and you'd made your peace with it. Didn't really have a choice, given that you spent all your time around hockey players. Some of whom were absolute giants, Meyers came straight to mind. Quinn was considered a smaller player in the business and even he made you feel short. Being short, had the effect though of making the sleeves of your jersey gigantic.

You couldn't really describe the sheer joy you felt when the sleeves went past your fingertips absolutely swallowing your hands. You felt like a little kid again, you felt comfy, and safe. Maybe it was scratching some sort of anxiety itch in your brain or maybe it was that you'd missed this feeling from when you were a kid, the feeling of being so so small that everything else felt giant, but you loved it either way.

Your plan was to hide the jersey until Quinn's next game, ready to surprise him when he looked for you during warmups, ready for him to realise you were finally wearing his name and number. Something he'd been not so subtly pushing for months every single time he conveniently left a jersey out next to your game day clothes before he left for the rink.

The moment he left for the game after a goodbye kiss and some I love yous, you'd put the jersey he'd left on the bed away (no matter how many times he washed it it still had the lingering smell of hockey...) and reached into the back of the wardrobe, underneath a series of boxes and miscellaneous items, for your own. You'd hidden it well, so far back, it was actually a struggling to get to.

You'd slipped it on over your jumper and layers, letting the sleeves fall over your fingertips. That familiar safe, giddy feeling filling you as you twirled in a circle in front of the mirror before dropping your shoulders, closing your eyes and just enjoying it. There was something about the physical sensation that was enjoyable, the way it felt, the sense of comfort it brought, but it went past that. It felt good to look in the mirror and see Quinn's number on your arms, across your back, his surname plastered in the large font. It felt good to wear a reminder of him.

You opened your eyes after a few moments of flapping the long sleeves about, a childish joy in the flap of fabric. Your sight snagging in the mirror on the doorframe behind you, Quinn leaning a shoulder against it, kit bag at his feet. He had softest smile on his face, the sort of smile that made his eyes crinkle gently and had his teeth poking out just so.

You spin around to face him startled, not expecting him to be back. Your fingers meeting and twisting together, hidden beneath the lengths of sleeve fabric.

"Did you...did you forget something?"

It's obvious to him that you're trying to avoid the elephant in the room, the surprise he's clearly ruined. It's not his jersey, but it is and it's all he's wanted to see you in for months now...Fuck, you look good in his jersey. You've brought it in a size that's just the right sort of oversized, swallowing familiar curves under layers of black, yellow and red fabric. How you make something that hides every part of you look so good he doesn't really understand, but he thinks that maybe that just says more about how he feels about you than anything else.

Your hands are invisible, swallowed by fabric and his name and number across your back were practically searerd into his retina. A memory pressed into the pages of his mind. It's stupid, possessive, ridiculous, caveman-ish but, fuck, he likes that you're saying you're his, likes that everyone can see it. That it's his name across your back.

"My number looks good on you..." Quinn bites down on his bottom lip, tilts his head to the side as his eyes trail over you. The way he's looking at you, you'd think you were stood there naked, not swallowed in fabric. It makes your cheeks warm.

"Quinn..." You let out and embarrassed whine, hands coming up to cover your face as he trails his way closer, feet padding softly across the carpet. His gear forgotten in the doorway, the sense of urgency to get the last piece he forgot and get to the rink, gone. Game? What game?

You feel his presence first, feet stopping close to your own, his form towering over you as he wraps his hands gently around your wrists and tugs them free from your face. He's practically grinning at you, that one strand of brunet hair falling across his brow as he leans down towards you.

"The sleeves too, you look cute in it, fuck..." He tugs on the ends of the sleeves, examining the way your hands are swallowed by the fabric. The cute wiggle of them from underneath before being swallowed whole.

"This for me, pretty girl?"

You nod, feeling oddly shy in front of him as his eyes keep following your form like he can't quiet get enough. It's surreal, you've had boyfriends who didn't even look at you like that when you were dolled to the nines, you're just in a jersey, some ordinary clothes, everything covered, nothing special, "...It was supposed to be a surprise...for tonight."

