#so she keeps it all in a tight little bundle and presses it down where it belongs

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part x)

DECOHERENCE—Meaning disperses, and the pieces no longer make a whole.

summary: Joel's been left to deal with the wreckage of a choice before, now he lets an important decision run him over once more.

a/n: MDNI, smut, rated 18+ and It's Christmas in March! you are simply not ready for this chapter. seated? tissues? fingers at the ready? alright, let's go.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

Here’s the thing about being a pillar hermit: people leave you alone until they don’t. They let you be—until moments like these, where the whole damn town is out, where everyone is watching, where people expect you to participate in something you don’t much care for.

Joel had always been like this—off to the side, out of the way, hands tucked in his pockets while the world spun around him. He didn’t dislike Christmas. Hell, he wasn’t that much of a grouch. He could appreciate the little things: the smell of pinecones in the air, the bright ribbons and ornaments draped around a jewelled tree, the crackle of a good fire, the steaming mugs, the soft hum of carols carried by the wind. He had good Christmases once. With Sarah. And then there were twenty years of nothing but ruined memories.

But this Christmas?

Well, this great Christmas marked the birth of his miraculous little ray of hope.

Maya. She was over by the tree, bundled up in two layers of coats on Joel's insistence, the little white bunny-ear beanie on Leela's insistence, bathed in the golden glow of the twinkling string lights, big, curious eyes reflecting the light like they were seeing magic for the first time. Tommy was crouched beside her, pointing out different ones, probably spinning some grand tale about the meaning behind each that made her giggle, her tiny fists wrapped in thick mittens, reaching for the lower ornaments. Joel’s heart did that stupid and fragile twist in his chest.

She was the best thing to ever happen to him. A love so profound, so damn big, he didn’t know how to hold it all sometimes.

And this morning had been one of those times.

Joel had barely finished his coffee before she was yanking at his pant leg, a determined little thing, dragging him outside, dragging him toward that swing he and Leela had built for her birthday, right under the big old oak in their yard.

Leela had painted flowers into it, just to make it look pretty, but Joel? He had been thinking about something else entirely. The kind of things fathers do. The quiet things. The ones no one notices—the ones meant to keep her safe. He’d spent hours carving the wooden seat just right, smoothing it over, free of splinters, making sure it was perfect.

Little feet thumping against the wood floor, her whole body vibrating with barely contained energy, her curls a wild mess from sleep, she had practically screeched it, beaming up at him, eyes wide and expectant—“Swing, Da-da!”

“She’s not gonna let you breathe until you do it,” Leela noted knowingly.

He'd laughed with her as he set his cup down. He scooped Maya up with ease, pressing a smacking kiss into her belly just to hear her squeal, her laughter bubbling out, wriggling in his arms.

“Alright, birthday girl. Your wish is my command. Go, get your jacket.”

None of that safety shit mattered because once Maya climbed up on that swing and he pulled her back, the little girl in front of him—his daughter—was nothing but delight. Carefree. Head tipped back, breathless, laughing. Joel had long since forgotten this kind of joy.

He had been gentle at first, keeping his hands right there, afraid to let go, afraid she’d slip. Joel chuckled, kneeling beside her, his fingers tightening around the ropes. “Hold on tight, bug. Can't let go.”

She hummed, her nose scrunching, her mittened hands gripping tight.

At first, he was cautious. Careful. He barely pulled her back, only giving her the softest push, his hands staying by her, just in case—but Maya wasn’t having that. She rocked her body forward, letting out an impatient, “Up, Da-da! Up!”

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Bossy little menace,” he muttered under his breath, but he was already pulling her back before she could whine again.

Then, he let go. And she went soaring like those birds she loved so much.

Not too high—he’d never let her go too high—but high enough that she tipped her head back, high enough that the wind kissed her soft curls, high enough that her giggle rang out in the crisp morning air, a song he didn't want to stop hearing.

He watched how her whole face lit up like a new lightbulb, watched the way her cheeks bunched under her eyes, how her little boots kicked out with each swing, how she laughed so loud, so bright.

She was his. His heart. His whole goddamn world.

Maya tipped her head back again, her little golden giggles turning breathless. “Da-da!”

He took a deep breath in, grinning.

And then he pushed her forward again. Again, again and again.

Until all he could hear was her laughter, all he could see was her so fragile and infinite at once, all he could feel was this. This big, big thing that definitely wasn't grief.

Now, standing here, it was that same feeling. That same terrible, wonderful thing inside him—so big, so damn big, he still didn’t know how to hold it all. But maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe it was okay to just feel it.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

His gaze flicked past Maya and landed on the next best thing in his life.

Another pillar hermit, just like him, though Leela never quite knew it.

She stood with Maria, who was introducing her to some couples—faces Joel recognized but didn’t care to remember. And Leela, well… she was trying her best—her polite, careful best.

She was smiling, nodding, fielding whatever questions they threw at her, but he knew her shorthand by now. The subtle language of Leela-isms. The way she kept tapping the back of her left toe—nerves. The absent scratching at the top of her ear—overwhelmed. The way her eyes flicked to Maya every ten seconds—ready to get the hell away. She was forcing herself to be here.

She needed rescuing. And Joel was waiting with his charger, white horse at the ready.

He exhaled through his nose, pushed off the post he was leaning on, and made his way to her, feeling that all-too-familiar clench in his stomach. That pull. That ache. It happened every damn time since that night in bed heaven—like a part inside him just locked into place, a restless nerve finally settling. It was instinct now, the need to reach for her, to touch her, to keep her close.

Because this girl—this woman—had torn down every damn wall he had ever built to keep him safe. And he had never, not once, been so glad to be ruined.

And tonight? Goddamn. Tonight, that girl was trying to kill his soul.

She had listened to him. That little suggestion he had made, all casual-like, about those unholy leather cowgirl boots? The ones that gave her just enough height that she could tilt her chin up at him all playful, stubborn and cute? The ones that made those fine legs look long as hell, in the long gypsy-inspired dress, hugging the curve of her ass, the adorable swell of her thighs under her coats?

She was all his. Not in the way that meant ownership, no—Leela was too independent for that, too herself to be possessed. No, he needed her to belong. Like a home does to an owner.

He eventually flanked her side, letting his palm rest at the small of her back, and it took everything in him not to let it slide lower, not to give her a squeeze that said exactly what he was thinking.

“Howdy, darlin',” he murmured, voice dipping into something only she ever got to hear.

Leela shot him a look, and he knew—knew damn well—just how much that molasses-smooth drawl affected her. Hell, if he didn't use it on her at home, just when he wanted to get something his way. Very proud of it.

But she melted into him all the same, her slender palm pressing against his chest, a quiet reassurance, warm even through his jacket. “Hi, Joel.”

And then she rose onto the tips of her toes and pressed the softest kiss to his jaw. That? Yeah. That would undo him every time, even if he hated to flaunt.

“I was just talking to, um…” Leela glanced at the man beside her, struggling to recall his name.

“Greg,” Joel filled in, giving him a curt nod, his fingers hooking into the belt loop of his jeans. He saw the guy out on patrols, too.

The conversation went on, but Joel had stopped caring about Greg the second he noticed the shift—the way the conversation turned into something else. Looking between Leela and him, and his arm on her, and her hand on him.

And then, there it was. The thing people always noticed.

“So, how long have you two been together?” Greg asked, clearly dancing around something.

Leela glanced at Joel, as if waiting for him to answer. When he didn't, she went ahead. “A long time now. Right, Joel?”

“Over a year,” Joel fixed smoothly.

“Huh.” Greg nodded.

He smiled, though a little too amused, something Joel recognized before the man even opened his mouth. “Didn’t take you for a cradle robber, my man.”

Fucking what? The laugh that followed was casual and easy, but Joel felt Leela stiffen against him, confused more than anything. And that was what really did it. Because she didn’t get it—not in the way Greg meant it.

Joel’s gaze flicked up, controlled and unbothered, but there was something else underneath it—slow, mindful, dangerous. The kind of look that made a man rethink his next words.

Greg’s smile faltered just a little.

Joel tipped his head slightly, like he was genuinely considering the statement, then let out a low, thoughtful hum.

“That right?” His voice was calm. “Well, I guess that makes you the poor bastard dumb enough to say it to my face.”

Greg let out a short, uneasy chuckle, shifting on his feet. “Just messin’ with you—”

Joel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure you were.”

He let the undeterred silence sit solemn between them just long enough before tilting his chin up, slipping a little smirk into his tone.

“You have a good Christmas now,” he wished well. Because he was gentleman on top of being a asshole. Or so he thought.

Then, with a gentle squeeze at Leela’s waist, he steered her away—leaving Greg standing there, watching, knowing damn well who had the last word.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

She let him, followed without protest, but once they were far enough from the crowd, she looked up at him, brows drawn together in quiet confusion. “What was that all about? And what's a cradle-robber?”

Joel sighed, ran a hand down his face. Of course, she wouldn’t understand. Leela had never been on a real date, never had anyone whispering about what was ‘appropriate’ or not when it came to love. She had spent most of her early life just surviving, just trying to make it from one day to the next. Just like him. The idea that someone might see something wrong with what they had? It wouldn’t even occur to her. Precisely why she thought he hung the damn moon on her sky.

