#nothing more real than The Cycles!!!

[cent-scratchnsniff]

something bad did indeed happen to that man. spent abt 25 minutes trying to find a better picture of that one (1) offical piece with his eyes open that wasnt compressed or tiny

[yamikawaii]

theres just something about being inherently unworthy of love

[scootatwoni]

The strongest warriors are those that love botw but don't ship zelink (me its me I'm the strongest warrior)

[arolesbianism]

Y'know the fun thing abt how I've set up the society that the main stalien cast comes from is that even the most broad general trends across stalien societies tend to not apply to them. So everytime I yap about how most herds form and the general trends in their societies I just get to remember mid yapping that basically none of this will ever be evident or even come up in the main story. Damn isolated motherfuckers

[nosferatufaggot]

It's crazy that I have a pet cat who plays fetch. And I didn't even teach them to do that.

[abyssalpriest]

the amount of shit that just adds up when you do actual spirit work

[ikchos]

feat. zayne (l&ds)

cw. dubcon, smut, breeding kink, impregnation, period / ovulation tracking, unprotected sex (be safe evb).

zayne was a doctor. your doctor, specifically. it was nice to have a sweet boyfriend like him who was also a licensed physician. whenever you were sick, he'd nurse you back to health. if you accidentally burned your hand when trying to cook, he'd go above and beyond to help you. he paid more attention to your health and body than you did.

sometimes he'd pay a little too much attention. he wasn't an obgyn but he'd keep track of your periods but... don't all loving boyfriends and physicians do that? zayne would also take note of when you were ovulating... a little strange but hey, he was just doing his best to take care of you.

your boyfriend seemed to act a little funny during your ovulation cycle, though—touchy-feely, desperate, hungry. his kisses were so heady, getting you so intoxicated that you had no choice but get drunk on the taste of his mouth. hands that were once featherlight now rough and wanting to touch every part of your body.

you just assumed that he had a hard time at work and needed to release some frustration... oh, how wrong you were. all zayne could think about was how pretty you'd be with a swollen belly. you, the love of life, carrying his baby and him taking care of you both. the thought made him crazy.

he laid you down with fervent kisses and fingers curling inside of your cunt. he couldn't wait; he needed you. and when you looked up at him, all laid out and pretty, he knew you needed him too. your hole was a sticky, wet mess—see, even nature was telling him to make you a mother.

the sounds you made were so sweet—nothing but strangled praises and whines whenever he would split you open with his cock. any other time, zayne would be tipsy on the feeling of your pussy gripping around him but now he was practically black out drunk. he was going to fill you with his cum twenty times over until you got knocked up and your body didn't seem to reject that idea. you would like that, wouldn't you?

his hips stuttered and he kept a firm hold on your throat as he stuffed you full with his cock, a mix of grunting and whining as he finally stilled himself as close to your womb as humanly possible and let his warm seed fill you up until your fluttery cunt couldn't hold in any more. you'd be the perfect mother.

zayne hoped that this was finally the time he knocked you up for real. but if not, that's okay... you had a full two weeks in your cycle and he was going to make every single day count.

[awritersbro]

If I had a nickel for every time I had a wolfboy OC named Peter Andy Wolf I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, and it's a pity that I've only been able to use that name twice.

[choslut]

˖ ࣪ ، ◞ せ⌇ BABY MOMMA. featuring k. nanami.

↻ there’s nothing nanami wants more in the world than to make you a mommy, and give you his beautiful kids.

tags : breeding kink, creampie, mommy kink (if you squint), messy sex, pet names, feral nanami, marathon sex, lactation + pregnancy (fantasized), ovulation cycle // wc. 0.9k

author’s note : sorry this one’s a lil late, i’ve been busy with theme changes and real life is throwing a million and one hurdles at me and i just can’t keep up 😞 you can't tell me that nanami wouldn't be a massive family man, so here i have him completely desperate to start a family with you and give you his babies. notes and reblogs are always appreciated, and check out my masterlist for non-event based works <3 !!

this work is NSFW. minors and ageless blogs DO NOT INTERACT.

it’s been hours. hours since nanami even proposed the idea of trying for kids, and now, it’s all he can fucking think about. 

it’s all you can think about too, given the fact that he’s fucked you out of your mind, legs numb from being in missionary for as long as you remember with nanami plunging in and out of you, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix with every single thrust. 

it’s repetitive. it’s addicting. 

“hah- kento, can’t take no more…” your voice is a sheepish babble, nails digging into his back as tears stream down your face. “ ‘s too much, ken, please–“

nanami grunts in your ear, hips never ceasing movement as he ruts into you. “g’na have to, sweetheart. this one’s gotta take.”

he said that about the last one, and the one before that, and the one before that… and fuck, you can’t keep up with how many times he’s said it because he’s been going at it for so long with only one goal in mind. 

he’s gonna give you kids. he’s gonna make you a mommy, and you’re gonna raise his kids with him as his wife. 

it’s all he’s ever wanted. it’s all he’s ever dreamed of, and when he watches you lounge around the house wearing nothing but a bra and his oversized dress shirt and a wedding ring fit snugly on your finger, he really can’t stop himself from imagining what you would look like with a swollen tummy, breasts spilling out of that same bra. 

“g’na give you my kids baby…” he’s rambling half out of his ass, his brain scrambled by pure need. “gonna make my girl a mommy. you’re gonna be a great mommy, aren't you?”

he’s brought up the topic before. it was never anything serious, just asking you what you would prefer and never really thinking of his own volition. you had always agreed with him wholeheartedly, and it would somehow lead to the two of you cooing over baby clothes and strollers but never anything more. 

nanami is fucking sick of it. he’s sick of fawning over the idea and not doing anything about it. sure, you’ve made love a couple of times, but it never held any true intent, focusing on the pure need to give each other pleasure. 

well, now, nanami needs more than pleasure. he needs to see you with that swollen tummy and those massive leaky tits, and there’s only one way to do that; fucking you within an inch of your life and cumming in your cunt until it finally takes. 

“kento–“ you seemingly haven’t gotten bored of it yet, despite having been at it for over two hours. your back still arches with every bump to your cervix, nails still raking down his back as his sweaty chest squashes your own. “this one’s gonna take, promise.”

“i can’t be sure of that,” he states matter-of-factly. “although your tracker says you’re ovulating, we can’t just trust that once or twice will be enough.” is he sure of this fact? no, but he is sure that you feel too damn good to stop, even though he’s already finished inside of you enough times to guarantee your pregnancy ten times over. 

you just look so beautiful beneath him. you wear the radiance of sex extremely well, eyes fogged over and mouth hanging open as your steamy pants echo in his ear. you’re borderline intoxicating, and that’s why nanami can’t stop, even though he knows you need him to before you pass out. 

“look at me, angel. i wanna see you.” you weakly turn your cheek away from the pillow and look up at him, lips stained a gorgeous red and swollen from his kisses. “you’re gonna be such a pretty momma.”

your eyelids flutter and your back arches weakly as you cum again for the final time, garbled moans of nanami’s name flooding from your throat. despite the longevity of your session, your cunt still manages to squeeze around him impossibly, and nanami groans deeply, arms sliding around your hips as you pulls you forward to meet his thrusts. 

“kentooo…”

“i know, baby, i know.” the sheets are soiled with your sweat and his, and the tight clampdown of your walls propels him to cum one final time, hips flush against your twitching clit as he pumps you full. 

you both stay like that for a beat, nanami folded over your twitching body before he finally pulls out slowly, and when he does, the sight he’s met with is so incredibly dirty that he can barely believe he was the one to reduce you to such a mess. “oh, angel…”

copious amounts of his release flood from your cunt, leaving a translucent pool on your sheets. whilst he absolutely loves the sight and wishes to brand it on the forefront of his brain, nanami’s goal is still clear as day. 

he leans down and kisses your overstimulated clit, fingers dancing around your twitchy hole and gathering up his release before pushing it back inside with a curl of his fingers that makes you want to scream. 

“can’t waste any, my dear, or it might not take, remember?” when he looks up at you from in between your trembling thighs, the look on his face is nothing short of depraved, blonde strands of hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks stained red with excitement. 

“can’t wait to see my girl become a mommy.”

PREVIOUS : THE COLOUR RED ft. yae miko NEXT : BLACKOUT ft. tartaglia

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© choslut 2024 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Continuation to This Post :]

------

It was always so strange to hear adults argue.

Grown up fights never seemed quite the same as the trivial spats her and Dipper sometimes had. They were similar in some aspects, yes; Adults and children weren't as different as people liked to think. Mabel had seen adults verbally lash at one another with vicious words just as low hanging and petty as the ones she'd sometimes see kids the same age as her use. Adults arguing was essentially just a louder, angrier version of children fights.

And yet, there was somehow... more to it. Grown up arguments always seemed to weigh so much heavier in the air, and for so much longer than she'd ever thought possible.

Sometimes, the weight would leave quick and early, practically gone by the next morning. However, occasionally, the weight would stay; and grow heavier, and heavier over the years. Until it came to a point when the weight was nothing but a choking, stifling presence that seemed to fill every room in the house and buzz deafeningly in your ears like an unpleasant static that made your head pound.

Then, one day, the pressure would burst with a loud yell, a slam, and a bang, and start building up all over again. It was a cycle Mabel was much familiar with.

Her Grunkle Ford's "Mystery Shack" didn't have that air.

The shack's air smelled like burnt out candles and cheap discount Halloween fake blood, with a hint of real blood underneath the stinging scent of old wood and aged parchment. It wasn't necessarily a very nice air, certainly not in any way the fresh, crisp, clean air of the streets of Piedmont, but it smelled more like home than she'd ever felt back in California. It just smelled like... Grunkle Ford.

She liked her Grunkle Ford. He was super weird; with an even weirder Uncle as his roommate. He checked her and Dipper's arms and legs every morning "just in case someone broke in at night to steal a sample of their bloods"; he despised overly sweet foods (baffling, truly); and he had exactly 27 locks installed on the front and back door respectively that he could unlock all in under a minute with his really fast extra fingers. He reminded her a little of Dipper on some occasions, no matter how much the latter liked to deny the similarities (although, bar the demonic obssession).

However, last night, the air suddenly grew heavy.

Grunkle Ford had a fight.

Mabel hadn't heard it, and she hadn't seen it, but she knew there had been one. She was an expert recognizing the signs; she could always tell.

When she had awoken that late morning, the stuffy summer air had taken an even more sour note than usual, and had become a touch heavier than it should have been. Either that meant Grunkle Ford had just recently finished up a ritual, or a particularly rowdy argument had taken place; and Mabel knew that Grunkle Ford only performed his rituals between 2 to 4 AM, when he thought the twins were well asleep.

It was strange, to feel that same heavy air push down upon her temples and pound that same painful rhythm of a mounting headache as it used to do so often back when Mabel was in California. It had already happened a few times at the shack, but this one felt... heavier, than usual. She didn't think she would have to encounter the discomforting weight again this summer, away from her parents. Yet here she was. Aching.

She knew Gunkle Ford and Uncle Bill fought and bantered. With Bill being a permanent resident trapped within her Grunkle's mind, she couldn't imagine how they wouldn't. She didn't think even she could keep her cool if she had Uncle Bill as her brain roommate 24/7.

In any case, their interactions in front of the twins were mostly a mixture of exasperated resignation, or irritated tolerance, mostly from Grunkle Ford. Their occasional volleying exchanges of vitriol doused insults and words were short lived, and brief most of the time, especially when in front of the kids. They were nothing like the long, loud ones that could go on for hours back at her house in Piedmont.

Even so, there were some times when Mabel would see Grunkle Ford late in the evening, red faced and tight fisted, stomping down to the basement and disappearing into his lab there with a deafening slam of the rickety wooden door. She recognized that slam. He didn't want the twins to hear the argument.

Even if they could hear anything, what little they could glean always seemed to be only side of the argument, with Grunkle Ford yelling curses at Uncle Bill inside his head. She always did wonder what happened inside Grunkle Ford's head. Although, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer. She couldn't imagine the state of the mind of someone who sometimes forgot to eat or sleep for almost a full week until someone reminded him.

The entire day passed with that same, tense air choking the atmosphere. Dipper had dragged Mabel and himself to some adventure in the forest, but it seemed to her that he was just trying to find excuses to stay out of the shack for the time being. Even he seemed to feel the unnerving heaviness of the air.

That night, underneath her sheets, Mabel pulled out the worn and well used wooden art mannequins Dipper and Grunkle Ford seemed to keen on using to summon Bill rather than their own shadows. With her trusty golden glitter pen (that she knew Uncle Bill loved despite what he claimed), she gently drew a closed eye upon the blank wooden face of the little model.

The eye opened, and she spoke:

[luminnara]

Protector | Feyd-Rautha x reader

ANON REQUEST: your marriage to Feyd-Rautha is an arranged one, and your only task is to provide an heir. When you finally become pregnant, your new husband suddenly grows obsessed with you—but does he care about you, or is he simply protective of his progeny?