"Ah," he fills in the blanks. He's ruined it by coming back unexpectedly, because he forgot his stupid mouthguard of all things. He imagines it though, being on the ice, looking for you like he always does, his eyes gravitating towards you like he's stuck in your orbit. He can see the way you'd look in the lights of the rink, his number proudly displayed. Could see the way he'd probably stop dead on the ice, probably get a bunch of shit from the guys, can see Petey shoving him with a laugh, but he'd not care at all because you're finally wearing his jersey and he's been waiting for this for months.

"Can you, uh, never take it off?" he laughs, tugging you closer, arms wrapping around you as his fingers trail across the letters making up his name on the back. Memorising the feel of it, his name on you, finally.

"Quinn..."

"What? You look...fuck, you look so good in my jersey, baby, like...unreal..." He means it and you know he means it because he's got that sparkle in his eyes that screams his feelings out loud without a single word.

"...you have a game to get to.." you mumble, face pressing into his chest, trying to hide from him because only Quinn can make you quite this bashful after this length of time together. Only Quinn can seemingly disarm you completely.

He presses a kiss to the top of your hair, cheek pushing against the crown of your head as he rocks you side to side.

"Mmm, you're not gonna take this off, right? You're still going to wear it to the game for me, baby?" There's a little slither of fear that he might have embarrassed you, that you'll hide the jersey away somewhere and he'll never see you in it again.

"...Yeah, i'll still wear it for you..."

He thinks this might just be what he wants for the rest of his life. You in his jersey, you with his name across your back, you...with the name you might one day share proudly taking up space for everyone to see.

In that moment, he realises, he's a complete fucking goner for you. He's well and truly fucked in the best sort of way.

[silverskyeline]

ੈ♡˳ imagine life with lumberjack logan . 18+ gn!reader

♡ life with lumberjack logan is peaceful and calm, your love nestled away deep within the woods. no one can bother you here, just you and your man. and he likes it that way, having you all to himself in this safe space he calls home. those wooden walls surrounding you may house you, but he finds his true sanctuary in your arms.

♡ logan wakes five minutes before he knows he has to leave, sometimes ten minutes, long enough to savour your scent and the feeling of your warm body pressed against his. his thick, strong arms wrap around you, grumbling into the back of your neck as he presses soft kisses along your skin. early mornings never bothered him, until it meant leaving you behind.

♡ at work, his thoughts drift to you. wiping the sweat from his brow, he can't help but imagine your sweet smile in the back of his mind. it causes a smile of his own to grow, dampening it before the boys inevitably tease him. they know how whipped he is for you, how he adores you, but logan doesn't mind. though he's quiet in nature, he wants his love for you to be loud.

♡ when he returns home, he catches your scent and like a dog with a bone, he finds you. he pulls you into a tight embrace, burying his face into your shoulder before stealing your lips in a heated kiss. a kiss that tells you how much he's thought of you all day, how much he missed you, how much he loves you.

♡ and it's not long till his thick cock is twitching against you through his jeans, causing you to gasp. he's got you up on the counter in seconds, yet taking his sweet time to remove the material barriers between you. he wants to show you how much he cherishes you, no matter how long it takes.

♡ when he's fucking you? christ, it's like nothing else you've ever felt. so tender yet so rough at the same time, taking you like you're his, because you are his. his cock makes light work of your tight hole, your body remembering his thickness and craving it each time. you call his name as he fucks you hard against the counter, pressing sloppy wet kisses along your neck, and he swears. . . nothing is better than this.

♡ the soft moments are soft, too. he really knows how to take care of you, you're his everything after all. bathing together is one of his favourite activities, slotting you in front of him as he carefully washes your hair, those big paws of his threading through your strands. and sometimes, when he's feeling a little vulnerable - nightmares piercing through the perfect life he has with you, he allows you to wash his hair too. you're slow with him, lathering the soap into his silky strands as he groans and melts against you like the big bear he is.

♡ quiet moments in the night are stolen by the two of you, swaying slowly in the kitchen under the dim orange light projected by the lamp in the corner of the room. his calloused hands are on your hips, your back pressed close to his chest as you feel him smile against your ear. it's so. . . peaceful, domestic, two things logan thought this life would never be kind enough to offer him. and they felt alien, at first. but after years of existing with you, he's come to relax, and perhaps. . . he's beginning to accept that he might just deserve a happy ending after all.

ੈ♡˳ logan promptober day 29 - origins