He stopped, turning to face her fully. His hands found her waist, thumbs tracing over her jacket. “Nothin’ worth wastin’ your time on.”

She studied him for a long moment, searching his face. “But it was about you, wasn’t it?”

Joel shook his head, one hand reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. “People like to talk. Doesn’t mean they got any sense.”

He knew her well enough by now—knew that look. Knew she wouldn’t move on until she’d made sense of it, turned it over in her mind, figured out what it meant.

He exhaled and tipped his head toward the tree where Maya was still marveling at the lights. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

Leela followed easily, slipping into his space the way she always did, like it was second nature. And maybe it was. Maybe she had never really known anything else.

They walked in step, but then, finally—softly—she said, “Just so you know, I don’t mind that you’re older.”

Joel glanced down at her, a little caught off guard. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her breath curling in the cold air. “It’s… more familiar to me.”

His brows pulled together, and she must have seen the question in his face because she clarified, “I was raised by older people. My parents, my aunties and uncles… the few people who really looked out for me? They weren’t young.” She paused, glancing up at him. “You remind me of that. Of home. I feel safe.”

Safe. She found that in him. And she wasn’t saying it the way other people might, wasn’t calling him stable or dependable or anything that felt like a backhanded compliment. She didn’t just believe the words she said, but lived them.

Joel swallowed, the muscle in his jaw working. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure if he should say anything.

His hands flexed at her waist, gripping her just a little tighter, just enough that she might feel it through the layers. A silent answer. I got you. I always got you.

Only then—

“There’s my best girl! C'mere, come to auntie.”

Maria’s voice sliced clean through the moment, and just like that, it was gone.

Leela turned, her expression softening instantly, instinctively. And Joel—well, he exhaled like someone had cracked open a high window. Maybe he was grateful for the interruption. Possibly he wasn’t ready for what had just started.

A few feet away, Tommy was spooning Maya up, tossing her into the air just enough to make her squeal before catching her against his chest. She let out a high-pitched giggle, kicking her feet, nose twitching from the cold, mittens clutching onto her uncle’s coat.

“Kiss-mas, unca. Kiss-mas twee,” she chirped.

Tommy grinned, bouncing her once. “Yeah? Kissmas?”

Maya giggled, cheeks puffing out more steam.

“Alright, c’mon. Kiss-mas, I'll show you kiss-mas.” Tommy made a show of pressing a dramatic, smacking kiss to her cheek, loud enough that Maya shrieked in delight, kicking her feet in his arms.

Maria was standing beside them, arms crossed. “Y’know, if you rile her up too much, her daddy is gonna be the one stuck dealing with it.”

Joel arched a brow as they approached. “Damn right I am.”

Tommy turned back to Maya, brushing the snow off her coat. “You excited, peanut? It’s your birthday and Christmas. You got double the presents.”

Maya sucked in a breath, as if she was just now realizing. As if she understood every word Tommy had told her.

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. Baby girl was ridiculous.

Leela finally spoke, leaning in, playing along. “It’s all downhill from here, sweetheart. Next year you’re getting socks.”

Maria grinned, reaching out to tug on one of her tiny boots. “Mama’s just messin’ with you. I'll make sure you entire your terrible twos with a bang.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. Let’s get this birthday girl inside before she freezes.”

Tommy pressed one last kiss to Maya’s curls before plopping her down onto her feet, letting her waddle toward Maria, arms stretched high, exactly like a baby bear.

“Leela!”

Joel heard the voice before he saw her.

A familiar call over the hum of the crowd, cutting across like a bullet through a fog. A name spoken in a voice he hadn’t heard in quite some time—every muscle in his body locked up.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

He never thought he’d have that reaction to hearing her. Not Ellie. Not the kid he’d sworn to protect, the one he’d fought for, bled for, lied for. And yet, here he stood, rigid, his fingers curled into fists at his sides, his stomach pulling tight like a knot looped too thin.

Leela had turned, glancing through the parting bodies, a big grin blooming on her face. “Hi, sweetie. Over here.”

She pushed her way forward, shoulders squared with that defiant set he knew too well, wind in her short hair, face unreadable.

Joel felt himself stop breathing. It was like looking at a ghost now. A taller, older phantom. A little sharper around the edges, he realized so late. The baby fat in her face had hollowed out, and her eyes—God, her eyes—looked at him like they didn’t know him. Like she was seeing a version of him she couldn’t place.

For a moment, the world just stopped.

Then, Ellie’s gaze shifted. To the arm Joel had around Leela. To Leela, standing there with that confused tilt to her head, the one she got when she knew something was wrong but hadn’t put the pieces together yet.

Ellie’s mouth parted, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

Joel felt his throat close up. “Ellie.”

X

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

Jackson’s winter wind pierced into Joel’s jacket that night, growing through the seams and biting at his skin like something flesh-eating. The sky was rife with the promise of snow, greying clouds roiling over the town. However, Jackson was still awake in its quiet way—candles flickering behind curtained windows, the faint hum of conversation drifting from the mess hall, boots crunching against frostbitten dirt.

Joel should’ve been heading home. But Ellie was waiting.

She sat hunched on the steps of her porch, hood up, arms folded tight across her chest. He knew that posture. Knew the stubborn set of her shoulders, the tension in her limbs like a wound coiled too tight. Not just stubbornness—something else. A truth held in too long, stagnant enough to choke on.

Joel slowed as he approached, hearing those vindictive words aimed at him, boots scuffing against the wood. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, letting the frigid snows settle between them.

Ellie didn’t look up. Not at first.

“So you gonna tell her already?”

Her voice wasn’t sharp. Not yet. But there was an edge to it, dangerously close to fury, quiet and simmering.

Joel’s small smile tightened. “Tell her what, kiddo?”

A breath of laughter escaped her, humourless, cold as the wind slicing through the space between them. She shook her head.

“C’mon, man. Again with the bullshit?”

Joel barely had time to exhale before she turned, looking up at him, and there it was—that look. The one that saw straight through him. The one that didn’t need words to say I know exactly what you’re doing.

“How long were you planning on keeping this from her, huh?” she said. “Were you ever gonna tell her? Or were you just gonna let her—I dunno, let her live in the dark forever, like you did to me?”

The words landed like a strike to the ribs, but Joel didn’t flinch. Just breathed slowly through his nose. What could he say when she was looking at him like that? Like she already knew every goddamn thought running through his head. Like she’d seen the exact shape of the things he’d never say aloud.

She had every right to say what she’d said. But that didn’t mean he could let it go unchallenged.

“You don't know shit about this, kid.”

X

Snow still clung to the edges of Joel's new boots, leaving prints on the mat, but the second he crossed the threshold of the big, white house that now smelled of birthday cake and cinnamon, it was like stepping into something softer, something that held. Because, for once, he realized—he wasn’t leaving. This was his home.

His arms were full—Maya, slack-limbed and snoring against his shoulder, her tiny fingers curled into his shirt collar even in sleep. And Leela, tucked against his side, her hand warm within his jacket pocket.

It still hadn't fully sunk in. This house—this big, white house, the one he’d stepped into so many times before—was his now. Not a place he’d visit and have to leave before the night was over. No more boots set by the door only to be laced up again with that knot in his chest. No more catching glimpses of Leela through a window, of Maya’s tiny hands pressed against the glass, tearfully watching him go.

He got to stay. He got to wake up here. With the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath his feet and the knowledge that when he kissed Leela and Maya goodbye before heading back to patrol or another morning in the barracks, it would only be until he came home again.

Joel sighed, adjusting Maya in his arms as Leela reached past him to flick on the lights and lamps as they went in, the glow catching in her dark hair. “Baby girl out cold?” she asked, laughing under her breath.

“Like a rock,” Joel murmured, pressing a kiss to Maya’s temple. “A pretty cute rock.”

They had spent the whole afternoon celebrating Maya’s first birthday in the kitchen, and the remnants of the day clung like echoes of laughter and warmth—twinkle lights looped around the large island, the fraying, browning “Happy Birthday” banner Leela had strung between the cupboard handles, slightly askew now, edges curling where the tape didn’t quite hold.

And the cake—his cake. Tommy would have a field day if knew about Joel's little baking endeavour. Wouldn't let him live it down.

The half-eaten thing sat beneath the lights, pink frosting uneven, green letters smudged where he’d tried to fix his mistakes but only made them worse because his hands had never been made for finesse. He had busted his ass working on that cake— hours. Spreading, smoothing, wiping away, cursing, and starting over. Terrible.

But Maya hadn’t cared.

She’d smacked her tiny fist right into the centre, the second he’d put it down, giggling so hard she nearly tipped over the counter where he'd safely stationed her. And Joel—Jesus, he hadn’t even been mad. Just laughed, caught up in her sweet joy, snapping blurry Polaroids while Leela tried, through her own laughter, to salvage what was left of it.

“Maya, what did you do!” Leela gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding, already reaching for a towel.