Warnings: pregnancy, labor, and related talk; canon typical violence

MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Your marriage was one born out of duty, not love. You couldn’t even call it a marriage of convenience; there was nothing convenient about leaving your homeworld and traveling across an entire galaxy to marry someone you had never even met before. Yes, the Houses had agreed beforehand that you were to marry Feyd-Rautha, the Na-Baron of House Harkonnen, and immediately after the deal had been struck you had seen his face and read his writing, but you hadn’t met him until your wedding day.

You had chastised yourself for thinking it could be like the fairytales of Ancient Earth. You, a princess, your betrothed a handsome prince…in the stories of your childhood, he would have whisked you away, off to a great, shining palace full of magical wonders, and you would have lived happily ever after. Instead, your prince had proved to be disinterested in you, busying himself with his arena and his concubines, ignoring you most of the day. The Harkonnen fortress did not shine, nor did it hold any great wonders, and Giedi Prime felt far from magical, with its harsh black sun and polluted landscape.

After your vows, you had naively thought your wedding night would be full of romance. Perhaps you had been holding onto hope as a means to protect yourself, clinging to optimism to distract yourself from your harsh, sad reality. You had been all too eager to shed your dress and veil in Feyd-Rautha’s living quarters, though had not expected them to be ruined by his blade, and you had not expected him to greedily conquer you as if it were yet another battle in the arena. He had slept next to you that night, but had made it painfully obvious that he had no interest in holding you or even touching you, keeping far to his side of the bed while you remained far to yours. In the morning, you had awoken alone, and had realized that it was the beginning of a long and lonely road on your new planet.

Everyone expected an heir. That was the entire point of this marriage, a legitimate heir for the Harkonnen line. Anyone else could have done it—you were of fine breeding, yes, but any of the other Houses could have offered up a daughter to suffer at Feyd-Rautha’s side. Why it had to be you surely came down to the only things powerful men seemed to care about—money and spice. An allegiance with House Harkonnen protected your family, and your small share of spice harvesters on Arrakis added yet another drop into their vast bucket and one less smuggling operation to worry about. Your parents were happy. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen was happy.

And you were miserable.

Two months after your wedding, your monthly cycle continued as normal, and you were forced to shamefully inform the na-Baron. After an annoyed sound and a grimace, he bent you over the nearest table and took you for a second time, leaving you to clean yourself up and cry at your husband’s callousness. You didn’t know why he couldn’t bring himself to care. You supposed he already had everything he could possibly want; wealth, concubines, a throne to inherit…you brought nothing of real value to him, save for the ability to produce an heir.

Time passed, and it became clear that Feyd-Rautha would have to touch you more than once a month if he was to have any hope of fathering a child. You cursed yourself for your apparent inability to conceive—fertility had been one of your parents’ selling points when negotiating with the Baron, and now, you couldn’t even do the one thing that was expected of you. It brought you to tears every night, the stress of being reduced to this and yet still being unable to perform your task. It was maddening, though you knew you were hardly the first woman to find yourself in such a situation. You did worry, however, that you may have been the weakest.

One evening, as Feyd performed his husbandly duties, he noticed a tear slipping down your cheek and paused. You felt a rough hand cup the side of your face and opened your eyes to find your husband staring at you with dark eyes, his head tilted to suggest he was curious.

“Tears?” He asked in his raspy voice that was still so alien to you.

“My apologies, na-Baron,” you looked away from him.

“You are crying.”

You stifled an annoyed sigh. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Do not worry yourself with me, husband.” You said.

“Tell me.”

This was perhaps the longest conversation you had had since marrying him, and part of you didn’t want it to end. You looked at him once more, finding him still watching you with that unwavering, predatory gaze, and another tear rolled down your cheek and onto his hand.

“I am sorry I have not given you a child.” You whispered.

“Then let me put one into you.”

His tone sent a chill down your spine, frightening and exciting you all at once. That night, Feyd-Rautha did not let you sleep, shocking you with his determination. It was simply because the sooner you conceived, the sooner he could return to his own concerns, you reasoned.

Sure enough, your period did not arrive when expected, nor did the next. A medical test confirmed what you already knew—you were pregnant, with Feyd-Rautha’s child. A Harkonnen child, who would grow up to be just as ruthless and savage as its father, you thought.

Upon receiving the positive result, you immediately set off to tell the na-Baron. He should not be made to wait; you wanted him to know that the entire point of your union was finally achieved, and that you could both go back to ignoring each other as usual. As you walked, you had the worrying thought that he may not even keep you alive after the delivery.

“Na-Baron,” you addressed him upon finding him in his armory.

He looked up from the blade he was sharpening. “Wife.”

“I bring news,” you said, folding your hands in front of yourself.

“Then tell me, before I grow bored of waiting.” He returned to the hunting knife, looking away from you once more.

“I am with child.”

You watched as Feyd-Rautha paused, tilting his head to look at you. “My child?”

“Yes. Who else could it possibly belong to?” You asked, exasperated. “The physicians confirmed it just now. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

He nodded slowly, looking back at the knife in his hand as he thought. “I see.”

Whatever hopes you had once had for him to suddenly flip his entire personality at the news were quickly dashed by his lack of emotion. You left him there, a hand over your mouth as you tried not to cry, returning to your bed to be alone once more.

-0-

In those earlier days of pregnancy, you were often ill, sprinting from bed to the wash basin nearly every day to be sick. Usually, you were alone; Feyd-Rautha rose early, spending his mornings training and sometimes killing his instructors. Whenever that happened, he would come back, wearing blood and a grin on his face as if he had just won some great contest.

Today, however, he was enjoying a rare occasion of sleeping in. He had begun spending his nights in the center of the bed, crowding you as you attempted to stay away from him. One morning you had even woken up to find his arm throne over you, his body closer than ever. Now, he was sleeping, and you would have been content to let him remain there were you not busy launching yourself over him as you ran to the adjoining wash room.

You missed the way your husband sat up, eyes wide and frenzied as he pulled a dagger from beneath the pillows. When he found the room to be empty and free of danger, he grew confused…until he heard your retching in the next room, and slipped out of bed.

“Wife?” He asked from the doorway.

“What?” You groaned, leaning your cheek on the cool basin.

“…are you alright?”

You sighed. “No, na-Baron, I am not. I mean…I am, I just…”

“You are sick,” he pointed out.

It took every bit of willpower you possessed to swallow down the part of you that desperately wanted to throttle him. “Yes. I am. It’s the pregnancy, the pills from the doctors haven’t been working—“

“This has happened before?” He interrupted.

“Most days, yes,” you felt another wave of nausea coming over you and hunched your shoulders, preparing for the worst.

You never expected to feel a cool hand brushing your hair away from your forehead, nor the feeling of your husband’s chest against your back as he held you.

“Harkonnen women don’t have this problem,” he commented as he held your hair.

It was the least helpful statement he possibly could have made as you vomited once more, and yet it was also quite possibly the best.

“If Harkonnen women have no hair, then what do you pull?” You asked wryly, too ill and too exhausted to hold yourself back.

Feyd-Rautha stared you, unblinking, before a smirk found its way onto his lips. “If you are feeling brave, perhaps I will show you one day.”

You let out a laugh as the nausea ebbed, leaning back against him. “Perhaps one day I will finally stop seeing my lunch so many times, and then you can regale me.”

-0-

Your sickness faded as your pregnancy progressed, thankfully, but Feyd-Rautha’s company did not. By the time you were beginning to truly show, he was refusing to leave you alone, demanding your presence wherever he went. As a result, you sat in on many a sparring session, and he made up his mind to abandon the arena until after the baby was born. His sudden change in attitude was shocking; he had never paid so much attention to anything before, and now, his hands were constantly on you.

“I must keep you safe,” he had said when you first asked about it, and had acted as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe.

You assumed he was protective due to the baby, the precious new heir to the Harkonnen throne. As its vessel, you were afforded some luxuries, but you fully expected that to change after the birth. For now, though, you were content to receive any and all attention your husband saw fit to pay you.

“That went well,” you said one day after the doctor examined you.

“He should not have touched you like that.” Feyd-Rautha growled.

“What do you mean? He’s a doctor,” you laughed, somewhat nervously.

“I did not like it.” His voice was tense.

“I could tell.” You grumbled, dropping your happy façade. He had nearly chased the doctor out of the room, hunting knife in hand. “Examinations are unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

“No more.”

“But—“

“No more strangers touching you.”

"Doctors help," you protested. "Don't you want your child to be healthy?"

At that, Feyd paused in thought. "...You may have a Harkonnen midwife."

"Because a Harkonnen doctor is too much?" You asked dryly.

He glared at you briefly before looking away towards the door. "Come."

You audibly groaned, one hand on your lower back. "Na-Baron, I am tired. I wish to retire to bed."

He looked back at you, and you caught an expression of distress on his face. "I need to train."

"You train every day."

"Yes." he said it as if it were obvious, but something in his tone suggested more; he made it sound urgent, as if it were something he had to do daily, and missing a single session would be disastrous. "Come."

You heaved a sigh and followed him.

-0-

In the months that followed, your unborn child grew, as did your body. You found yourself becoming large and bloated, your gait slowing as your flexibility waned. New maternity gowns were brought to you, an interesting mix of styles--the flowing, heavy garments of your homeworld meeting the simple, stark aesthetics of Giedi Prime. You found them strange, but at that point, you really didn't care; you would have walked around naked if no one would have stopped you. You spent your days feeling uncomfortable and awkward, with swollen feet and a sore lumbar region. Harkonnen servants brought whatever you needed, and your husband ensured--no, demanded--that all of your food be tasted by someone else while you watched so that there could be no chance of poison passing between your lips.

You wondered if this was simply some aspect of Harkonnen culture that the other Houses weren't aware of or never cared to talk about. Perhaps on a planet as harsh and toxic as Giedi Prime, infertility and infant mortality were more commonplace than the rest of the known universe. Perhaps this possessiveness was common among Harkonnen men, if conception was more difficult for their people.

Whether your theory was correct or not, Feyd-Rautha had certainly become even more attached to you. Not a morning went by when he wasn’t there next to you in bed, and as of late, he had begun waking you up by reminding you exactly how you had ended up like this in the first place. Before your pregnancy, he had acted as though bedding you were a boorish duty he had no choice but to perform; now that you were heavy with child, however, he was more than interested in you physically, constantly touching you with those rough, murderous hands.

You enjoyed the attention, and you enjoyed the way he squeezed and massaged you with surprising gentleness. He didn’t want to break you, you supposed, not right now; after the child arrived, perhaps, but not now. That was a grim thought, and one you had often—what was to come of your after the birth? Would Feyd-Rautha want more children, in case this one died some horrible, brutal, Harkonnen death? Or would you be disposed of, no longer needed after his legacy was secured?

You tried not to dwell on it.

One morning, you roused on your own, without Feyd’s interference. Wondering if he was even still there, you reached out to the side, feeling for him—and you nearly jumped when you felt bare flesh beneath your hand. When you rolled onto your back with considerable effort and turned your head to the side, you saw that your husband was there, still sleeping, and that what you had felt was his exposed chest.

You took the moment to look at him, really look at him. He seemed so peaceful like this, when he wasn’t fighting and killing. You had seen him take lives so quickly that his victims hadn’t even known they had died, and you had wondered how someone could be so dismissive of those around them. The first time you had watched your husband slit a throat, you had nearly vomited, and he had found your revulsion amusing; the most recent, however, you had simply sighed and looked away. You were desensitized, it seemed, just like he was, and now, you slept just as easily after watching him commit horrendous acts of violence as he did now.

Feyd-Rautha was handsome as far as Harkonnens went. His skin was smooth like marble, free of the scars and bruises one might expect to see on a warrior. His face, usually so harsh during the waking hours, was relaxed now, and you realized he was beautiful. You couldn’t keep yourself from brushing your fingers over his lips and feeling how surprisingly soft they were, though in a way, this felt wrong. Feyd-Rautha didn’t strike you as the kind of person who would allow this sort of touch, but when would you have this opportunity again? He always rose first in the morning and slept last at night. You never caught him with his guard down, and you kept your hands to yourself during the day. This was the only time you could marvel at him like this.

As your fingers ghosted across his cheek, he twitched, and you froze. Then, to your horror, an eye cracked open, and you knew that he had been awake all along.

When you moved to pull away, he caught your wrist, then covered your hand in his. He held your gaze for several long, strange moments, and you realized that he hadn’t simply been awake—he had been allowing you to touch his face, to explore him in a way you had never been brave enough to before. It felt like a gift, in a way. In his way.

“I apologize,” you breathed, unable to look away from him.

“Why?” He asked, voice deep and rough with sleep.

“I should not have touched you without permission.”

“I am your husband,” he said. “And you are carrying my child. You do not need permission to touch me.”

Somehow, you knew his words carried a deeper meaning. You knew you were one of, if not the only, one on all of Giedi Prime whom he had said those words to. And for the first time since marrying him, you felt that Feyd-Rautha was truly your husband.

-0-

He was with you when the labor began.

You had been lounging in your shared chambers, enduring the final week of your pregnancy. It felt bittersweet, in a way; you had no way of knowing then if you would ever be experiencing this again, and a part of you desperately wanted to hold onto it while the rest was fed up with feeling massive and uncomfortable every day.