Joel just stared for a second, his hours of effort reduced to a pink, squashed mess. Maya, unfazed, lifted her frosting-covered fist and squealed, “Da-da!”

He blinked, shaking his head with a huff of laughter. “Well, hell. Guess we ain’t needin’ a knife now.”

Leela let out a breathless laugh, nudging Joel’s arm. “Go on. You worked so hard on that cake, might as well capture the moment.”

Joel sighed, reaching for the Polaroid camera, but not before swiping a little frosting onto Maya’s nose. “Smile, sugar.”

She squealed, squirming.

The flash went off just as Leela threw her head back laughing, and Maya’s dimpled grin shone through the mess, knowing already that these would be the photos he’d keep close. Now, under the glow of the twinkle lights, the cake sat there, still dented, still messy, a perfect wreck of a memory.

And whilst in the living room—his gaze flicked over, quieting—Where there had once been blackboards stacked against the walls, books scattered across the coffee table, and notebooks stuffed with numbers and theories—now, all gone. Packed away.

It was so... empty. Not a trace of Leela's endless pursuit in evidence. If it weren't for the pencil stand and textbooks of Analysis in Euclidean Space and Ordinary Differential Equations on the mantlepiece, he wouldn't have known what Leela was really capable of.

A week ago, she'd done the purge herself. She’d sat cross-legged on the carpet, on purpose, flipping through each notebook, running her fingers over the faded scrawl of her father’s handwriting, the precise lines of logic and numbers her mother had etched into the pages. She’d held them to her chest, laughing softly at the curvy doodles and the scribbled notes left for her, the little photographs tucked between the pages—her parents, young and bright-eyed, caught in moments before the world had turned hostile.

Joel had sat on the staircase behind the living room wall that night, out of sight, listening to her sniffles, hands curled around his knees. He had let her press her forehead to her knees and cry through the quiet. This wasn’t a grief he had any part in. There was no fixing this, no way to take away the ache.

So he’d waited. Ready, if she needed him. She never called for him, never reached out—but he was there. Always. Even as she boxed it up, put a pin in it and sent it off.

And in the morning, when he woke up, it was to his home strongly scented of pine. In the place of numbers, a big Christmas tree stood by the wide windows, draped in ornaments and tinsel. Elegant, decorated like something straight out of a home magazine, all soft gold and deep red, twinkling lights woven through its branches. She’d strung the garland around in perfection that screamed Leela, hung the star at the top, and—most importantly—placed a single red stocking over the fireplace for Maya.

There weren’t any gifts beneath it—things were tight, and the world wasn’t what it used to be—but that didn’t matter. They had made do. They had done their best. And, goddamn it, it had been enough.

They had made it suffice for themselves, making sure her first birthday and Christmas were perfect. And Leela—she’d done all this. After everything, after the long, aching week of packing away the past, she’d still done this.

All for him.

She’d made his favorite lamb koftas, the ones he used to effuse about to her in passing, but she remembered. An overflowing casserole, those roast potatoes that he loved, a Christmas pudding so rich he swore he’d never eat again—only to go back for seconds and leave no leftovers. She’d done all that, while he’d figured old ham and ruined birthday cake would’ve been enough.

He’d said as much, somewhere between scraping the last of the pudding off his plate and leaning back with a groan, patting his stomach.

“You say that now. But you nearly cried eating those koftas,” Leela teased.

He snorted, tipping his head back. “I’m a simple man. Meat and love. That’s all I need.”

She laughed softly, leaned forward to brush a crumb from the corner of his mouth, and said, almost like it wasn’t anything at all—“Good. ‘Cause you’ve got both.”

Joel had made sure to capture everything and didn't leave anything out.

The camcorder had been rolling all through, his hands quick to snap photos, catching every moment, every laugh, every flicker of candlelight on Leela’s face as she smiled at their daughter. He’d flicked through the Polaroids already—some of them sat on the coffee table now, beside the two unfinished glasses of mulled wine sitting where Leela’s feet had been, curled up in his lap hours ago whilst his hands worked circles over her sore calves and aching heels. He had wanted to take care of her, needed to. After all the effort she had put in today, for them.

She had sighed when he’d started, a deep, bone-weary sound, the kind that told him just how much she had pushed herself today.

“Really, you didn’t have to go all out,” Joel murmured, his thumb depressing slow, steady strokes into her arch. As if this wasn't enough, he lifted to give her instep a kiss.

Leela hummed, eyes half-lidded as she set the glass down after a little sip. “I wanted to. It's my baby's first Christmas. Our first Christmas.”

“Still,” he huffed. “Shoulda sat down, let me help you more. Or you coulda just… let it be another day. No big deal.”

She cracked a tired smile. “You did plenty, Joel.” He really hadn't, but she held his gaze for a moment, searching. Then, gently, “You think I don’t want to do this for you?”

“What, be my wifey? Take up all my jobs around here?” Then, mumbled, “Should be callin’ me wifey.”

“Take care of you,” she snickered.

Joel worked his jaw, looking away. He didn’t know how to answer that without saying too much.

Leela shifted, pulling herself up, close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek. “I love you,” she murmured, with a surety he could never say aloud. “And I love what we have together. That’s why.”

Joel let out a breath, nodding. Then, gruffly, a bare breath, still not used to hearing it—“Yeah, I um. Love you, too.” His fingers traced one last, slow pass over her ankle before he hauled her closer, tucking her in against his chest. He stroked a few fingers down her back. “But next year, you’re sittin’ your ass down, lettin’ me do the gruntwork.”

Leela smirked against his shirt. “We’ll see.”

And for all that Joel had ever wanted with her—the longing, the ache, the terrible, quiet craving—he never thought he’d get this. Not just the heat of her body beside his. Not just her palm clutching his when the night got too dark. But, this.

A rhythm. A routine. A system that ran like a slow-beating heart. Something sacred, lived-in. Something built—not struck like lightning, not born from a single moment—but grown, cultivated like a garden in drought, fed by every mundane minute. It was ivy creeping up the big, white house's walls—imperceptible until, before you knew it, the whole damn thing was covered.

It was normal. And, god help him, he loved it. The predictability. The predictability. The soft domesticity. The way she moved in sync with him, like they'd been together a lifetime. Like muscle memory.

He’d step into the shower last, warm water would run out halfway through, but he didn’t mind—he’d stand beneath it anyway, working out the aches in his back, the stubborn stiffness in his knees, and by the time he stepped out, shaking out his soaking hair, she’d be by the sink, brushing her teeth, a towel wrapped around her shoulders, her long hair damp, clinging to the curve of her spine.

And she'd hold out his towel for him, saying something to rile him up on purpose, like, “I think Maya prefers owls more than sparrows. You know what a group of owls are called, Joel? A parliament. They're so cool.”

Sighing, he tied the towel around his waist, rifling through the drawer for a Q-tip. He'd been feeling deaf as a post with this weather. “I told you, we're not getting an owl.”

She frowned around her toothbrush. “Dull.”

“If you want a pet that bad, get one that's big and furry. Eats all the leftovers. Sticks to its business.”

She reached up to pat his damp chest, toothbrush now hanging off her lips, muffling her words. “I already have one of those. He's quite handy, too.”

That earned her a sharp smack in the ass. “Wiseass.”

And he’d put Maya to bed—pressing one last kiss to her forehead, cheeks and palms, smoothing her curls back, tucking the blankets snug around her little body—he still couldn’t stop himself from doing that, even now, the same way he did the first night he had slept in their home—while Leela went through the house, turning out the lights one by one, checking the latches, rearranging things no one else would ever notice. It was her way of making peace with the night. Her version of prayer.

And sometimes, when the noise in her head got too loud, she settled into her own space—the basement, where her tools were, her projects, the half-assembled parts she liked to fidget with, or fixing up whatever had caught her interest that night—and he’d find her.

He never rushed her. Never told her to get up and come to bed. Just sat nearby, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the soft furrow of her brows as she worked, how a single curl escaped her braid, which she'd tuck behind her ear every now and then. If she muttered to herself, he listened. If she was quiet, he let her be. If she needed help, he'd be there, rolling up his sleeves.

And when she was finally done, he’d take her hand—always her left, where her knuckles were a little more sore, where he'd thoughtfully rub her ring finger and imagine a gold band resting—and walk her upstairs, one foot in front of the other, like he was guiding out of a storm.

Up to their space. Their bedroom. Amber-lit. Warm. Enormous but quiet. Soft shadows stretching long across the wooden floor. Hers in a way that made it his, too. Her notebooks were stacked neatly on her nightstand, pages folded at the corners. The book he’d been “reading” for the past weeks was on his, barely ten pages in. A jug of water beside her lamp, which he refilled every evening, without fail.

And now, watching her in the bedroom—seated at the vanity, running a brush through her hair—it hit him, like it always did—how easy it had been to fall into this life. How damn natural it felt. He was sure he'd been waiting, failing, outliving for this his whole, long life.

And how hard—how impossibly hard—it would be to let it go when the time came. When something came knocking again.

And yes, it already did.

Now, his love wasn’t loud. It was this, soft, unremarkable intimacy. The brushing of hair. The warmth of a towel passed to him. The sense of a playful baby curled between them in the morning.