Feyd-Rautha had been agitated all morning. It was as if he had known something was about to happen, and he had spent his time barely containing himself as he paced and sharpened knives, attempting to keep to himself and leave you alone and doing a piss poor job of it. You had been ready to chase him out of the room—or at least attempt to—when you felt your waters go and the panic set in.

That had been three hours ago.

Now, you were in your bed, and a shockingly-diligent Harkonnen na-Baron had yet to leave your side. He had briefly stepped into the corridor to bellow at the nearest passerby and your midwife had arrived very quickly as a result, but after that, he had sat down next to you and refused to go anywhere else.

“Is it agony?” He asked as you stood.

You shot him a glare. “I would not wish this sensation on even you.”

He was taken aback by your tone, impressed, even, by the venom in it.

“A short walk about the room may help,” the midwife suggested. “I will assist—“

“No.” Feyd-Rautha was up and at your side in an instant, taking your elbow. “I will.”

You didn’t care who did what, you just wanted it to be over and done with. The labor was progressing quickly, the midwife assured after another check once you were back in bed, and soon, you were wailing and grunting, your face was sweaty, and the na-Baron was staring in awe. You were focused on the task set before you, one hand on Feyd’s arm as you pushed with all your might, and so you could not see the way your husband was looking at you.

When your son was born and crying at the top of his tiny lungs, Feyd-Rautha cut the umbilical cord with a hunting knife and then he stared. It seemed that the entire time, he was incapable of looking away, his eyes glued to either you or the new Harkonnen heir. You supposed he had been too enthralled to order the midwife out of the room, and the woman was smart enough not to push her luck—she did the necessary examinations as quickly as she could, then handed the baby off to you, busying herself with cleaning what looked like a murder scene and gathering the afterbirth when it came. Then, satisfied with her work and the health of the child, she left, and you were alone with your husband and son.

You cradled the infant, tucking him against your breast and pulling the edge of your robe over him in an attempt to keep him warm. He was born pale, like his father, but with a soft layer of hair that made you wonder how much he might grow to look like you. The midwife had said it before she slipped out, and you had to agree—he was beautiful, and you smiled down at him.

A thud startled you and you turned to see that Feyd-Rautha had fallen to his knees at your bedside, looking at you with a reverence you had never seen in anyone before.

“Feyd?” You asked.

He looked between you and your son, and you saw then that something had changed within him over those many months. Gone was the dismissive, uncaring husband you had wed; this Feyd-Rautha had grown to become a protector, one who would fight until his muscles tore from his bones, who would bleed himself dry for you.

“You are stronger than I knew,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek much the way you had with him all those nights ago.

You felt a lump in your throat. “Come here. Join us.”

He did.

Feyd-Rautha sat with you there, in your bed, the very bed your first child was born in. He watched as your son woke from his peaceful, short nap, and he was privy to the private, intimate moment of his first feeding. He held the baby, staring at him in wonder and what may have been a touch of fear, supporting the both of you as he helped you to the bathing room when you were well enough to stand.

“A son,” he said, watching the baby sleep that night.

“Yes.” You mumbled, exhausted and nearly asleep as well. “Are you pleased, husband?”

“I would have been just as pleased with a daughter.”

That surprised you, and you glanced over your shoulder to see him propped up on an elbow, watching your son as he slept in his simple Harkonnen manger. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said, never once taking his eyes off the child. “I can teach a daughter to fight just as well.” Finally, he looked down at you. “Are you well?”

“As well as can be expected.” You sighed.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, I am,” you answered him, sleep already dragging you down.

You barely felt his lips as he pressed a kiss to your temple, and you barely heard his voice as he said,

“I am as well.”

-0-

You had expected Feyd-Rautha to grow cold in the weeks following your son’s birth, but he never had. He was attentive, caring for you in a way that suggested he felt some primal urge to drag back great beasts for dinner every night but modern living prohibited that.

Now, you watched as he stood before one of the massive windows within the Harkonnen palace. It was evening on Giedi Prime, but the black sun casted no shadows over the landscape. Feyd-Rautha held your son, whispering to him, and as you watched, you wished the moment could stretch on forever.

“Husband,” you said, approaching him.

“Wife,” he greeted you, turning.

“On your evening walk together, I see.”

He chuckled. “I am showing him everything he will one day rule over.”

“I am surprised you haven’t taken him into battle with you yet,” you said sarcastically.

“I will strap him to my chest so that he might taste the blood of House Atreides,” he said with a grin.

“The youngest Harkonnen warrior the world has ever seen.” You smiled, leaning in to check on what appeared to be a perfectly happy, albeit possibile bloodthirsty, baby.

“What are you doing walking alone?” Feyd-Rautha asked.

“Looking for you.”

“And now that you have found me, what do you intend to do?”

You leaned into your husband, resting your head on his shoulder. “Drop the baby off with the wet nurse, seduce you, take you to bed and then have my way with you.”

“You have my attention.”

“I thought you might be interested in trying for a girl this time…”

In a blink, he had spun you around and was dragging you down the corridor, and once the baby was safely tucked in with a nursemaid watching over him, you did indeed have your way with your husband. And again. And again. And you realized, as you retired to bed that night, that you were truly glad to have been arranged to marry Feyd-Rautha, heir to the Harkonnen throne and father of your children.

[tellafairy]

thoughts on shifting + manifesting with ease. (as someone who's shifted many times, alongside manifesting)

coming back to this side of tumblr after spending years away from it has made me realized how many of you are truly the problem, it might sound kinda harsh but really. so many of you ask the same questions over and over again.. "but HOW do i do it?" "how do i shift" "how do i manifest" JUST DO IT. stop looking for signs, stop looking for methods or "cheat codes". just do it man.

your mind is so powerful and it actually kinda irritates me how many of you doubt it, just because it "seems to easy". you don't understand how you've been manipulated by society to not see your power. how have you been on loa social media, shifting social media, for soooo long — yet still don't see it?? let me tell you..

the moment i got off social media, the moment i took time to erase everything in my head and stop overthinking everything, was the moment everything came to me. i already had it, i just needed to stop telling myself i didn't.

it took me barely any time to get used to convincing myself i had everything i wanted, i shifted to my desired realities, and everything worked out in my favour. AFFIRMING IS ALL YOU NEED. I AM YELLING AT YOU. JUST AFFIRM.

really, please, affirm. the routine is so simple.

1. any bad thought is instantly turned positive.

ex: "i really want her waist"

to

"am i stupid ... i have her waist.. tbh mine even looks a little better.. am i crazy?? like actually? this must be a glitch or something cause my waist is practically identical to hers.. i literally love my waist"

exaggerate, say what you need to say to erase the negativity.

2. it's yours, so act like it..

ex: talk about ur DR normally. it's your reality, not a fantasy land you made up in a dream. ITS REAL. it's a reality. for example, i'd watch videos of my s/o in this reality, and speak about our lives in my dr. "i can't wait to see __ tonight... god i love __, it's so nice hanging out with them everyday.. wow they look so pretty in this video — i'm so lucky their mine". it's natural, they're yours aren't they? exactly, so act like it.. this is used the exact same way when manifesting..

you see someone with something you want? thinking of something you wanna do? something you wanna be? ... it's urs... so can you act like it?? like whyre u feeling sad someone else got a job promotion 😹😹 you literally got a better one ...

3. that's literally it

you don't need a fancy method (although it can give u some peace of mind.. let's be real, a lot of methods set y'all back and make you overwhelmed, blocking ur beliefs and making everything seem harder). you literally just need to live. tell yourself it's done, over and over again. nothing matters. it's done, it's yours, you have it, you're happy and fulfilled. other peoples sucess should really mean nothing to you negatively. it shouldn't make you stressed, shouldn't make you feel behind.. why would it when you have everything, you can do everything, go anywhere, and you can be anything.

it'll seem like manifesting blogs and shifting blogs just repeat the same things.. which is true, they do, because i'm telling you there's nothing more to it than what you've already read. it is that easy. all it takes is your mind. decide, and tell yourself.

as i said before, it took me barely anytime to switch my mindset once i actually started focusing on myself, my journey and not every body else's results. repeating stuff to yourself WORKS. repeating is literally ALL i did. choose what i want, told myself it's mine in any way i could describe it. and there, it's mine. ive shifted to many different realities, along side gaining a better life in this one after years of convincing myself there was nothing for me. if i can break out of the cycle, trust me you can too. i cannot describe how desperate i was at the beginning, how long i took in false info and wasted time on methods all while doubting every single thing.

so why don't you believe it? you'll sit there and tell yourself over and over again that you're ugly, or broke, or friendless... but you won't tell urself that you've shifted? that you have your dream body...? girl okay i guess....

once you realize nothing besides your mind truly matters, is when you'll be free with yourself. circumstances don't matter, past feelings don't matter, doubts don't matter, your mind is all you need.

yes this is just loa explained longer, that's the point of the post because some of u still can't get it in ur heads

[haziells]

my way

until it reaches the void state

(this will be a long post)

1. the end, the beginning.

I knew about the law of attraction years ago thanks to social media, so there it was, like every day trying to manifest my desires.

I was fed up, every day was the same.

My heart healing and breaking everyday, the same cycle of hope and hopelessness continues.

was it always going to be like this?

would I always have to let fears take over me?

I couldn't trust, I didn't believe that just by believing I could get what I wanted but at the same time I had no other option.

I couldn't go on like this, I didn't want to go on like this, I just wanted to end my life, I gave up and cried, cried, cried thinking that this would be the end, that I wouldn't be able to be happy and that was it.

I gave up and thought I was resigned to living a shitty life.

But I cried so much that all the sadness that was in me came out, all the fears that were clinging to me came out.

That's when I felt peace, when I realized that no, I wasn't going to give up that easily, that I first have to do it and do it well, not keep trying.

So I persisted for only 2 days, as I already had my desire for that moment and yes, after 2 days my 3D had already reflected it, it was exciting.

did i reallt do that? was it just a coincidence?

No, it was really me.

I was happy for a few days until the fears returned but this time I was afraid of losing my desire, that's when I realized that fears have no meaning.

I already have it, why would I lose it?

2. I discovered Tumblr and the void state.

I didn't know what void state was, but as soon as I read about it, it caught my attention.

By then my self-concept had improved, I was still dealing with my fears but not as much as before.

So, I made a friend who explained to me more about the void state and she told me that she manifested her house through the void state.

I got excited and hopeful, I read some methods on how to get in and tried to do it, but I couldn't.

I couldn't do it, the simple idea of getting everything so easily sounded easy and fantastical to me.

But one day I realized who I really am, that I am everything, that nothing and no one has power outside of me.

I was filled with satisfaction, joy, peace, I felt like laughing knowing who I am and how easy everything is.

How did I first enter the void state?

so I had a subliminal audio playing in the background while I was meditating.

I thought...I am so powerful, I am capable of anything, I can have whatever I want whenever I want.

At that time I was very sleepy because I had taken some exams, so I just thought "my physical body is going to sleep and rest and I'm going to the void state"

After all, the void state is me and there is nothing easier than being me.

And so it happened, I entered the void state and knew that I already had everything just as I wanted, then I came out and continued sleeping while I didn't stop smiling and feeling a sensation of peace and extreme happiness.

I woke up and stood calmly until I realized what had happened...

I was scared shitless when I realized that I had entered the void state for real and that at that moment I should have everything I wanted and that was when 3d reality disappeared before my eyes.

Everything began to collapse and I felt a huge current of energy running through my entire body, as if it were a waterfall flowing inside me.

I was very scared, I won't deny it, but after all I did it.

(I swear that just as you see in the gif, that's how I felt at that moment)

The following days I couldn't stop shaking and feeling scared because I didn't understand how it was possible that 3D could disappear just like that.

Then I read someone here talking about non-dualism. @lotusmi

Then I understood my experience.

Since that day everything is much easier for me.

I have entered the void state 3 times.

that manifests?

.cure my depression.

.cure my anxiety.

.trust myself.

.longer eyelashes.

.my desired person in love with me.

.money.

.be able to manifest easily.

.prettiest voice.

.I am spoiled.

The rest of the things I manifest are more private.

But basically for me this is the best thing that could have happened to me.

I will mention who were the bloggers that I read to understand more about the void state and about who I really am.

@gorgeouslypink

@lotusmi

@beesfairlyland

@msperfect777

I will also mention a blogger whose information I also like and I find it cute.

@sugarplumfairy777

If you want to know more, you can send me a direct message, no problem.

[joelsrose]

First Date?

part 2

this is a long one - strap in for some slow burn yearning <333

You and Joel were complicated—or at least, that’s what you told yourself when the ache in your chest got too loud to ignore.

Joel Miller was the embodiment of contradictions. A lone wolf by nature, with a gruff exterior and a sharp tongue that could cut through even the strongest defenses. He was the kind of man who carried his burdens silently, his pain etched into every line on his face. At times, he was rough, even cruel in his honesty, like he’d long since decided the world didn’t deserve his softness.

But then there were moments—rare, fleeting moments—that haunted you. Times when his actions betrayed him, when he’d do something so achingly kind, it felt deliberate. Like he wanted you to see a glimmer of the man hidden behind the walls he’d built. Those moments unsettled you, because they forced you to consider that maybe, just maybe, Joel Miller wasn’t as simple as the role he played.