And Joel knew—deep in his gut—that he’d claw through the earth to keep it. To keep them.

X

“We have a life together. A family, a baby, a future. I... It ain’t that simple right now for all this.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Ellie shot back, shoving up to her feet. Her breath curled in the air, hanging between them. “You know some people’d want to hear what she’s got to say. People who could actually do something with what she’s figured out. The right people.”

The right people. Those do-good fucking cunts.

Joel knew exactly who she meant. The Fireflies, or what was left of them. The idiot ones still searching for remnants of the old world, still clinging to the past like stubborn weeds, for answers to questions that didn’t matter anymore—not when the world had already moved on without them. People who hadn’t let go of the idea that something better could still exist.

Leela had never been one for fairy tales. But this was the closest thing she had to one. And she’d chase it, no matter the cost.

He could already see it playing out. The way she’d set out on some wild chase across the country, searching for ghosts in the ruins. The way she’d throw herself into danger, into unknown places, into hands that might not be as kind as she expected.

And for what? For a world that was already done for? For parents who weren’t here to see it? For something bigger than herself, because Leela never knew how to put herself first?

He couldn’t let that happen. Not as long as he breathes.

Joel folded his arms, gripping the thick fabric of his sleeves, ready to return like for like. “Enlighten me, kiddo. And how do you know they’re still out there?”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “I hear things. You think I don’t listen?” She gestured vaguely toward the town. “Maria’s got scouts. People come through. Fucking Eugene. And maybe the whole world isn’t what it used to be, but not everyone’s given up trying to fix it.”

Joel let that sit in the cold air between them. But that didn’t mean it was real. And even if it was—

He sighed, running a rough hand over his beard. “Ellie, you don’t—”

“Don’t what?�� she snapped. “Understand?” Her voice had teeth now, cruel, sharp ones. “I understand just fine. I'm not a kid anymore.”

Joel clenched his teeth. His patience was fraying, unraveling at the edges.

“You have to stop,” he muttered.

Ellie let out a breath, shaking her head. “Jesus. She deserves to know, Joel.”

His throat worked up. “And what if there’s nothin’ out there?” His voice was quiet now, but firm. “What if she goes searchin’ and doesn’t find a damn thing? Or worse—what if she does?”

Ellie stilled. Joel stepped forward, yielding the words into the space waiting between them.

“What if she finds the wrong people?” His voice was almost a growl. “You ever think about that? About what happens if it gets her helpless, in front of a gun? If she leaves everything good she’s got right here and doesn’t come back? Have you thought about Maya? Our kid who depends on her... delusional mama? Will you answer for her?”

His voice caught on those last words. The thought of them was objective in his throat, scraping raw on the way down.

Ellie’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t look away. “Whatever it is, that’s not your choice to make.”

Joel inhaled sharply through his nose.

Not his choice, yes. But wasn’t it? Hadn’t it always been? Hadn’t it always been him, standing between the people he loved and the things that would take them away? Hadn’t it always been his job to make those choices—ugly, unimaginable choices—because someone had to?

Hadn’t it always been him who paid the price?

Ellie took a slow step forward, voice quieter now but cutting deeper than anything she’d yelled. It dropped ten-tonne stones in his stomach.

“You did it to me. Not this time, Joel.”

X

Joel watched Leela in the mirror for a long moment, one hand braced against the frame, taking in the endless pull of the bristles through her dark strands, the way her mouth softened in concentration. How she winced when she smoothed over a particularly large snarl, and manoeuvred it in little pulses of the brush.

Then he stepped behind her, crossing the room, steeling his palms against the vanity, on either side of her, lips against the back of her head—

“Darlin’?” The word was muffled in her hair.

She hummed softly, big, dark eyes flicking up to meet his in the glass. And goddamn, she looked pretty. Undeserving of him. The golden light from the lamp traced over the delicate curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose, the deep, dusky gleam of her skin.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you look?”

Her mouth curled, amused. She dragged the brush down again, glancing at him through the mirror. “Including now? Seventy-three times.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh. “You keep count, dork?”

“I keep count of everything.” She spun on the leather stool, ticking her fingers off. “How many times you walk up the stairs in a day, times you kiss me, times you call Maya with endearments or her name, times you use the bathro—”

Joel groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. Stop.”

She simply grinned at him, all innocent. “It’s a pattern. Symmetry. Helps with the theory.” A beat, then softer—“Well… helped.”

Joel eyed her. That sadness, the loss. The piece of her that was still grasping at things that had slipped through her fingers long ago. He wasn’t about to let that take root.

Then—clearing his throat—he shook his head, voice wry. “I was workin’ up to somethin’, and now I’m just creeped out.”

Leela tilted her head, curious. “Working up to what?”

He leaned in, voice dropping, little rougher, little lower. “Well—” His eyes flicked to her mouth. “I was gonna kiss you real hard.”

A flicker of something crossed her face—delight, fondness, maybe a little bit of shyness. That part he loved. Her lips parted slightly, nevertheless.

His smirk deepened. “How many of those am I at today?”

She let out a quiet, breathy laugh, gaze lowering. “Seven.”

“Hm. I can do better.”

Joel reached for her, fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face up as he kissed her—incredibly soft lips brushing his, building and deep, taking his time, savouring the sweetness of her. She sighed into him, her fingers grazing against the explosive pulse on his wrist, slipping up into his hair, her body melting just a little.

Then—just as she did—he moved.

With a swift movement, he shifted, dipping down, hands gripping firm before he hoisted her up, throwing her over his shoulder like she weighed no more than a feather.

“Oh—Joel!” She yelped and earned himself a swat at his back along with a girlish giggle. “Put me down!”

Joel just grinned, gripping the back of her thighs as he carried her toward their bed. “No can do. Seven kisses, my ass. I'll make that seventy tonight.”

She was laughing. Laughing like she couldn’t help it, like it just spilled out of her, like it bubbled up from somewhere deep, warm, and real.

And shit, Joel thought—if this was his life now, if this was what he got to end his days with—then he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

Leela was still giggling her head off when he set her down on the bed, mattress dipping with her weight, her legs hanging a little off the edge.

Joel stood over her for a beat, his large hands dwarfing her thighs, squeezing into the warm, smooth skin. His heart was thudding that fierce, familiar rhythm—like it always did when he was close to her. Just like this.

Christ, she was unfairly beautiful. Her freshly combed hair tumbled wild over her shoulders, her nightdress slipping a little at the straps as if knowing what was coming, teasing the soft swell of her collarbones. And her legs—bare beneath the hem—were parted just enough to accommodate his broad form and step between them.

He did, dropping down to his knees, like a man come to confess, knowing damn well he was about to sin a hundred times more.

And from here—from this angle—he could see everything. His whole world condensed to that space between her legs. The way her nightdress pooled over her lap, the black fabric of her panties peeking out just beneath it, the little white bow at the waistband that always drove him insane.

Leela only hummed, slender fingers buried into his hair, combing through the damp, silver-brown curls, another reminder of how too fucking old he was for her. Joel exhaled, tilting his head into her touch. Her fingertips dragged lazily over his scalp, nails scratching just enough to make his skin prickle.

God, he loved that. The way she touched him, she was allowed to now. Like she wanted to. Like she owned him. Because hell if she didn’t, every damn broken shard, every scar, every weary, blood-worn inch.

He let his eyes slip shut under her touch, sinking into it, jaw flexing slightly with the effort it took not to simply fall apart in her hands. She noticed. Of course she did.

Her mouth curved knowingly. “You want to…? I thought today is a godly day and all that.”

Joel huffed, eyes blinking back open. “You know what the Bible says?”

Leela smoothed his hair back from his face. “What does it say, Joel?”

His hands squeezed her thighs. “To be fruitful and multiply.” He let his lips ghost over her knee, just barely touching. “From one godless person to another—I say we fuck seven ways til Sunday and call it worship. Just like the big man intended.”

Leela laughed, hands hiding her face, and Joel felt it like sunlight cracking through old stone.

She wasn’t always like this with him—so easy, so light. It had taken time, so much time, to bring her here, to let her settle into herself with him, to let her know she didn’t owe him a damn thing. Not her body, not her trust, not her affection. That he’d still want her, still love her, no matter what her body could or couldn’t do.

But now? Now she sat before him, knees fallen open, fingers tangled in his hair, looking down at him with fondness. His, in the way someone chooses to stay.

He ran his hands down, slow, tracing the gentle slope of her calves, the dips and hollows of her knees, until he reached her feet. He rolled her socks off one by one, tossing them over his shoulder.

Then he groaned. Because right there, around the delicate bones of her ankles, were those thin gold chain anklets. Wrapped around the bones of her ankles like they were made to live there.

He swallowed, fingers trailing over the fine metal, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the bone. “The shit you do to me.”

Leela bit her lip to fend off a smile, fingers playing in his hair. “I make you very, very happy?”

“Absolutely. And,” he pointed to the goddamn rock-hard monument in her name, right between his legs, “there's your proof.”

Leela’s laugh was still in the air when Joel pushed her knees up, folding her into the mattress, urging her onto her back. He gave those pretty gold anklets a kiss.

She didn’t just let him. She rose onto her elbows, watching him, that playful little grin still tugging at her lips.

Joel let his hands slide up her thighs, tracing a path over warm, bare skin before pulling back just long enough to grab the back of his shirt. Then, in one motion, he yanked it over his head. Didn’t care where the damn thing landed.

When he looked down again—her lips had parted, awed, curious, fingers already reaching for him.

He knew where she was going before she even touched him.

Knew the exact path her hands would take—starting from the thick, angry scar slashed deep into his torso, the one that never quite faded, the one that should’ve killed him all those years ago. Her cautious fingers traced along the pale, ragged edge of it, weightless, lingering—because she knew. Knew how close he came to never having this. Her.

Then—down. Lower. His stomach caved as her touch skimmed over the soft plane just below his ribs, down to where the trail of little tufts of hair disappeared beneath his waistband.

“Still got a thing against underwear?” she whispered, mocking.

“Knock it off. You have your patterns, I have mine.”

Joel wasn’t sure what had him losing his breath first—her touch, maybe it was the way she looked at him right now, lips parted, waiting, as if she already knew exactly what this was doing to him. Just a whisper of pressure before she hooked one single finger into his waistband—one. Didn’t even tug, just held him there, wanting permission.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, lips twitching slightly, instinct kicking in before he could even think about it.

“My turn first, darlin’.” His voice was collected, low despite the heat winding through his blood. “I wanna take a nice look at my stakes tonight. You mind?”

A hesitation—just a beat. And, slowly, she shook her head.

Hands sliding back the hem of her nightdress, he dipped his head to claim his said stakes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh.

He took his time; he was about to taste every last bit of her tonight. Let his hands smooth over her hips, his thumbs skimming under the elastic of her panties, catching at the sides. The fabric worn soft against her skin, and he dragged it down, inch by inch—savouring the reveal of her, the friction, the soft unveiling of something that was already his.

And then he leaned down, eyes never leaving hers—flattening his tongue right into her belly button, teasing, hot, wet, possessing, before rolling it there like he was stamping himself into her, telling her exactly what the fuck she was in for.

Her head fell back, exposing her throat, as his stubble scraped at her, the delicate skin of her hipbones fluttering.

Joel knew it before he could venture downward, awaiting what was fit for a king.

The hesitance. The way her body reacted before her mind caught up, old ghosts whispering, instincts catching up—the quick snap of her knees closing, her fingers curling into the sheets, like she could hide, like she should.

Like she expected him to pull back, turn away, confirm whatever she’d already convinced herself was true.

“It's all ruined, Joel,” she whispered, too quiet, barely cupping his cheek. “It really isn't worth it. Just come up here and kiss me.”

A firm reminder of the patience he had to hold, no matter how much his control slipped past him, replacing it with something hot and aching and furious, because—who the fuck put that in her head? Who made her think that the resilience of her body, the proof of what it had endured, made her less than?

Who made her believe that change was a goddamn loss instead of something earned?

Although he knew what she saw now when she looked in the mirror. Knew the way her fingers traced over her own skin with careful, detached curiosity—like she was separate from herself, like she was still trying to understand what had happened to her.

So, he had to be careful now. Temper himself. Had to remind himself to slow down, hold back, not push, not snap with the heat—even though every part of him wanted to touch, to hold, to make her feel what he saw.

He ran his hands over her thighs, slowly warming her back into him, into this moment. Let her feel him. Let her know he was still here.

“Let me in, sweetheart.” His voice rough, full of something he didn’t have the words for but needed her to feel. Reassurance. A truth. “'S'okay, I promise.”

She was quiet. Fingers still tight in the sheets, body torn between wanting and fearing.

And Joel hated it. Hated that she was waiting for something bad to happen, for him to hesitate, to pull away, to confirm whatever bullshit lies had been inside her, planted deep and rotting.

And the marks left behind? The softening, the lines that claimed her, the change, the things she thought had broken her?

That was proof. Proof that she’d survived something brutal and still held onto love. That she’d carried something beautiful—someone—through pain and blood and numbness and came out the other side still standing. Hell, Joel had never been prouder of anyone in his whole miserable life.

So he did what he always did when words failed him—he showed her.

He spread her open again—took his time, no rush, no pressure, his fingers dimpling into the flesh of her thighs, easing, coaxing, waiting.

And she let him. Her breath wavered, shaky—but she let him.

So, he took her in. Saw everything he called his now. Jesus, and he wanted everything.

He dragged a hand slowly over the soft heat of her, his palm molding to her curves, his thumb brushing carefully along her folds—warm, wet, waiting for him. Felt the little stuttered breath as he traced his fingers along the slit, that dewy, sensitive nub of her clit, anticipating like the mother of pearl, parting through the folds, and he treated it like a man committing scripture to memory.

All his. He'd burn the fucking world, the goddamn galaxy, twice over for this.

He curled his fingers into the soft crease, just enough to feel her reflexively dig her feet into the mattress, anklets clinking, to feel her shiver and melt, just a little, into his fingertips.

And then he looked up at her from above her hips. Held her in place with nothing but his eyes, voice rough, gaze burning.

“Ain’t a damn thing ruined, darlin'.” His fingers flexed, his grip tightening, close to worship. “All I see is you.”

All he ever fucking wanted.

She brushed her thumb across his chin. “Joel.” As if that was the only word she could make out from her lips right then.

“Jus’ look at you,” he murmured, like gravel soaked in honey. “Fuckin’ made for me. Starvin’ me all this time.”

Joel didn’t rush a goddamn thing, as was his catchphrase for life these days. Didn’t tease. Didn’t press fleeting kisses or featherlight touches—no, he gave her everything.

Firm, unrelenting, deep.

He wasn’t fumbling, wasn’t searching—he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what she needed. He’d learned the way her breath hitched when he latched his lips there, on the pearly bud—where she was warm, where she was soft, where she trembled at the first graze of his tongue.

Surrounded her with his mouth, covered her with the heat of him, and Leela broke beneath it. Shivered with his name on her lips, her breath catching, her thighs tensing just a little before she softened, liquefied for him.

God, that sound—that soft, choked little whine. Like she didn’t know whether to hold on or fall apart.

It hit him low, somewhere in his gut, aching, wanting, that had his own hips going off on a tangent, grinding right into the mattress beneath him. Fucking embarrassing, but he couldn't help himself. One-track mind here, and she was all of it.

He lingered this time, slower, mouth dragging over slick, sensitive skin, his nose brushing the hollow of her hip, right down to her warm slit, as he breathed her in, that scent, let himself sink. Wasn't news, but he was fucking done for.

And when his tongue flicked out—light, teasing, just enough to make her breath stutter—he felt her body jerk, spine curving toward him, soft, shaking, helpless as her elbows buckled, trying to hold herself together, trying to brace against what she already knew was coming.

“Joel—” She sounded ravaged already—close to a whimper, pleading.

“‘M right here, baby, ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he murmured over a mouthful. His fingers dimpled over her perfect ass, holding her close, spreading warmth in their wake.

Like hell he was about to fucking let up.

She was trusting him. Letting him touch her, take her apart piece by piece with every lave of his tongue, every twist of his fingers, breath by breath. He wasn’t about to let her regret it.

And then—he felt it. That quiet, beautiful surrender. Her body arching toward him, not just allowing, but asking. Needing. Her fingers carding through his locks—not to push, not to pull, just to hold.

And fuck, he wanted this for her. Needed her to have it.

So he gave it all to her.

He had the work cut out for his mouth, relentless, coaxing, toying. Soft when she cried, firm when she begged. He mapped her with lips and tongue and teeth, bit, rolled, traced her open with his fingers, worked her under, spreading out her soaked folds, wringing out every last breathy moan from her throat, every sweet little gasp, every sweet, desperate, whispered Joel. Music to his fucking ears.

And when his fingers traced down, teasing, ring and middle fingers easing inside—pressing, curling, giving her just enough, just right—

“Oh, my god—Joel—” and some nonsensical sounds for which there was no right spelling, which made him chuckle right into her.

She choked on the words, hands flying to clutch his shoulders, nails digging into healed wounds, breaking skin, breaking him. Good. Let her. Let her take a chunk of his flesh. Sink right in and pluck out his heart, bloody and beating. Take a piece of me, sweetheart. It’s yours.

A wicked little thrill curled in his gut when she whined his name, echoing off the walls. “Mm,” Joel hummed right into her, tongue working her through the vibrations, rasping, “there she is… That’s my good girl. Let me hear you, baby.”

Her body was shaking, her glistening thighs trembling, toned stomach tensing, hips rolling idly into the convex slope of his nose—chasing it, taking it. And he was simply watching her, an avid fanatic, drinking her in.

She was so close. He could feel it in the way she clenched around his fingers, suckering him in, in the way she tasted so much sweeter, in the way her voice went soft and shattered, in the way she whispered his name, over and over, a prayer for him, like she was half-lost, falling apart.