And yet, the cycle was maddeningly predictable. You’d lie in bed replaying his tenderness in your mind—a quiet gesture, a word spoken softly, the way his hand lingered just a fraction too long. You’d convince yourself he meant it, that it was a crack in his armor, a glimpse of something real.

But then the next day, without fail, he’d shut you out all over again, rebuilding the walls you thought you’d glimpsed past. A cold remark, a dismissive shrug, a reminder of his unyielding distance.

And so it went, over and over—a push and pull that left you wondering which version of Joel was the truth.

It had been like this for months now.

Patrolling together had become a silent routine—Joel keeping to himself, speaking only when necessary, his words clipped and efficient as if conserving energy for something more important. Orders were given in a low, gruff tone, and you followed them without question. By the time you’d make it back, you could count the words exchanged on one hand.

But just as you’d turn to leave, he’d do something that unraveled the simplicity of your assumptions. Like passing you your scarf—the one you’d left behind without a second thought, easily retrievable the next day. He’d shove it into your hands without meeting your gaze, muttering something gruff about it getting cold, as if it hadn’t taken effort to notice—or care.

Or when you’d stop to rest mid-patrol, exhaustion gnawing at you, and he’d quietly slide his food your way. “Ain’t hungry,” he’d mutter, avoiding the weight of your questioning eyes. It was an excuse so thin you could see through it, but you didn’t dare push.

Joel Miller was an enigma you couldn’t crack, and it bugged the hell out of you. He’d bark at you for the way you held your weapon, his frustration simmering just under the surface as he corrected your grip with rough hands. But then, not ten minutes later, he’d grab your pack without so much as a word, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he’d grumble when you tried to argue, his tone dismissive, like his actions didn’t contradict every wall he put between you.

You struggled to make sense of him, of the contradictions that seemed to define him. Joel was a man who scolded you one moment and softened the next, and it was driving you to distraction. Because with every small act of kindness, every begrudging gesture, he left you with more questions than answers—and no idea what to do with any of it.

You tossed and turned, your mind unwilling to settle as it churned over the absurdity of it all. Here you were, psychoanalyzing a man at least twenty years your senior, someone who probably didn’t give a second thought to the things he said or did. Joel Miller was a mystery, sure, but one he likely didn’t care to solve himself—let alone have you dissecting.

And yet, you couldn’t stop. Every small moment lingered in your mind far longer than it should have. The way his hand would brush yours when passing you something, the gruffness in his voice when he called your name, even the way his brow furrowed when he scolded you—it all dug its hooks in deep, refusing to let go.

It almost stung to think about, the possibility that you were caught up in something he didn’t even notice. That all the small gestures you replayed over and over—the scarf, the food, the quiet way he’d step in without asking—meant nothing to him.

And then there was the other problem: you weren’t even sure what you felt about him. Affection? Annoyance? Something more confusing than either? It was a tangled mess of emotions you couldn’t unravel, no matter how much time you spent trying.

As I said—it was complicated. And you hated how much that fact alone kept you awake.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Maria and Tommy were sprawled out on the couch in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over the space. Tommy’s leg bounced restlessly, the only sign of his growing impatience.

“You planning on coming down sometime this year, or what?” he called out, leaning his head back to shout toward the stairs.

Maria rolled her eyes and smacked his thigh, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet. “Tommy! Be nice,” she scolded, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“What?” he said, shrugging dramatically. “She’s takin’ forever!”

Maria shook her head, leaning back into the cushions with an exasperated sigh.

You let out a sharp breath, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Ridiculous—that’s the only word that came to mind. Your hair was down, soft and loose around your face in a way that felt foreign. You were wearing a skirt. A skirt. You hadn’t worn one since you were a kid, and now here you were, fumbling through the motions of playing dress-up, chasing some semblance of femininity you weren’t even sure you could pull off.

You felt out of place in your own skin, like an imposter pretending to be someone else for the night.

But this wasn’t just any night. You were going on a date.

Yes, a date. The word felt strange, heavy with meaning.

Maria and Tommy had finally grown tired of your groaning, your wistful complaints about how you wanted more from life—someone to share it with, someone to love. A family, children. You wanted it all, and the years weren’t exactly slowing down to wait for you to figure it out.

So - they decided to set you up with someone—a blind date, no less, which only made your stomach twist tighter with anxiety. But you trusted them, trusted their judgment, even if it felt like you were walking into the unknown without a safety net.

You took a steadying breath and made your way downstairs, the sound of your footsteps drawing their attention.

“Well, look at this,” Tommy said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You look beautiful, darlin’.”

Maria was up in an instant, her eyes soft as they swept over you. “You look…” She trailed off, her smile growing warmer, as if words didn’t quite do justice to what she wanted to say.

Before she could continue, Tommy clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. “Now, go! Don’t keep the poor guy waitin’. You’re gonna be late.”

Maria shot him a look, but you couldn’t help but smile as she gave your arm a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve got this,” she said softly, her voice filled with a quiet confidence you wished you could share.

And with that, you were out the door, nerves buzzing, heart pounding, and hope flickering just beneath the surface.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You stepped into the Tipsy Bison, the warm, earthy scent of aged wood and whiskey hitting you immediately. The atmosphere was alive but not overwhelming—a mix of laughter, murmured conversations, and the occasional clatter of glassware. Fairy lights hung from the beams above, casting a golden glow over the crowd, while a crackling fire in the corner painted dancing shadows along the walls. It was cozy, intimate, the kind of place where time felt slower, more forgiving.

Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the mix of people. A group by the bar exchanged stories, their laughter rising above the hum of the room. A couple sat near the fire, leaning close, lost in each other’s quiet smiles. Strangers passed plates and drinks as if the walls of the place somehow softened the harsh edges of the world outside.

Tommy had told you the blind date would meet you in the corner booth—the one closest to the window. Your heart pounded as you spotted it, empty and waiting. Sliding into the booth, you realized you were early. Too early. The cushion beneath you felt firm, grounding, but it didn’t stop the subtle shake in your hands or the restless tap of your foot beneath the table.

You weren’t cut out for this, not really. You weren’t the “first date” kind of girl, the one who could walk into a situation like this brimming with confidence and charm. No, you were the girl who got to know someone slowly—someone who spent years building a connection, falling achingly, irrevocably in love. Forced conversations and the unspoken expectation of romance felt unnatural, like trying to fit into a mold that was never meant for you.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table, and you took a slow breath, trying to will your nerves into submission. This wasn’t you, but tonight, it had to be.

Then you saw him.

Your breath caught, a sharp hitch that seemed to echo in your ears as your eyes locked on the figure stepping through the doorway. The familiar curls, unruly and streaked with gray. The deep brown eyes that held too many secrets. The lines etched into his face, mapping out stories of loss, of survival. The slope of his nose, as distinct as it was unassuming.

Joel.

There was no way. Your heart hammered against your ribs, an unrelenting rhythm that refused to calm. This can’t be happening, you thought, a tangle of shock, disbelief, and something else you weren’t ready to name.

And then he saw you.

Your instinct took over, and you looked away immediately, pretending to find something—anything—fascinating about the table in front of you. Your fingers gripped the edge of it like it might somehow keep you grounded. But, of course, it didn’t stop him.

You heard the sound of his boots before you saw him, steady and unhurried as he made his way over. There was no mistaking the purposeful stride, the way he carried himself like the room belonged to him, even if he didn’t want it to.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and rough, the single word carrying far more weight than it should.

You forced yourself to look up, your eyes meeting his for the briefest, most unsettling moment. And just like that, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

“Hi,” you breathed, your voice barely audible as you stared up at him, wide-eyed. He was standing there, just a few feet away, towering over you in that way that made you feel small.

Why was he standing? Was he… disappointed? Your mind raced, conjuring scenarios faster than you could stop them. If he was disappointed—if the very sight of you sitting there had soured his mood—surely he’d turn around and leave without a second thought. Right?

“What are you doing here?” Joel asked, his voice low and rough, cutting through your spiraling thoughts.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I—uh…” Your words stumbled over each other as your confusion spilled out. “What are you doing here?”

He raised the whiskey glass in his hand slightly, the amber liquid catching the warm light of the room. “Finished patrol. Figured I’d stop in for a drink.”

Oh. So he wasn’t your date. Relief washed over you, but it was immediately chased by something else—a flicker of disappointment you didn’t quite understand.

You tried to shove the feeling aside, scolding yourself for even entertaining the idea. This is ridiculous, you thought, sitting a little straighter as if that might shake the unexpected weight in your chest.

It looked like Joel was about to say something, the faint hum of words lingering on his lips—you look…but whatever thought had been forming was cut short by the sound of a familiar voice calling your name.

Both you and Joel turned in unison, your gaze falling on the man approaching your booth.

It was Levi.

He walked with easy confidence, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. You recognized him instantly—one of the patrolmen you’d crossed paths with a few times before. He was cute, older than you, with a charm that seemed effortless, like he didn’t even know he had it.

Joel’s eyebrows lifted slightly, the faintest flicker of realization crossing his face as the pieces clicked into place.

You were on a date.

With Levi.

The weight of that understanding settled over him, his expression unreadable as he glanced between the two of you.

Levi greeted him with an easy, “Hey, man,” offering a polite nod.

Joel didn’t respond, his eyes lingering on you for just a second longer. Something unspoken passed through that look—a question, maybe, or something heavier you couldn’t quite name. Then, with a brief nod of acknowledgment, he turned and walked away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the crowd.

You watched him go, a strange hollowness forming in your chest, though you couldn’t say why. Levi’s voice brought you back to the present, pulling your focus away from the retreating figure and back to the man sitting across from you.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Levi was polite, charming, and funny, effortlessly filling the silence with light conversation. He’d even brought drinks back to the table, setting yours in front of you with a warm smile that should have been disarming.

You talked about life in Jackson—the routines, the quirks of the people, the way the town had built itself into something resembling normalcy. Levi was easy to talk to, his words flowing smoothly, but something felt… off.

As he spoke, you found your gaze drifting, your chest tightening with an uneasy, almost nauseating sensation you couldn’t shake. Disappointment? You weren’t sure, but the feeling gnawed at you, unwelcome and unrelenting.

Your eyes darted around the room, scanning for the familiar head of curls, for him. But Joel was nowhere to be found. The firelight flickered against the walls, but his shadow wasn’t among them. You sighed softly, the weight in your chest settling heavier.

“You alright?” Levi asked, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

You blinked, snapping your attention back to him. “Yeah,” you replied quickly, forcing a smile.

Levi’s expression softened, his tone growing hopeful. “This has been really nice,” he said, leaning forward just slightly. “Do you think we could meet up again sometime?”

His words hung in the air, kind and full of intent, but they only seemed to deepen the ache burning in your chest.

You nodded, unable to trust your voice to form a coherent response. A lump had settled in your throat, and for reasons you couldn’t fully understand, you felt the sting of tears threatening to rise.

Levi, ever the gentleman, walked you home under the quiet blanket of night, the conversation light but distant—at least on your end. When you reached your door, you hesitated for a moment before leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, a small, polite gesture that felt hollow even as you gave it.

He smiled softly, murmured a quiet goodnight, and turned to leave. You stood there, watching him fade into the darkness, an ache in your chest that only seemed to deepen.

You didn’t see Levi again.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The next time you patrolled with Joel, the silence between you was heavier than usual, suffocating in its intensity. He wasn’t gruff or mean—not a single sharp remark or irritated scowl crossed his face. Instead, he was quiet. Too quiet. And it scared the hell out of you.

You couldn’t help but watch him out of the corner of your eye. There was something off about him, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His movements were rigid, his posture tense, like he was carrying a weight that didn’t belong to him. Every time you stepped too close, you noticed the way his shoulders stiffened, as if bracing for something unseen.

It set your nerves on edge, twisting your stomach in ways you couldn’t ignore. But you didn’t dare ask if he was okay.

You weren’t friends, after all. You were just two people forced into the same space by circumstance. And yet, the unspoken tension between you gnawed at you, leaving you wishing you had the courage to break the silence.

A pang of disappointment struck you, sharp and unrelenting. As much as Joel’s gruffness could cut, it also carried a strange, backhanded affection, a brutal cycle that had become its own kind of routine. It wasn’t healthy—not even close—but it was familiar. And somehow, in its familiarity, it offered a fleeting balm to the wounds he inflicted.

Now, even that was gone.

The two of you settled into the cabin for lunch, your legs aching as you stretched them out in front of you. Joel unwrapped his sandwich, eating quietly—methodically. He didn’t offer you his food this time. The realization settled like a rock in your stomach, its weight far heavier than it should’ve been. Why did that hurt?

You ate in silence, the muted sounds of the forest outside doing little to fill the oppressive void between you. He didn’t look at you once, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall ahead.

Joel had been so quiet for so long that when he finally spoke, you thought you’d imagined it.

Four words.

“How was your date?”

Your head snapped up, his voice breaking through the fragile reality you’d constructed to protect yourself. The question lingered in the air, heavy with meaning you couldn’t quite grasp.