Yes. He wanted this for her. Wanted her to have this, to take it, to know—that he was here, that she was safe, that this was hers. All of it. Him.

So he pushed her higher, higher, dragged her right to the edge, pushed himself in, in, in, unstopping—until she crashed.

“There's my girl,” he rumbled, unfathomable. “There you go, baby.”

Held her up, took her in, eased her apart, let her come hard against his mouth, his hands, all over him. Let her shatter—hard, helpless, fucking beautiful—until she was unraveling all over him, gasping, crying out, tears in her eyes, curling around him.

“Joel!”

And he didn’t stop. Not yet.

So licked it through, sealed it with a kiss, worked her open, dragging her down, down, down—until she rode out every last tremor on his tongue, his fingers, sure hold of his hands. Tasted her, lapped her up, let the sweetness linger, soaked his nose and beard.

When she finally sagged back against the sheets—loose-limbed, trembling—he pressed one last, lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh.

He lifted his head, and looked up at her—past her swollen lips, stomach tensing and caving, sweating, wrecked, absolutely fucking ruined—Joel swore he’d never seen anything more perfect in his life.

Leela stared unseeingly back at him, blinking the wetness from her lashes. Joel grinned at that. Smug, slow, feeling too damn good about himself.

“Wow... that was...” She trailed off, breathless. Then she blinked again, locked eyes with him. “I don't know what that was.”

Joel chuckled, pressing his mouth to her thigh again, scratching his beard against sensitive skin, loving the way she twitched beneath him.

“Somethin’ good, I’m hopin’. You happy?”

She let out a weak, disbelieving laugh—then gasped as her gaze landed on the state of him.

His hair was a mess, thick curls sticking up where she’d yanked at them. His shoulders bore the sharp crescent moons of her nails, blood beading in little spots where she'd really lost herself.

Her eyes went wide. “I did that?”

Joel looked down at himself, at the evidence of her all over him—his skin, his lips, his stubble, his fucking soul.

“Technically,” he mused, meeting her gaze, making her squirm a little, “I did you.” That grin of his was pure sin. “Mark me up all you want, darlin'. Next time, plant those pretty nails right on my neck, I want the whole fuckin' town to know.”

Leela was still blinking at him, looking stunned, lips parted like she was trying to find words but couldn’t quite pin them down. Her chest rose and fell in sharp little breaths, the aftershocks still working through her limbs, loose and boneless beneath him.

She swallowed hard. Then—

“I liked feeling that. Felt so... liberating,” she admitted, almost in awe, like she was holding some shimmering thing in her hands and turning it over in the light.

His fingers traced the sharp dip of her waist, a promise to himself. “Get used to it, then,” he murmured. “Plan on givin’ you plenty more of that.”

Leela let out a contented little sigh, stretching her arms over her head, her ribs shifting beneath his touch. That lazy smirk curled at her lips, all pleasure and mischief.

“Don’t wanna overwork my machine,” she teased, with the comfort she only let herself have with him.

Joel smirked right back, tilting his head over her thigh, watching her through the low burn of hunger—the kind that never really left him, not when it came to her.

“Nah,” he muttered, dipping down, dragging his mouth over the taut skin of her belly, letting his teeth scrape against muscle, feeling the shudder ripple through her. “You promised to fix me up. Hundred-and-twenty years guarantee, remember?”

Leela quieted a laugh, sighing as he nipped at her side, her fingers sliding lazily into his hair again. “Might’ve exaggerated the warranty terms.”

Joel grunted into her skin. “Figures. You rich girls are all charm and no fine print.”

She hummed, running her nails over the back of his neck, aimless. “Don’t lump me in with your admirers.”

“You ain’t in the same class,” he said without hesitation, lifting his head to look at her. “They’re just noise. You’re the whole damn signal.”

Leela closed her eyes, her smile too soft. “God help me.”

“Don’t need god, baby,” he rasped, mouthing against her hip. “You’ve got me.”

X

“You took away my choice. And now you’re doing it to her. I won't let it happen.”

Joel hated when Ellie did this. When she carved him open with words and left him standing there, raw and exposed, with nothing to hold onto. When she infected the space with silence, the kind that didn’t just sit in the air but sank into his bones, into the spaces between his goddamn heartbeats.

Ellie exhaled, eyes burning, breath curling white in the cold air. Her fingers twitched at her sides like she wanted to ball them into fists but hadn’t quite committed. “You always say it’s about protecting people,” she murmured. “But maybe it’s just about you. About what you can’t handle. About how you're too fucking scared to admit it.”

Joel clenched his jaw so tight it ached. It would’ve been easier if she’d just screamed at him. If she’d thrown a punch. Cursed him out. Told him she hated him.

Instead, she looked at him with those sharp, unforgiving eyes and waited. Waited for him to give her something real, to use against him.

Joel swallowed, his voice rough. “It ain’t like that.”

Ellie’s eyes flashed, a cold, sharp flicker. “Okay, what the fuck else is it, Joel?”

His jaw flexed, the muscle jumping. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because what the fuck else was it like? That was the goddamn problem.

It was too much and not enough all at once. It was him waking up every morning with the gnawing fear that something would take this life, his love, all of it away from them, that all this peace was just borrowed time. It was the ghost of what almost happened to Ellie still sitting in his ribs, a wound that never really closed, and he never bothered to check. It was looking at Leela and seeing someone else teetering on the edge of a choice she didn’t fully understand—one that could swallow her whole, just like it would’ve swallowed Ellie.

It was knowing that if he let it happen—if he stood by and watched—he wouldn’t survive it.

Joel sighed, like he could push it all down. “It’s just different.”

Ellie let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Bullshit.”

His eyes snapped to hers, and something in his expression must’ve shifted, because she stilled. The fight was nonetheless in her, but she was really watching him now.

He wet his lips. His mouth was dry. “I ain’t doin’ this to hurt her.”

Ellie’s face flickered, something cracking just beneath the surface. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded once, firm. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head, voice dropping quieter. “And when you lied to me?”

The ground might as well have been yanked out from under him.

Joel felt it in his gut, the way his stomach twisted all that time back, the way his hands twitched at his sides under her stare. The brutal memory slammed into him, relentless.

Salt Lake City. The cold, sterile hum of machines. The blinding white of hospital lights. The dripping consequence of innocent blood on his hands. The drive back. The silence in that goddamn car. Ellie looking at him, uncertain—Swear to me. And him, looking right back, the lie already fixed in his throat.

Joel’s mouth opened, then shut. There was no answer he could give her. Not one that wouldn’t taste like ash on his tongue.

Ellie sighed, shifting. “You know what this fucking means to her,” she muttered. “You know, better than anyone else, how long she’s worked for this. How much she’s lost for it.”

Her voice wavered slightly. But she caught it, swallowing it down, steadying herself.

“If you take this from her—if you make that choice for her...”

Joel’s hands flexed at his sides, then curled back into fists. Whatever was at the end of that sentence, should she finish it, was a bomb to his nerves. And he wasn't ready for the explosion.

Ellie wasn’t angry anymore. No—this wasn’t just anger. This was something old. Something that had never left her, no matter how much time had passed.

She wasn’t fighting for Leela. Not just for her.

She was fighting for herself. For the girl she used to be. The one who had woken up in the backseat of a sedan, stitches still fresh, lungs surging with breath she hadn’t agreed to keep. The one who had been fed a lie, one meant to protect her, but a lie all the same.

The one who had never gotten to decide.

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working against the lump rising there. This was fucking agony.

He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the same. That this was different. That he wasn’t making this choice out of selfishness, but love—a love so deep it bordered on terror. That he wasn’t trying to take anything from Leela—he was trying to keep her safe, keep them safe, because for the first time in years, he had something he couldn’t bear to lose.

But he knew it wouldn’t matter. Not to Ellie. Not after what he’d done.

She’d already made up her mind. And maybe the worst part—the part that chewed at him—was that she had every right to.

Ellie wasn’t waiting for an answer. She took a slow step forward, eyes locked onto his, and there was no hesitation in her voice when she said, “If you won’t tell her, I will.”

He took a step forward before he even realized he was moving. “Ellie.” His voice was low, edged with warning. “Don’t even think about it.”

She didn’t back down. Didn’t even blink. “Try and stop me.”

Joel clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His nails pressed deep into his palms, fists tightening like he could squeeze the fear right out of them.

Yeah, she goddamn meant it. Stubborn kid.

Ellie had always been a storm—a force too wild to be controlled, only barely tempered by the years between them. She was his unfortunate mirror. But this? This was her line in the sand.

She wouldn’t ask again. She’d do it. She’d tell Leela everything. She’d make sure she knew exactly what Joel had been trying to keep from her. She’d rip open the truth and let the chips fall where they fucking may.

And Leela—she would leave him. Leela would walk right out of Jackson, surrender herself to death for bullshit science, just like Ellie almost had. Just like Sarah would’ve, if she’d lived long enough to grow up and push against him like this. Just like every goddamn person Joel had ever loved. And maybe Leela wouldn’t come back.

And fuck—maybe the kid was right. Maybe he was a coward, or selfish, or just too goddamn scared of losing the people he loved to ever let them make their own choices.

But wasn’t that what love was? Protecting them? Keeping them safe, no matter what it costs? Even if it meant they’d never forgive him when he made the hard choices for them.

X

Leela's little giggles carried through the warmth in the glow, squirming under Joel, fingers threading into his hair, gripping without thought.

And that sound—he fucking loved that sound. He grinned against her skin, bit again, firmer this time, just to hear it again, to feel that little flash of light and joy in her, like she was finally letting herself be wanted. Letting herself be held.

And then he climbed, nosing up her ribs, her sternum, pressing his mouth over her heart, sensing it hammering against his lips, wild and unhidden.

Her hands smoothed over him, like testing the strings of a guitar, gliding through his curls, down his jaw, tracing the rough plane of his throat, over his shoulders, his chest. Touching him the way she knew he liked, the way that made him feel like something more than a man with rough hands and too many ghosts.

“Joel?” His name, soft, uncertain. Almost shy.

He lifted his head, finding her eyes, finding the way she watched him, the way she wet her lips.

She smoothed a hand down his chest, fingertips feather-light, following the rise and fall of his breath, tracing each ridge, each scar, committing them to memory. And then, quieter—hesitant, but knowing.

“Do you want to—um—put it inside?”

Christ above. That should’ve been an innocent few words. Put it inside me. Something to smirk at, something to tease her over. But God, the way she said it—soft, like she wasn’t sure she should be saying it at all, but wanted to. The way her lips parted, how her voice went quiet, how her fingers dragged over his ribs, winding into the fuzz there, down, down, trailing heat in their wake.

She reached for her nightdress, carefully plucked the buttons open, so much more sexier when she did it, lifted herself up a little, yanked it over her head and draped it aside.

His stomach tightened, his cock twitched, already aching from just looking at her like this—glistening everywhere, a dusky miracle, warm and ready, legs parted beneath him, wet and waiting.

Joel nodded—too fast, too eager, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not when it came to her.

“Sure, honey. Yeah,” he rasped, voice rough, barely there, already fumbling with unbuttoning his fly. His hands were shaking, actually shaking, Christ, but he got it undone, got his zipper down, freed himself.

Hot, hard, already leaking against her stomach.

Leela’s breath caught, a small, instinctive sound in the back of her throat. Her lashes fluttered as her gaze flickered downward, wide-eyed, her lips parting, breath turning shallow.

“Please,” he tried, hoping she would take the hint.

She hesitated for just a second before her fingers wound around him—delicate, cautious, still learning him, still getting used to the stiffness and heat of him in her grasp.

Joel sucked in a sharp breath, his hips jerking into her fist, completely out of his control. The touch wasn’t even tight, wasn’t even sure, but fuck, it was his goddamn girl, and that did it for him. His fingers tightened against her waist, digging in, as if grounding himself in her, in this moment, in the softness of her skin around him.

And then she looked up at him—a little sceptical, but wanting him anyway. Wanting him.

That hit him deep. That did something worse than arousal, worse than need. It twisted through his ribs like a fish hook, unaware and sharp, leaving him breathless.

He leaned in, urging their foreheads together, drinking her in like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“You with me?” A plea as much as a question.

Leela nodded, her nose stroking his, breaths soft. “Always.”

And that was all he needed.

He kissed her then—deep, slow, sinking into her like he could crawl inside, like he could get closer than skin, closer than breath. His hands roamed over her, memorizing her like a man starved, like she was holy, transient, and he had to push her into his hands, his mouth, his memory before the moment slipped away.

She was all his warmth beneath him, quiet sighs and tremors, fingers tracing slow, aching patterns over his back and shoulders, waiting for him.

And Christ, he wanted to give her everything.

Joel settled between her legs, powerful thighs bearing up hers that bracketed his hips, and the heat of her—the sheer, impossible heat of her—made his head spin, made his pulse hammer in his throat, made his grip tighten against her like she might evaporate if he wasn’t careful.

The last shreds of restraint in him frayed, pulled apart by the way she looked at him, by the way she breathed him in.

His heart was a battering ram in his chest, slamming against his ribs, a rhythm only she could pull from him.

He wanted to remember this. Not just the way she felt beneath him, soft and warm and willing, but the way she looked at him—like she trusted him, like she wanted him, not just in this way but in a way he didn’t know how to name.

His hand slipped between their bodies, guiding himself, the other cradling her face, thumb sweeping slow over her cheek, tracing the corner of her mouth.

Joel clenched his jaw, swallowed thickly, and let himself memorize her. Because he had to remember this. He didn't know when he'd do this again.

And then—he pushed in.

Gradually. Painstaking. Inch by inch. Sinking into her. Into that breathtaking heat, that unbelievable tightness, into all of her.

A gasp tore from Leela’s throat, sharp and caught, her nails biting into his back, dragging up, her whole body tensing beneath him.

Joel groaned, rough, broken, the sound shuddering from deep in his chest.

His forehead dropped to hers, breath uneven, harsh, like he’d just been knocked off his damn feet. Because, no, not even after a decade into this would he get used to it.

He felt everything. The heat, the softness, the cushioning stretch around him, the way her body clung to him, wrapped around him, pulling him in. Taking him in, welcoming him in.

“Goddamnit, baby…” His voice came out strained, barely there, just breath and heat.

Leela shuddered, exhaling in a stuttering breath against his lips.

Her fingers curled into his hair, gripping tight, and he could feel her trembling beneath him, every little hitch in her breath sending him to a free fall. But she didn’t pull away.

No—she arched into him instead, drawn to him, pressing herself closer, holding onto him like she needed him just as much as he needed her.

Joel clenched his jaw, forced himself to still, to breathe, to let her adjust. His hands soothed over her, one stroking slow along her hip, the other slipping into her hair, cradling her, holding her.

Yeah, he wasn’t some young buck anymore. And Christ, he felt it now. Felt it in the deep-set aches in his joints, the dull protest in his bad knee, the slow burn in his lower back where years of hard labour and harder living had left their mark. Felt it in the way his breath came harder, rougher, how his body was slower to catch up to the fire in his blood.

It wasn’t new. Wasn’t something he complained about—because what was the use? His body wasn’t what it used to be. That was just a fact.

And Leela—well, she was younger. Not some girl, not by a long shot, but still, there were nights he glanced at her beside him, and caught himself wondering—what the hell was she doing with him? With a man who hurt more than he moved, whose reflexes weren’t what they used to be, whose hands bore the years in thick, rough calluses.

Joel didn’t know how to explain it—what was happening to him in that moment. What was settling deep in his chest like a slow, burning ember, lighting him up from the inside in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with her.

No person on this shitty planet deserved any of what she did for him.

The way Leela moved beneath him, not with urgency, but with a kind of quiet knowing—like she understood him down to the marrow.

It wasn’t just the way she adjusted her body so his weight wouldn’t bear down too hard on his back, accommodating him to rest on her, or how her legs curled tighter around him, drawing him in, deeper, to give his knees something solid to press into. It was how she didn’t make it a conversation, or a concern, or some goddamn mercy.

She simply… let him be. Let him be a man with age in his bones, with pain in him and knots in his shoulders, and still, still, looked at him like he was the only man she wanted. He was enough for her, making her feel this.

More than the fucking, this felt a lot more like love.

Joel grinned a lazy one, nipping a kiss to her jaw, murmuring against her skin. “How’d you know?”

Leela’s fingers curled against the back of his neck, threading into the softer curls there. “I just felt it.”

Of course, she did. She always did.

Joel groaned against her throat, his thrusts growing deeper, surer, like he was trying to carve himself into her, leave something of himself behind. He wanted to thank her in the only way he knew how.

He kept to the tempo. Circle, push, circle, push.

Until Leela gasped, nails biting into his back, her body rising to meet his. Her breath was uneven, her voice the barest whisper.

“Joel—!”

Right there, yeah. He found that sweet spot. He breathed her in with a victorious grin, nose tracing against her shoulder, low and ragged, his chest pressing to hers, his hands wandering in adoring sweeps—over her hips, her waist, the curve of her spine.

“Wanna give you everything. Everything, take everything,” he said, the words rough and meant only for her.

At that exact spot. Circle, push, circle, push, circle, push.

Because he knew what it took for her to open up like this. Knew what kind of ghosts she’d had to stare down just to let someone in—to let him in. She wasn’t a woman who gave herself lightly. She didn’t owe him this. She didn’t give because she was afraid of being alone or needed something to fill a space.

Joel—God help him—he felt like his heart couldn’t hold all of it.

His lips brushed against her cheek, the bridge of her nose, slow, reverent, until their mouths met, and he kissed her—tongue roaming, teeth knocking, like he was trying to pour something real into the space between them.

“Feel so good,” he murmured into her mouth, voice frayed, like barbed wire catching on skin. “So damn good, baby. You don’t even know.”

A gentle pull at his curls and an echoing moan had him reeling. He groaned, forehead pressing to hers, sweat beading at his brow, spine screaming at the strain—but he didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not when she felt like this, sounded like that.

Circle, push, circle, push, circle, push, push, push—

Joel could feel her getting close. Best damn thing in his life, that's for sure.