He didn’t even look at you, just kept eating his sandwich like he hadn’t shattered the hours-long silence with that single, loaded question.

You blinked, caught completely off guard, your thoughts stumbling over themselves. Why did he care? No, of course, he didn’t care. He couldn’t. He was just being polite—or at least, that’s what you told yourself. But since when was Joel Miller polite?

“It was…” you started, your voice uncertain, trailing off as your mind scrambled for something to say. What did you say to that? Good? Alright? I felt no passion, the guy didn’t move me, and if you want to take me out instead, just say the word?

Your cheeks flushed hot at the thought, and you glanced at him. He wasn’t eating anymore. His eyes were on you now, dark and steady, waiting for you to finish the sentence.

“It wasn’t for me,” you said finally, the words spilling out too quickly, your voice quieter than you intended. Embarrassment prickled at your skin. You hated how much you’d let him see, even though he’d been the one to ask.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, a slight, almost imperceptible movement, before returning his attention to what was left of his sandwich.

You rode back in silence.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You saw Joel around town, and it was as if nothing had changed. He moved through the streets with his usual quiet efficiency, nodding curtly to those who greeted him, keeping his interactions brief and functional. To anyone else, it was just Joel being Joel. But to you, it felt different—he felt different.

Your thoughts drifted back to that night at the Tipsy Bison, to the way he’d approached you. It struck you now just how out of character that had been for him. Joel wasn’t the type to make small talk, let alone go out of his way to seek someone out. He kept to himself, guarded and distant, speaking only when it was necessary. And yet, that night, he’d broken his own unspoken rules. He’d sought you out.

Patrols had continued in the same heavy silence they seemed to fall into since your date with Levi. You wanted to bridge the gap, to find some way to connect with him, but what was there to say to Joel Miller? The weather? The past? It all felt so futile, like trying to climb a wall that had no handholds.

Still, you couldn’t help but hope—quiet, stubborn hope—that maybe he’d say something. Like he had that night at the Tipsy Bison. That he’d let something slip, even just a few words, that would crack through the silence and remind you that Joel wasn’t just the distant, impenetrable man he wanted everyone to see.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

After one particularly unbearable patrol, the kind where the silence felt like it might crush you, the two of you worked in quiet to settle your horses for the night. The rhythmic clinking of reins and the soft shuffle of hooves filled the air, but your mind was elsewhere, turning over the weight of the silence between you.

Your eyes drifted to your horse’s saddle, noticing something off about the straps. It was an excuse—something to say, something to break the unbearable quiet.

“Joel,” you breathed, his name slipping out before you could think it through. It felt strange on your tongue, heavy and unfamiliar, almost like a confession.

He stilled, his hands pausing mid-motion as he turned to look at you, his dark eyes steady but cautious, like he was bracing for what you might say.

You swallowed, nerves suddenly tightening in your chest. “Her saddle,” you started, nodding toward the horse. “Do you think you could help me with it?”

Joel remained silent for what felt like an eternity, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. For a brief moment, you thought he was going to offer to help as he turned to face you, but instead, his words cut through the quiet of the stable like a blade.

“Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to help you out?” he said, his voice low and gruff, the bitterness laced in his tone settling heavily in the air between you.

The comment caught you off guard, stirring something hot and restless in your chest. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it, the edge in his tone that felt like a jab, intentional or not.

“He’s not my—” you began, your voice sharp with frustration, but it faltered midway, your brows knitting together in confusion. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and you couldn’t figure out what had provoked him to say that, what had driven him to let that bitterness seep into his tone.

You clenched your jaw, the knot of irritation and confusion tightening in your chest as you struggled to find the right words, to make sense of the way his comment had unsettled you. “I told you—” you tried again, but even as the words formed, they felt incomplete, unable to articulate the tangle of emotions his remark had stirred.

You’d told him it wasn’t for you. You’d made that clear. So why was he bringing Levi up now?

You stopped, the sentence hanging unfinished in the cool air. Your frustration boiled over, spilling into your movements as you grabbed your gear.

“Forget it,” you mumbled, shaking your head as you turned away, your boots crunching against the dirt floor. You didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t even look back, but the weight of his presence lingered, pressing against your back as you left.

You scolded yourself as you marched home, your vision blurring with tears you refused to let fall. What were you thinking? you berated yourself. You’d been imagining things, reading too much into fleeting moments, conjuring something out of nothing. Joel Miller was nothing more than an old, grumpy man who kept everyone at arm’s length. And you? You meant nothing to him.

The thought stung more than you cared to admit, and you quickened your pace, as if you could outrun the ache settling in your chest.

Behind you, Joel stood frozen, watching you go. He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with the storm in his head. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, the word rough and barely audible, like it was dragged out of him against his will.

His throat felt tight, constricted with all the things he wanted to say but never could.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

When you arrived at the stables for your next patrol with Joel, you’d already had a strict talk with yourself. This is just work, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra like it might actually stick. At least now you know you were imagining it all. He’s just a lonely, miserable man, and you only have to deal with him for patrol. You can handle this.

You sighed as you approached your horse, the memory of the saddle straps creeping back into your mind. You should’ve taken care of it before today, but it had slipped your thoughts in the haze of everything else. Now, it was one more thing to annoy you during patrol.

Groaning quietly, you greeted your horse, running a hand along its neck before stepping closer to inspect the saddle. The moment your eyes landed on it, your breath caught in your throat.

It was fixed.

The leather gleamed in the soft morning light, the straps perfectly adjusted, every detail precise and cared for. Your heart stuttered in your chest, the weight of realization hitting you like a tidal wave.

There was no mistaking it. Someone had done this, gone out of their way to replace it without a word. And you didn’t have to guess who.

Joel.

The thought sent a flood of emotions surging through you—confusion, frustration, and something warmer, something softer you couldn’t quite name. Your fingers brushed over the leather, and for a moment, you stood frozen, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

You straightened up, glancing toward the other end of the stables, where Joel was preparing his horse, as silent and stoic as ever.

He didn’t look your way, didn’t acknowledge you, as if nothing had happened.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The Tipsy Bison buzzed with its usual warmth, the hum of voices and faint strumming of music weaving through the space. The lukewarm beer in front of you was untouched, the glass cool beneath your fingers as you stared into it, your mind elsewhere.

You thought about the patrol with Joel today, how he hadn’t said a word about the saddle—and neither had you. The weight of his silence pressed on you, mingling with an ache you couldn’t quite name.

“Hey, hey!” Tommy’s whistle cut through your trance, drawing your attention back to the table. “Over here!”

Your head turned instinctively, and your breath faltered. Joel was approaching, his eyes meeting yours for a fleeting second before he shifted his focus elsewhere. You gripped your drink for comfort, your knuckles brushing against the condensation on the glass.

Joel sank into the booth across from you with a quiet groan, the seat dipping beneath his weight. He stretched his arms over the back of the booth, his movements slow and deliberate. Maria and Tommy carried most of the conversation, their easy banter filling the gaps, unaware—or perhaps purposefully ignoring—how little you and Joel contributed unless prompted.

At one point, as Maria and Tommy became engrossed in their own topic—something about fixing a water pipe—Joel’s gaze shifted to you. For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers idly tapping the edge of the table.

“The saddle,” he said finally, his voice low but distinct, breaking through the chatter. “It alright?”

You looked up, startled, your gaze colliding with his for the first time in what felt like forever. His eyes held you there, and you couldn’t look away. The depth of them caught you off guard—a rich, dark brown that seemed to hold more than you’d ever let yourself see before.

“Yeah,” you managed, unsure how much detail to give. Your voice softened. “Much better. Thank you.” You lifted your glass to your lips, taking a long sip, more for composure than anything else.

Joel gave a short nod, his expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything else, and you resisted the urge to press. There were a million questions swirling in your mind—Why did you do it? Why are you so mean one second and then so kind the next? What do you want from me?

But before you could even form the words, Tommy’s voice, slurring just slightly, broke through.

“Hey!” he said, pointing a finger at you with exaggerated clarity. “I just remembered—you never told me how it went with Mr. Levi!”

You froze, your breath hitching as Joel’s gaze snapped back to you. His expression didn’t change, but there was something pointed about the way he looked at you now, his attention fully yours.

“I—” you started, your voice faltering as you glanced between Tommy and Joel.

Tommy, oblivious to the tension, grinned lazily and leaned forward. “C’mon now, was he any good in the sack?”

“Tommy,” Joel said sharply, his tone cutting through the moment like a knife.

“Geez, I’m joking!” Tommy held up his hands in mock defense, flashing you an apologetic smile. “Shit, sorry, darlin’. Just messing around.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, brushing it off even though your cheeks burned. You looked down at your glass before speaking again. “He was nice. I just…” You hesitated, your voice quieter now. “I don’t think it would work out between us.”

“Why not?” Tommy pressed, leaning back against the booth as if this were the most natural follow-up in the world.

You felt Joel’s eyes on you again, heavy and expectant, waiting for your answer. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, and the words you wanted to say tangled in your throat. You didn’t dare look at Joel as you replied, your voice barely audible.

“I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, about to say something else, but Maria elbowed him in the side, cutting him off with a look. “Leave her alone, Tommy,” she said, her tone sharp but affectionate.

The conversation shifted after that, Tommy’s attention diverted to a new topic, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of Joel’s gaze lingering on you.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The next patrol with Joel felt off the moment he approached the stables. He was nearly thirty minutes late—uncharacteristic for him, a man who was always early, often already checking his rifle or saddling his horse by the time you arrived.

When he finally showed up, his gait was unsteady, his movements sluggish, and the acrid scent of alcohol clung to him like a second skin.

“Jesus, Joel,” you muttered as he leaned heavily against the stable door, his shoulders slumped in a way that screamed exhaustion.

“‘M fine,” he slurred, but the slight wobble in his stance told you otherwise.

“No, you’re not,” you said sharply, grabbing his arm. “Sit down.”

He didn’t argue, sinking onto a nearby bench with a groan, his head falling into his hands.

You’d never seen Joel like this. You were so used to his rigid nature, the way he kept everything locked down, never letting anyone see past what he carefully chose to show. And now here he was—drunk? At seven in the morning?

It wasn’t just out of character; it was unsettling. A quiet worry crept up inside you, uninvited and inexplicable, tightening your chest. You weren’t sure where it came from or why it mattered so much, but seeing him like this—unsteady, vulnerable—set something off in you that you couldn’t quite name.

You grabbed your canteen and handed it to him. “Drink this.”

He squinted at the bottle like it might bite him. “Alcohol?”

“No, you idiot, it’s water,” you snapped, pushing it closer to him.

He took it reluctantly, sipping slowly before setting it aside. You crossed your arms, watching him with a mixture of frustration and concern. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Joel didn’t answer immediately. He tipped his head back, staring at the stable’s wooden beams as if they might provide an escape. His face was worn, the lines etched into it deeper than usual.

“Had a rough night,” he muttered finally, his voice gravelly and low.

“Yeah, I can tell,” you shot back, your gaze falling on the empty whiskey bottle peeking out of his saddlebag. “You’re supposed to be on patrol, Joel, not nursing a hangover.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a long, tired sigh. “Ain’t hungover. I’m still drunk.”

You shook your head, exasperated. “Okay. That’s it. I’m getting you home. I’ll patrol with someone else—I’ll call Tommy or Maria—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice firm despite the slur. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. “I can do this.”

“Like hell you can,” you snapped, stepping in front of him to block his path. “I’m not dragging your drunk ass around out there. I’m a bad enough shot as it is—I’m not covering you too.”

Joel stilled at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, something softened in his expression, his usual gruffness melting away. “You’re not a bad shot,” he said, his voice quiet and achingly tender, like he was trying to soothe a wound you didn’t even realize you’d exposed.

His words caught you off guard, your anger wavering for just a second before you shook it off. “Let’s go,” you said, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him.

Joel leaned against you, his weight heavy but manageable as the two of you walked toward his house. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you. The silence between you was thick, but it wasn’t the same as before. It felt different now—fragile, like the space between you was waiting for something to break.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You opened his door, your fingers fumbling as you fished the keys from his pocket, trying not to think too hard about the warmth of his body against yours or the faint, familiar scent of him beneath the sharp tang of alcohol.

Don’t think about that. Focus.

“All right,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the thrum of nerves in your chest. “We’re here.”

Joel hummed something incoherent in response, his eyes barely open as he leaned heavier against you.

Guiding him through the hallway, you exhaled in quiet relief when the couch came into view. Carefully, you maneuvered him toward it, letting him sink into the worn cushions with a groan.

You untangled his arm from where it had rested against your shoulder, his hand lingering for just a moment longer than you expected. He let out another low groan, his head tipping back as his eyes fluttered closed.

For a moment, you stood there, watching him, unsure if you should leave him like this. His face, softened in the haze of alcohol and exhaustion, was almost unrecognizable—like a shadow of the man he worked so hard to be.

You shook the thought away, sighing as you pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over him.

Just as you turned to leave, his voice, low and slurred, stopped you in your tracks.

“You,” he mumbled, barely audible, the word hanging in the still air.

You froze, your hand hovering over the doorframe. “What?” you asked, glancing back at him.

Joel’s eyes were half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion and alcohol, but they found yours. He looked at you like he was fighting to stay awake, fighting to say the words before sleep overtook him.

“You asked me,” he murmured, his voice rough, “what got into me.” He paused, his head tipping back slightly as if searching for the strength to continue. “Had a rough night... ‘cause I was thinkin’.”

You hesitated, the room suddenly feeling too small, too quiet. “Thinking about what?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Thinkin’ about you,” he admitted, his words slurred but unmistakable.

Your breath caught, the confession landing like a blow to your chest. Joel’s eyes closed fully then, his head sinking into the couch cushion as sleep finally claimed him, leaving you standing there, stunned and unsure if you’d just imagined it all.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You closed the door behind you, the cold air biting at your cheeks, grounding you momentarily. Thinking about you. The words echoed in your head, over and over, like a distant bell that wouldn’t stop ringing. Had you imagined them? What could he have meant?

Before you even realized what you were doing, your legs were carrying you in a sprint to Maria and Tommy’s house. Your breath came in sharp gasps as you knocked on the door urgently, your fist hitting the wood harder than you intended.

Maria opened it quickly, her expression shifting from concern to surprise as she took in your frazzled state. “Woah,” she said, eyebrows raising. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you managed, though your voice betrayed you, shaky and unconvincing. You swallowed hard, trying to compose yourself as her gaze pinned you with quiet expectation.

“I, uh… Joel can’t patrol today,” you said finally, the words spilling out in a rush.

Maria frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What? Why not?”

You froze for half a second, your mind scrambling. Were you about to tell her Joel had shown up to patrol drunk? You doubted that would go over well. “He’s, uh, sick,” you blurted, praying she wouldn’t be able to tell you were lying.

“Sick?” she repeated, skepticism creeping into her tone.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding quickly. “So, I need someone else. A new patrol partner for today.”

Maria sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Alright. I’ll send Eugene and Levi. You go home,” she said firmly.

“What?” you asked, caught off guard. “No, I’ll still go.”

“No,” Maria said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “If Joel’s sick, that probably means you’re about to get sick too. Stay home.” She was already stepping back into the house, reaching for the radio. “I’ll let them know now.”

You opened your mouth to argue but thought better of it, nodding instead. You weren’t in the mood to fight her on this, not with your mind still racing.

As you walked back home, the cold air filling your lungs, your thoughts circled back to Joel’s words. Your breathing was still uneven, your pulse thundering in your ears as you tried—and failed—to make sense of what he’d said. Thinking about you.

What did he mean? And why did it feel like your whole world had shifted with those three simple words?

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The next week had been a blur of activity—a whirlwind of patrols, shifts at the infirmary, and volunteering in the garden. You liked staying busy, throwing yourself into tasks that left no room for idle thoughts. When you had too much time to sit and think, things tended to spiral in directions you didn’t want to go.

Today, however, was different. Today, you had patrol with Joel.

You hadn’t seen him since that day—since you’d taken him home, drunk and barely coherent, muttering words you still couldn’t make sense of. The thought of seeing him again sent a knot of nerves twisting in your stomach, but you shoved it aside, focusing instead on the warmth of your coffee.

As you reached for your mug, a sharp pain shot through your ribs, making you wince. “Shit,” you hissed, setting the coffee down carefully as you leaned back in your chair.

Your last patrol had been rough. Your horse had gotten spooked, throwing you hard. You’d landed badly—right on a cluster of rocks—and though you hadn’t broken anything, the bruise it left behind was massive and tender, an angry bloom of purple and blue spreading along your side.

You’d managed to grit through the pain so far, but the thought of climbing back into the saddle today made you groan. Still, you didn’t have the luxury of skipping out.

As you pulled on your jacket, preparing to head to the stables, your thoughts spiraled despite your best efforts to keep them in check. How was this patrol going to go? Would Joel act like nothing had happened, like that day was just another moment lost to time?

Did he even remember?

He’d been so drunk—his words slurred, his movements unsteady. The thought crept into your mind, unwelcome but insistent: Did the words even hold any meaning?

Thinking about you.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Joel didn’t say a word about it.

No gruff mumble of thanks, no apology for showing up drunk, no acknowledgment of how he’d shirked his duty to the town. And definitely no mention of the words that had slipped past his lips.

It was like it hadn’t happened at all, like he could erase it by simply pretending it didn’t exist.

And it pissed you off.

You rode beside him in tense silence, the sound of the horses’ hooves on the dirt trail doing little to muffle the frustration simmering inside you.

Your jaw clenched as you stole a glance at him. Joel sat tall in the saddle, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The same stoic, unreadable Joel Miller everyone knew. Except you knew there was more to him now.

Patrol today was about inspecting fences, gates, and other defensive measures—making sure everything was intact, that no one had slipped through, and that everything was still functioning properly. It was a longer ride than usual, covering the outermost sections of Jackson’s perimeter.

You were nearly at your destination, the familiar rustle of tall pines signaling you were close, when Joel stopped abruptly ahead of you.

A massive fallen tree sprawled across the trail, its thick trunk jagged where it had splintered violently from the base, likely brought down by the storm the other night. Moss and lichen clung to its weathered bark, their green hues muted in the morning light. The branches jutted out like twisted arms, tangled with smaller limbs and debris, forming an impenetrable barrier that made it impossible to navigate the horses around or through. The path ahead was completely blocked, forcing a decision neither of you seemed eager to make.

“Fuck,” Joel muttered under his breath, his tone heavy with frustration.

“Gonna have to walk the rest,” he said, dismounting with practiced ease. He grabbed his pack and rifle, tying off his horse to a nearby sapling.

“Oh,” you replied, hopping off your own horse a little more awkwardly. Slinging your rifle over your shoulder, you followed him to the tree.

“Gotta let Tommy know when we’re back,” Joel murmured, tying his horse’s reins securely. “Gonna take a few men to clear this out.”

You didn’t respond, and it didn’t seem like he expected you to. His words were more to himself than to you, his focus already shifting to the obstacle ahead.

Joel braced his hands on the massive trunk and began to climb over it. The tree was enormous, its bark rough and weathered, with gnarled branches reaching out like crooked fingers. Joel groaned as he hauled himself up, using his strength to push over the top before dropping down on the other side with a thud.

You sighed, swinging your rifle securely across your back before stepping up to the tree. With years of survival behind you, your movements were fluid, second nature as you reached for a sturdy spot and began to climb.

But as you pulled your weight upward, an intense, searing pain shot through your side. The bruise on your ribs flared to life, sharp and unforgiving, and your hand instinctively flew to your side as your heart thundered in your chest.

“Shit,” you hissed through clenched teeth, your grip faltering for a moment as the pain threatened to overwhelm you. You froze, trying to steady your breathing, your fingers digging into the bark for support.

You didn’t realize how loud your hiss of pain had been until Joel’s voice came from the other side of the tree.

“What’s wrong?” he called, his tone sharp and wary.

“Nothing,” you lied quickly, clenching your teeth as the pain radiated through your side. You didn’t need to be the one slowing him down. Gritting through it, you ignored the sharp ache and focused on pulling yourself over the thick trunk.

By the time you landed on the other side, Joel had already turned his attention back to the path, unaware of the beads of sweat forming on your brow or the way your breath came faster from the effort.

He cast you a quick glance over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “Let’s go,” he said simply, his voice gruff, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Without waiting for you to follow, he started walking, rifle in hand.

You adjusted your pack, swallowing down the simmering pain, and forced your feet to move.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The ride back to Jackson was steeped in a heavy, unspoken silence, the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. The fences were intact, the traps were set—everything had gone as planned. Still, the air felt colder now, the wind biting sharper than it had earlier, creeping under your layers and settling in your bones.

“We need to stop at the safe house first,” Joel said abruptly, his gruff voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Gotta check somethin’.”

You nodded without question, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill.

When you arrived, the safe house was exactly as expected: freezing. The kind of cold that wrapped itself around you, stubborn and unrelenting, no matter how many layers you wore. Joel immediately set to work, flipping through the logbook on the small wooden table, muttering under his breath about trap activity and needing to confirm the patrol routes.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the chill any longer. Moving into one of the smaller rooms, you rummaged through your bag, pulling out a long-sleeved thermal. You looked toward the door, making sure it was closed, then quickly stripped off your jacket and shirt, eager to get the thermal on.

The cold bit at your bare skin as you wrestled with the fabric, the thermal half over your head when the door opened.

“Let’s go—”

Joel’s voice stopped mid-sentence.

You froze, too stunned to yell, to move, to say anything.

Your thermal was still tangled in your hands, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and jeans, your cheeks burning hotter than they ever had in your life.

Joel stood in the doorway, equally frozen, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before his expression shifted into something unreadable. His gaze wasn’t leering or rude—it was searching, like he didn’t quite know where to look.

You quickly yanked the thermal down, the fabric catching on your shoulders as you fumbled to cover yourself, your voice trembling as you stammered, “Joel, what—”

But before you could finish, he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Your breath hitched as he stepped closer, his movements deliberate, each step heavier than the last. His boots creaked against the worn floorboards, the sound amplified in the stillness of the room. His face was unreadable—focused, intent—yet there was something unspoken in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name but felt down to your core.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice smaller than you intended.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stopped just in front of you, close enough that the air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t define. His eyes met yours, and there was something in them—quiet, cautious—that felt like a question unspoken. His gaze lingered, searching, almost as though he was asking for permission without saying a word.

You nodded before you could think better of it, unsure of what, exactly, you were granting.

Joel’s hand moved deliberately, lifting the hem of your thermal with a slow, measured touch. His rough fingers brushed against the fabric, sending a shiver through you as he raised it just enough to reveal your side. His gaze dropped, locking onto the ugly bruise sprawled across your ribs—a mottled mess of deep purples and sickly yellows that seemed to stretch farther than you’d realized. His jaw tightened, the only crack in his otherwise steady demeanor.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his face. It was calm, composed, betraying nothing, but his eyes told a different story. They lingered, studying the bruise with an intensity that spoke volumes, more than anything he could have said aloud.

“How?” he asked finally, his voice low, almost gravelly.

“What?” you breathed, caught off guard.

“What happened?” he repeated, his eyes flicking back up to yours.

“Oh.” You swallowed, feeling oddly self-conscious under his gaze. “Winnie—my horse—she got startled last week during patrol. Threw me, and I landed… funny.”

“Landed funny?” His voice dipped with skepticism, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“On some rocks,” you admitted with a sigh.

Joel grimaced, his jaw working like he was trying to hold back a comment. “Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

He paused, his gaze lingering on the bruise. Then, almost hesitantly, his free hand lifted, his fingers hovering just above your skin, as though he was unsure if he should touch, unsure if he even had the right.

You didn’t know why you didn’t stop him. Maybe it was the way he looked—like he was waiting for you to push him away. Or maybe it was the way his hand trembled, the calloused tips of his fingers brushing so lightly against the bruise you barely felt it at first.

The touch sent a jolt through you, the tenderness of the bruise flaring to life. You hissed in pain, your breath catching, and his hand stilled immediately.

His eyes snapped to yours, his brow furrowing with concern. “Hurts that bad?”

You nodded slightly, still trying to recover from the sting.

Joel’s hand fell away slowly, He dropped the hem of your thermal back into place, stepping back just enough to give you space, though his eyes lingered on yours.

“I asked you what was wrong,” Joel said, his voice low and gruff, the weight of his words settling between you. “Back near the tree.”

Where was he going with this? You searched his face, but his expression was as unreadable as ever, giving nothing away. His tone held no accusation, but it carried something heavier, something that made your stomach twist in anticipation.

You glanced at him briefly, your fingers tightening on the hem of your shirt. “What was I meant to say?” you mumbled, not quite meeting his gaze.

“You were meant to say you were hurt,” he replied, his tone clipped, but there was no mistaking the edge of frustration underneath. “I’d’ve checked the fences myself. Made you stay back with the horses.”

You blinked, startled by the bluntness of his words. “I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you muttered, trying to brush it off.

What was this conversation even about? Was he mad at you for not saying something, or was there something else beneath his frustration?

Joel’s jaw tightened, the muscle working as he glanced at you briefly before looking away, his gaze flicking to the floor like he was wrestling with something he didn’t want to admit. “A busted rib ain’t nothin’,” he muttered, his voice rougher now, tinged with an edge that made your chest tighten. “Could’ve made it worse, climbin’ over that damn tree like that.”

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond, the sting of his words landing more like a rebuke than outright anger. Still, beneath the roughness, there was something protective you couldn’t ignore. “I didn’t want to slow you down,” you offered quietly, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal.

Joel shook his head, his hands settling firmly on his hips. “Slowing me down’s better than you makin’ it worse for yourself,” he said, his voice gruff and unyielding. “You don’t get to make that call—not when we’re out there.”

You swallowed hard, the truth of his words hitting you. He wasn’t wrong. Out here, injuries like yours could mean the difference between survival and something far worse. Infected, raiders—they didn’t hesitate to pounce on weakness. If you couldn’t even climb a tree without wincing in pain, you were a liability.

You nodded, unsure of what else to say, your chest tightening under the weight of his words. Joel watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable before he turned on his heel, heading for the door.

But just before stepping out, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His eyes locked on yours, his voice firm but quieter now. “Next time,” he said, “you tell me.”

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You sat in the dining hall with Maria a week later, your bruise mostly healed, the pain now reduced to a dull ache rather than the sharp, constant reminder it had been. You hadn’t been on patrol with Joel since, and in a way, the break felt like a relief. It was good to have him out of your system for a bit. Being around him always left you on edge—unsure of what to say, how to act, or where you stood with him.

Patrol that day had been uneventful—a routine perimeter check with Maria that passed without incident. Now, the two of you sat at one of the long tables, eating dinner and chatting about what she was planning for Tommy’s upcoming birthday.

The sound of heavy, quick footsteps approaching your table pulled you out of the conversation.

“Hey, lady,” a sharp voice snapped, cutting through the comfortable hum of the dining hall. You turned, startled, to see Sam striding toward you, his scowl as deep as the lines etched into his face. His tone alone told you this wasn’t going to end well.

Sam was older, somewhere in his 60s, with an ego as inflated as his temper was short. He had a reputation for his mean streak, the kind of man who took any chance to assert himself, especially if he felt someone had stepped out of line. His presence was enough to sour the air around him, and as he closed the distance between you, your stomach tightened with unease.

“You forget something out there today?” he barked, his words cutting through the air like a whip. His tone was sharp enough to draw the attention of nearby tables, his hands planted firmly on his hips as he loomed over you, his shadow stretching across your seated form.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his accusation, but the knot in your stomach tightened as the realization hit. You knew exactly what he was talking about.

You’d forgotten.

How had you forgotten?

Sam didn’t wait for you to respond, his voice rising with frustration as he continued, “The tripwire,” he snapped, his tone biting. “That whole section was wide open—anyone or anything could’ve gotten through. Do you even realize how dangerous that is? Someone could’ve walked right into a death trap because of your mistake!”

“Shit,” you murmured, the heat rising to your face under the weight of his words. The knot in your stomach tightened further as you noticed heads turning, the din of conversation around you softening as people began to take notice of the exchange. “I—I’m so sorry. I totally spaced,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, though the words felt painfully loud in the hushed room.

“Totally spaced,” Sam repeated, his tone dripping with mockery, each word laced with cruel precision. “That doesn’t mean shit if someone gets torn apart because you couldn’t focus long enough to do your damn job.”

You flinched, the sting of his words sharper than you’d anticipated. Shame burned your cheeks, and your vision blurred as tears threatened to spill. You wanted to defend yourself, to explain that it was an honest mistake, but the truth was, he wasn’t wrong.

Sam took another step closer, his presence looming. His voice dropped lower, quieter, but far more venomous. “You don’t get to play all cute and make stupid mistakes like that. People die out there for less.”

“Enough.”

The single word cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and commanding.

Joel stood at the edge of the dining hall, his dark eyes locked on Sam, his expression hard as stone. The tension in the room was palpable, conversations dying out as his boots echoed against the wooden floor. You couldn’t breathe, your chest tight as his presence filled the space.

Even Sam, as hot-headed and arrogant as he was, seemed to hesitate. But with the eyes of the room on him, his ego wouldn’t let him back down so easily.

“Seriously, Joel?” Sam said, his tone sharp, almost desperate. “She messed up. Big time.”

“No, she didn’t,” Joel said, his voice low and steady, his eyes fixed on Sam with unwavering intensity.

You blinked, your stomach twisting in confusion. What was he doing?

“The hell are you talking about?” Sam shot back, his frustration mounting.

Joel didn’t flinch, didn’t break his stare. “I didn’t reset the tripwire,” he said, his voice calm, measured, like he was stating an undeniable fact. “It was my fault.”

Your heart stuttered, disbelief and shock crashing over you. What was he doing? This wasn’t his fault—it was yours.

“No,” Sam snapped, his voice rising. “It was her shiftl. Her name’s written right next to the task.”

Joel didn’t falter, his tone unyielding as he replied. “And I was with her this morning on patrol.”

Oh my god, you thought, realization hitting you like a freight train. Joel was lying. He was standing there, in front of the entire room, lying for you.

Your gaze darted to Maria, sitting beside you, her brows furrowed in confusion. She’d been the one on patrol with you today—she knew the truth—but she stayed quiet, her expression unreadable.

“I told her not to worry about it,” Joel continued, his tone steady, unyielding. “Said I’d reset the wire myself. And I didn’t.”

Sam huffed, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface as his gaze darted around the room, searching for someone—anyone—to back him up. But no one moved. Joel stood there, a silent force, his presence like a wall that refused to crack.

Finally, Sam shook his head, muttering curses under his breath as he turned on his heel to leave. The tension in the room began to ease, but just as he reached the doors, Joel’s voice rang out again, firm and unrelenting.

“I think you owe the lady an apology.”

Sam froze mid-step, his back stiffening as if Joel’s words had physically struck him. Slowly, he turned, his face a mix of confusion and indignation. “I… what?”

“An apology,” Joel repeated, his dark eyes locked on Sam like a predator sizing up its prey. “For how you acted toward her.”

“Joel,” you murmured, your voice hushed, insistent. “It’s fine.”

“S’not fine,” Joel murmured back, low and sharp, though he didn’t look at you.

Sam’s eyes flicked around the room, his cheeks flushing red as he realized everyone was still watching. This time, it was him who was marked by embarrassment, his ego shrinking under the weight of Joel’s stare.

“I’m… sorry,” Sam muttered through gritted teeth, the words forced and begrudging as they left his mouth.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode out of the hall, his footsteps hurried and heavy, slamming the door behind him.

The room slowly came back to life, conversations picking up in soft murmurs, the tension dissipating like smoke. But you barely noticed. Your heart was still pounding in your chest, your thoughts a chaotic swirl as Joel turned toward you.

His dark eyes met yours for the briefest moment, and the words sat heavy on the edge of your tongue. Thank you, you wanted to say. But before you could muster the courage, Joel looked away, turning and walking out of the hall, his stride steady and resolute.

You sat frozen in place, staring after him, a storm of emotions swirling in your chest—gratitude, confusion, and something far more complicated that you couldn’t name.

Maria leaned in, her voice low enough for only you to hear. “What the hell was that about?”

You swallowed hard, your eyes still fixed on the door Joel had disappeared through. “I don’t know,” you admitted softly.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

A few weeks later, it was Tommy’s birthday, and the celebration started at the Tipsy Bison. The bar was packed with people, its usual lively atmosphere amplified by the occasion. Maria and Tommy, practically the heartbeat of Jackson, had brought the whole town together for drinks, food, and laughter. It was loud and chaotic, but warm in the way only the Bison could be, the hum of voices and clinking glasses echoing against the wood-paneled walls.

You’d found a spot at one of the corner booths, a glass of something strong in your hand as you watched Tommy light up the room, cracking jokes and throwing back shots with anyone who approached. Maria had her arms crossed, a fond but exasperated smile on her face as she half-heartedly tried to reel him in.

Everyone gathered for a rowdy rendition of Happy Birthday, the entire bar raising their voices in a cheer as Tommy grinned like a kid, soaking in the attention. It was just as the song ended, the room buzzing with applause, that you spotted Joel near the bar.

He was nursing a whiskey, his posture stiff as usual, sticking to the edges of the crowd. He raised his glass slightly in Tommy’s direction, his version of a birthday toast, before turning back to face the bar, avoiding the attention entirely.

By the time the night at the Bison wound down, only a small group of you followed Tommy and Maria back to their house, the late hour thinning the crowd to a close circle of friends. Inside, the living room became a cozy chaos, with empty bottles scattered around the floor and blankets pulled over laps to chase away the winter chill.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, Maria beside you, both of you giggling over something Tommy had said earlier. Across the room, Joel sat slouched on the couch, his legs spread wide, one arm draped casually along the backrest while the other cradled a bottle. His gaze swept over the group, his expression unreadable but tinged with vague resignation, as if he were questioning every decision that had led to him staying this late.

Your eyes met his across the room, and for a moment, neither of you looked away. The noise around you faded into the background, the laughter and chatter dimming as his gaze held yours. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you, something that made your breath catch, though you couldn’t quite place it.

“All right,” Tommy said suddenly, clapping his hands together as he leaned forward in his seat. “It’s my birthday, so I get to make the rules tonight.”

“Oh god,” Maria groaned, already anticipating his next words.

Tommy grinned mischievously, grabbing an empty bottle from the coffee table. “Drumroll, please,” he announced, slapping the sides of the table for effect. “My birthday wish is… spin the bottle!”

Laughter erupted from the group, and you couldn’t help but grin as Maria buried her face in her hands. “Are you serious?” she said, peeking at Tommy through her fingers. “What are we, teenagers?”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Tommy shot back, his grin boyish and unrepentant. Before anyone could protest further, he leaned toward Maria, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “And since I’m the birthday boy, I choose you,” he declared, pulling her in for a kiss.

Maria barely had time to roll her eyes and murmur, “That’s not how the game works,” before her words were drowned by his mouth meeting hers. The room erupted in laughter and cheers, and even Maria couldn’t keep a straight face as she pushed him back, swatting playfully at his chest.

Joel, still sitting on the couch, looked more uncomfortable by the second, his jaw tight as his gaze shifted restlessly between the group and the door. He looked ready to bolt at any moment, his shoulders tense like a coiled spring. Yet for now, he stayed, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward you, only to dart away just as quickly whenever you caught him.

You were definitely tipsy at this stage, and maybe that was why the game didn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore. The laughter, the teasing, the warm buzz in the air—it all felt harmless, fun even. And maybe, just maybe, it offered a chance to kiss someone you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about, without the weight of meaning or consequence hanging over it. Just a game. Nothing more.

“Who’s next?” Tommy called out, his grin wide as he looked around the room. His finger landed on you. “You,” he said, pointing, his voice filled with exaggerated glee.

You giggled, a little embarrassed but not willing to back down. “Okay, okay,” you said, reaching for the bottle. The smooth glass was cool in your hands as you leaned forward and gave it a spin.

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest as the bottle wobbled and turned, everyone’s eyes locked on it like it was some sacred oracle about to reveal a life-altering truth. The room seemed to hold its breath as the bottle slowed, the momentum fading until it stopped unmistakably on—

“Joel?”

The name slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself, disbelief and something you couldn’t name twisting in your gut.

He was sitting on the couch, alone, and the bottle had most definitely landed on him. His face froze, like he hadn’t quite processed what had just happened. His eyes widened slightly—a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual guarded demeanor—before his jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek flexing with restrained tension.

The room erupted into cheers and whistles, the noise sharp and unrelenting. You couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the sheer mortification of the situation that sent a flush creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. Yet, despite the embarrassment, there was no one in this room you’d rather kiss. No one else you’d secretly hoped the bottle would land on.

“Well?” Tommy said, clapping his hands together like a ringleader at the circus. “Rules are rules!”

Maria groaned beside you, muttering something about her husband being ridiculous, but the rest of the group was too entertained to care.

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing as you looked at Joel, unsure if he was going to get up and walk right out the door. For a moment, it felt like time had slowed to a crawl, the noise of the room fading into a distant hum as your gaze locked with his.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your legs carried you across the room, your heart thudding in your chest with every step. Joel’s eyes followed you, wide and searching, half-dazed as if he wasn’t sure if this was really happening. His breath quickened, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer, knuckles turning white as his grip shifted against the glass.

Standing in front of him now, you hesitated for the briefest moment, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. Then, emboldened by the alcohol coursing through your veins and the storm of emotions you’d been harboring for him—emotions you could no longer ignore—you slid onto his lap.

The room erupted, someone whooping loudly, but the noise barely registered over the pounding of your own heart. Joel’s hands hovered awkwardly near your waist, uncertain, as though he didn’t know where they belonged. Your own hands found his shoulders, steadying yourself as his dark eyes flickered between your lips and your eyes, the tension in his gaze crackling like a live wire.

You leaned in closer, the space between you narrowing, drawn by the way his gaze softened, how it lingered on you like he was seeing you in a way you’d never dared imagine. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the movement small but telling, his breathing shallow and uneven as you hovered just a whisper away from him.

“Y’all gonna kiss, or just oogle at each other?” Tommy quipped, leaning back with a grin as the room filled with laughter.

But you barely registered the comment. Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned forward, your lips hovering over his, your breath mingling in the tense space between you—

And then suddenly, you were being pushed back, the startling movement breaking the spell.

You blinked, confused, as you landed against the couch, Joel already standing, his chest heaving. His face was unreadable, his jaw tight and his eyes hard as they darted away from you.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp with frustration. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door, leaving the room in stunned silence.

You sat frozen, your heart pounding in your chest as the sting of his rejection settled deep.

“Sorry, darlin’,” Tommy said, his voice softer now, though uncertainty laced his tone. He shrugged, offering a faint, apologetic smile. “You know how Joel is.” Then, without missing a beat, he looked around the room, clapping his hands once. “Alright, who’s next?” he called out.

The room buzzed with forced laughter as they moved on, but you couldn’t shake the lump in your throat. Before you could stop yourself, you were on your feet, leaving your coat behind as you pushed open the door and followed him out into the snow.

The cold hit you instantly, biting at your skin, but you didn’t care. The lamps lining the street cast a soft glow against the falling snow, illuminating Joel’s retreating figure as he moved briskly down the path.

“Joel!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the quiet.

He stopped but didn’t turn, his shoulders stiff, before he started walking again.

“Joel, stop!” you yelled, running after him, your breath visible in the icy air. You caught up to him, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to face you.

“What?” he spat, his voice sharp, but his eyes—his eyes darted everywhere but at you, like looking at you might break him.

“Am I…” you started, your voice trembling, your vision blurring with a mix of alcohol and something far more potent. “Am I really that revolting to you? That you couldn’t even kiss me?”

His jaw clenched, his lips pressing into a tight line as his eyes continued to evade yours.

“You can’t even look at me!” you exclaimed, the pain in your chest twisting sharper. “Seriously?”

He murmured your name, low and warning, but it only made your anger flare.

“You couldn’t have just kissed me for the game?” you said, your voice trembling, a crack breaking through as you tried to hold steady. “You really just wanted to humiliate me? In front of everyone like that?”

The words came out sharper than you intended, but the sting of his rejection still burned, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. You searched his face, looking for an answer, for something, but his expression remained closed off, his jaw tight and his eyes flickering away.

“It’s not like that,” he murmured, his voice rough but quieter now.

“Then what is it?” you demanded, tears threatening to spill. “Why wouldn’t you kiss me?”

Joel’s eyes finally flicked to yours, his expression conflicted, his voice breaking when he answered. “I wasn’t gonna kiss you.”

Your breath caught, the words hitting like a punch to the gut. You blinked, the tears burning hotter now. “Why?” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Why won’t you just kiss me?”

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face, his frustration bubbling over in a way he couldn’t contain. “I’m not gonna kiss you—not like this!” The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice raising, not in anger, but in exasperation, as though he was trying to make sense of something even he didn’t fully understand.

The world seemed to stop, his words hanging heavy in the cold air between you, each one echoing louder in your mind. Your heart skipped a beat, the weight of his admission sinking into you with more force than anything else he could’ve said.

“Not like this?” you repeated softly, your voice trembling, barely audible over the sound of your own pounding heart.

Joel’s eyes met yours then, and for the first time, you saw it—something vulnerable flickering in the depths of his gaze. Something raw and unguarded, something he couldn’t take back. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his jaw tightened, the struggle evident in every inch of him as he fought to find words he wasn’t ready to say.

“Not like this,” he repeated, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper.

Then he turned and walked away, his boots crunching against the snow with every step, leaving you standing there in the freezing night.

Your heart hammered in your chest, his words looping endlessly in your mind, settling deep into the corners of your soul where you knew they’d linger.

૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა

Tag List: @bbyanarchist @kanyewestest @locked-ness @bambisweethearts @pedritospunk @ickearmn

[celestiamour]

Ever since squid game s1&s2 wi hajoon character😩 I even saw a clip of his back 💀ok im getting side tracked😭so may I please request a smut with junho x fem reader where he’s stressed trying to find his brother but his wife or gf is there for him to keep him calm. It could literally be any plot😭 just need Jun Ho

ft. hwang jun-ho x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ eating you out after a long stressful day┊0.7k words

setting: season 1, before the 33rd games contains: smut!! dom jun-ho & sub reader┊oral fixation, receiving oral, overstimulation, mentioned nipple play & marking, established relationship

➤ author's note: i need this so bad, the new year depression is hitting and i’m so lonely

being a police detective is insanely stressful on levels he couldn’t even begin to explain, even more so when it’s a case related to him personally. ever since his brother went missing, he’s been relentless in his pursuit to find him, searching for even the tiniest clues that may help push the dead end he’s been stuck at for so long. he comes back a little bit later each night with less and less energy, crashing out on the couch and fall asleep to stop the raging headache from considering all of the possible things that could have happened. 

he still makes an effort to be there for you though, taking time out of his busy schedule to take you out on at least one date per week, not just to remind you that he loves you even with how busy he is, but for him to relax too. there’s nothing better than being comfortable and able to turn off the gears constantly turning in his brain in the company of someone he adores so much, and returning home to rest in your warm embrace is akin to heaven for his troubled mind. 

sometimes he likes to shut his brain down entirely when having sex with you and just thoughtlessly do his own thing. it’s almost therapeutic for him, even though you’re the victim of his ministrations and find your body suffering from too much pleasure (if it’s even a thing, he draws a thin line that makes you wonder).

like he is right now, hands spreading the inside of your thighs with a tight grip to prevent them from closing and his mouth laser-focused on what’s in between.

“i-it’s too much,” you whined, trying to push him away for a second of relief yet making no real attempt to do so, limbs slacking after a mere second of effort. perspiration had covered your skin in a thin sheen, shining under the light of the ceiling fixture and drawing attention to his previous actions: marks from constant sucking and biting into your soft flesh all over your neck and chest area. 

he simply hummed in response, the vibrations sending pleasure straight to your clit and making your whimper, not really listening to you. there weren’t really any thoughts in his head at the moment, only trying to pull another orgasm from your spent body to taste more of your addicting nectar and listen to your cries that sounded like the song of an angel.

you originally wanted to pay him attention before yourself, taking the edge off the perpetual stress he was going through with his climax, yet this was all he wanted to do, sucking on your clit like it was candy until the neighbors knew his name. there was no real skill or technique behind his movements, just pure unadulterated passion and lust as he pulled you even closer than you thought possible with an increased pace of fucking you with his tongue. 

it felt so suffocatingly hot, taking another breath only to let out another pitched moan in a vicious cycle. you didn’t know where to put your hands, alternating from the bedsheets to your oversized t-shirt stolen from his before finally tangling your fingers in his dark locks and tugging which caused him to groan in response. he finally opened his eyes and met your half-lidded ones, but he did not stop his assault on your engorged pearl. truthfully, the sight of you as such a blissed-out mess was almost enough to make him cum untouched, and he’s not even certain if he didn’t.

the familiar feeling of an orgasm washes over you, the intensity of it being your third tonight making your back arch off the mattress and your toes curl with a pitiful gasp. still, jun-ho’s lips stayed latched onto your abused pussy, lapping up all of your arousal like a damn dog until you were all cleaned up with nothing but his spit slicking your folds. you whimpered when he finally let go only to part your swollen hypersensitive cunt with his finger, admiring how it quivered and clenched around nothing begging for more.

it was going to be a long night, but it’s worth it if he gets the satisfaction of carrying you out of bed the next day due to your shaking legs and he finally wakes up with a clear head for once.

[cheyisagirlkisser]

nsfw. ellie fingers you on patrol to help with your cramps. 1.4k words.

Never in your three years of residency in Jackson would you ever predict this–Ellie’s fingers deep inside of you, stroking the soft, sweet spot swollen by your own arousal. You would never have been able to predict actually crying out for her touch, hips bucking up to meet her palm like it was nothing. It was truly everything, because this was never supposed to happen.

You and Ellie had a strong distaste for each other from the start.

You liked to go to parties and drink, be reckless during patrols, and (at least attempt to) sleep with anyone who you thought was even slightly fuckable. Ellie was a wallflower, so maybe her distaste for you was plain jealousy. For you, your dislike for Ellie was much more than just something solvable with a little chat.You really resented her, and maybe it was because she actually made you feel things.

It was just another patrol like the rest, Ellie being quiet around you, and you refusing to make your usual conversation. Ellie was the only person you didn’t chat up a storm with when it came to these long patrol shifts, this one even lasting two days and requiring a camp set-up. If the two of you had really thought it through, you would’ve been more careful. Two people who have that obvious and yet annoyingly oblivious tension? It should’ve been predictable.

It started with the growing of blood in your underwear. The perfect time to be on your period, huh? You only let out a little huff to which Ellie ignored, setting off into the forest to put on a pad. When you returned, it was like fate that hit you, much like a lightning strike. Literally a strike of pain in your lower stomach signifying cramps to come, and on the one patrol you before to bring a bottle of Ibuprofen on.

You laid in your sleeping bag in pain, not wanting to even complain to Ellie, as much as you were the whining type. It’d be real nice to have someone to listen to you express how badly this cycle was, how your body was doing you dirty. You weren’t expecting Ellie to speak to you first.

“You okay over there?” not the usual irritated tone she liked to use with you, but not the most empathetic. Just slightly softer, but that was a mercy due to the strain in your relationship.

“Cramps.”

“Just take an ibuprofen and lay on your side.”

“Gee, thanks. I would’ve never thought to do that,” you bit, making Ellie glare. “I don’t have anything on me. I forgot I was close to my period.”

“Damn,” a not so sympathetic, and possibly indifferent curse from her.

“Yeah, damn is right. I feel like I’m being stabbed in my uterus repeatedly.” 

Silence went on for a few more minutes, but it was visually obvious that you were in a lot of pain. Despite her dislike for you, she didn’t like seeing you suffer. There was a small flutter of empathy deep inside her that made her suggest something she probably shouldn’t have.

“Physical stuff can help cramps, you know.” Quiet, and yet the implication was clear.

“You mean like..sex?”

“Don’t think of it as actual sex, obviously. Just me helping you.”

“If we do this, we aren’t having sex. I’m not moaning for you or telling you how much I want you, so don’t expect that shit. You’re simply giving me an orgasm, and then it’s done.”

“Agreed. No kissing, and as soon as you..finish, we stop.”

And it started just like that, as sexual act of non-sex.

Ellie didn’t warm you up with neck kisses or sloppy love bites like your usual partners did, and partially, you were glad. This was just supposed to be an orgasm, and you didn’t need to like each other to appreciate a good orgasm, right? A simple pain reliever. Anytime your brain would bleed with thoughts of Ellie doing those things for you, however, you’d block them out as soon as they entered into your mind. The imagery was more difficult to get out of your head, though. Just simply picturing her plush lips trailing over your neck, breath ghosting over…

You snapped out of it, and just focused on trying to cum so that this would end, and you and Ellie could go back to hating each other.

One finger slipped inside of you, and you bit back a gasp. You were wet enough to take it without much at all, and you hoped Ellie just assumed that was just because of your period and not actually because you were turned on.

Ellie started out slow, just rubbing your g-spot with her finger, providing some direct stimulation. It made you realize how different the act of sex itself was from sex with all of the other stuff. The teasing, how your typical couple would build up the moment to make it the best possible experience. That wasn’t what this was, though. So, why were you biting your lip to stifle moans when Ellie slipped in another finger into your increasingly wet hole, and even padded over your clit with her thumb?

Your head was spinning, and you were starting to lose your focus on just having that orgasm, the aid to your cramping. You were already too distracted to think about the pain, too focused on trying your hardest to pretend like Ellie’s calloused fingers curling into your pussy wasn’t the hottest thing you’ve felt in a while. 

Ellie didn’t complain when you instinctively bucked your hips up into her touch, and she had to try really hard not to lean down and kiss you when the occasional moan slipped past your lips. She couldn’t blame you, it was a natural reaction.

So, why was it that you were now begging for more when she curled right up into your sweet, tender spot?

“Ellie,” you breathed out, eyes fluttering open to meet hers. The scrunch of her nose that was usually present when you were around faded away, and her eyes were lidded, her lips parted slightly. A delicious, rosy tint set across her freckled face.

“Is it helping?”

“Please. Please, fuck me..just like that, I need it,” you begged, making her stomach do summersaults. It couldn’t be helped, though. Ellie took note that you shed off a little bit of your dignity when she slid her fingers slightly out and shoved them back into your hole, just to slam into your g-spot. She liked the way you sounded, the way your usual walls built around her crumbled when she fucked you good. Even though she didn’t (or at least tried not to) care to observe you enough, she noticed that you were different when at parties dancing with random people, more inauthentic. Something was ironically beautiful about the rawness to your voice that hit hard when she did something particularly mind-blowing to your pussy.

A mix of blood and your juices were dripping down her knuckles, and she really wanted to taste you. It would probably be something she would regret later, but Ellie decided to sate herself with a soft kiss to your lips instead. She felt warm and tasted like the rations from earlier, but you kissed her back fervently. The needy sounds coming from your throat were swallowed by her own mouth.

The orgasm that hit you was mind-blowing enough to aid with the cramps, but that wasn’t what you were focused on. Instead, it was the way Ellie’s tongue coaxed your lips apart, and the scent of her hair against your nose when she buried her face into your neck to taste your pulse. You felt every tremor run through you like lightning, and it was unlike anything anyone else could give you. It wasn’t forced, and the passion there was real. You actually felt something with her. 

As you came down however, the moment dissolved into awkward silence and the careful removal of Ellie’s fingers from you. You swallowed, holding back your words. You wished to forget it all now, not because you wanted to deny it ever happened, but you were scared of what it meant if you got attached to someone in Jackson.

Just like that, it was over, and you and Ellie didn’t go quite back into disliking each other dynamic but rather an awkward limbo. You left that patrol and spent the next few weeks sleeping with people, pulling all-nighters trying to make yourself feel what you did on that patrol, but you never could find the same peak in every single category of feelings that Ellie gave you.