He could feel it in the way her breath hitched, in the little shudders that ran through her body, in how she clenched around him—tight, fluttering, like she was right there, teetering on the edge. This might just be it.

And this time, this time, there was no pulling back. No hesitation. No slipping out of reach like before—where her body had tensed and her eyes had gone glassy and distant, that wall confusedly sliding back into place, shutting him out without a word.

No, tonight was different.

Tonight, she stayed with him. Held onto him. Let him see her.

And Joel felt his own climax building—not just in himself, the tight, coiled tension in his spine—but in her.

He slowed, deepened his thrusts, each one thick with ache and purpose, his breath coming hard and uneven, gruff voice encouraging. “You gonna come for me, baby? You feel that?”

Leela nodded, fast, her mouth falling open, a whine catching in her throat. Her hands were in his hair, holding him close, her thighs locked around his hips, skin slick, hot, quivering.

“Say it f'me, now. Need that smartass head of yours to know. Tell me.”

She started in a whisper. “I'm gonna—” one greedy slam of his hips and she cried out, “gonna come!”

“Yeah, you are. Gonna make a mess all over me.” Joel gritted his teeth, a fresh wave of heat breaking over him. He was sweating hard now, the kind of sweat that came with effort, with strain, with love like this—not frantic, not desperate, but fierce. Devoted. He had this in the bag.

A bead of sweat slid down his temple, another dripping from his jaw, splashing hot against the swell of her pulsing breasts. God, so fucking sexy. Unfairly sexy.

She gasped—not from discomfort, but from how deeply he filled her, how close she was, how it all felt.

Her body arched, and he felt the tension spiral tight—so tight—under his hands.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, “come on, let go f'me. Such a good girl.”

The air between them was thick, the rhythm of their bodies like a heartbeat, their skin slapping softly, wet and warm and intimate, it felt too surreal. The sounds were bare, natural—Leela’s tiny gasps, Joel’s deep grunts, the slick slide of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings beneath them.

“You’re doin’ so good,” Joel rasped, his hand cradling her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye, “that’s it, darlin'. I got you. Come on.”

And then—she broke.

“Joel!”

Her body seized around him, back arching, a high, wrecked whimper tearing from her throat—raw and real and so damn incredible it hit him like a freight train. Joel felt her come apart underneath him, clenching, fluttering, her limbs trembling, thighs tightening, fingers digging into his back like she didn’t know how else to stay tethered to the earth.

Her release hit hard around him, rolling through her in wave after wave, hips jerking, breath catching, chest pushed tight to his. And Jesus, she held on. Clung to him like she wasn’t afraid anymore.

All it took was that. Joel was undone.

The way she came for him, the way she gave him that—trusted him with that—a broken, breathless sound ripped from his chest as he followed her over the edge, everything tightening—his thighs, his spine, the aching stretch of his lower back—and he spilled into her, wrung all of him out, deep, full, trembling like a man who hadn’t known softness in years. He held her close, rested his forehead to hers, breaths harsh, the kind of release that didn’t just steal his strength—it stripped him down to the bone.

There was no disappointment this time. No silence. No turning away. No false promises.

Just Leela, breathless and dazed beneath him, her arms still around his neck, her heart thudding wildly against his chest.

Joel stayed there, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin, his hand smoothing down the side of her thigh. He couldn't let go; if he did, he’d lose the one good thing he still had. Within him, he felt raw, scraped clean. As if something old had finally broken open and something new had taken its place.

He was feeling the burn right in his bones, alright. Worth it. Every slow ache, every deep pull of soreness? Worth it.

How was this time much better than the first? Maybe it was how he knew the terrain of her body, all the dips, the curves, the valleys. Maybe this was the way it was going to be, the next one always besting the first. Good, he could use a bit of that excitement from time to time.

“Goddamn,” he mumbled. “That's my girl.”

And she smiled—barely there, exhausted and dazed and flawless. One of those little Leela-smiles that barely tugged at her mouth but said everything.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, gaze hazy and warm. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

For the first time in too many years, Joel didn’t feel like he was chasing something he couldn’t hold. He didn’t feel like he was trying to fix what had already broken. He didn’t feel like he was failing someone.

He felt like he’d given her a new reality. And she'd taken it. Held it. Come apart with it.

Her thumb lingered at the edge of his mouth, tracing over the rough bristle of his beard. Joel let her, watching her through half-lidded eyes, too damn comfortable—too damn content—to move just yet.

Then, deliberately, he dipped his head and caught her thumb between his teeth. Just a little pressure, just enough to make her giggle.

Leela shifted beneath him, her fingers still trailing over his jaw, drifting down the column of his throat, tracing absent-minded shapes into his damp skin.

Then, her gaze flicked downward. He watched her, half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips as her brows lifted just a little. He could practically see the realization dawn on her face, could feel the way her body tensed just slightly beneath him.

“Why are you still inside?” she whispered.

“Wanna keep feelin' you. Best nook in the world.”

“Nook!”

And then—she dropped her head back and laughed. A real big laugh, one that could've woken Maya right up. Breathless and unfiltered, shaking both of them right where he still was—deep inside her, buried in the heat they’d made together.

Joel propped himself up on an elbow, watching her with the kind of fond disbelief that had been sneaking up on him more and more lately. The kind that made him feel like he was standing too close to the sun, and somehow, it wasn’t burning him alive.

Her laughter fizzled into breathless stupor, and she reached down between them, fingers grazing her own skin, the slick mess he’d left inside her. She was flushed and glowing and completely disarmed—this beautiful, brilliant creature half-dazed from how thoroughly he’d loved her.

“I am so wet,” she giggled, almost amazed—like she was taking inventory, like she was cataloging the sensation, her big science brain working even now. Marveling at her own body, her own pleasure—his doing.

Joel huffed a laugh, watching her hand linger where he was still seated inside her. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured, hoarse. “That’s ‘cause I filled you right up. Feel that?”

He slid his hand over hers, guided it lower, toward that soft pressure, until she felt exactly where they were joined—her swollen, sensitive folds stretched around him, the sticky heat dripping out around his length.

“I’d be worried if you weren’t,” he added, lips brushing her jaw, his voice dark and a little smug now, all gravel and honey. “Felt you take every drop. My girl.”

She shivered.

He was still hard, still inside her, and now he rolled his hips just once—willful, greedy as fuck—letting her feel the way she squeezed around him, the aftershocks still rippling through her.

Leela moaned, body twitching with oversensitivity, but her eyes fluttered open—glassine, gentle and loving. And fuck if he didn’t want to sink back into her all over again.

He liked this quiet after with her. The comedown. The afterglow. Oh yeah, he was luxuriating. It wasn't silence—not really—but that comfortable kind of quiet, where everything was still warm, where he could just be with her, where their breath was still slowing together, tangled up in something that felt more real than anything he had words for.

Leela turned her head, sighing, meeting his gaze, brow furrowing slightly.

She was thinking. And fuck. Joel knew that look.

That faraway gleam in her eye, the way her mouth twisted like she was mid-thesis. It meant she was about to crack the entire moment open with some clinical, over-intelligent monologue that would have his brain short-circuiting—turning this molten, messy, perfect aftermath into a goddamn science lecture.

And he just couldn’t have that. Not now. Not when he was still inside her. Not when she was glowing and flushed and breathing like that.

So he cut her off the only way he knew how—his mouth, slow and unhurried, trailing down the delicate column of her throat, dragging over the heat of her skin, still damp with sweat. Let his mouth roam over her breast, tongue flicking lazily, tasting the salt on her skin, leaving a wet track, the warmth still lingering there, and he groaned against her. Possessive. Content. Still hungry.

“Oh, Christ, you’re gonna start talkin’,” he muttered, words muffled by the perfect weight of her in his mouth.

She ignored him, playing with his curls absently. “You know what? I think I finally understand the physiological means at play—”

Joel growled, deep in his throat, rolling his tongue around her nipple. “Don’t do it,” he warned.

She kept going. Of course she did. “Listen, it’s not just blood flow, Joel. Amazing, right? It’s the whole nervous system—my body registers stimuli—”

He bit her.

Not hard. Just enough to make her yelp. Just enough to leave a little mark. A love bite. A warning. She swatted at his head, already giggling as she squirmed beneath him.

He grinned against her skin, running his tongue over the spot in apology, soothing the mark. “Thought I told you to knock it off.”

Leela huffed, exasperated but smiling, palm flat against his chest like she might push him off of her. But no, never. Not really.

Joel caught her wrist, slow and firm, and pinned it to the mattress beside her head. Brought his mouth back to hers, hovering just above.

“Next time you start talkin’ again,” he rasped, brushing the words against her lips, “I’m gonna make sure you can’t get a single word out. Just like this.”

He dipped his hips, just enough to remind her he was still there, thick and deep, still throbbing inside her.

“Sounds fair to you, smartass?”

And the look in her eyes when she nodded? Had him grinning like a damn fool. Another open-mouthed kiss to the underside of her breast before he was going easy on her, pulling out of her and back, bracing himself above her again.

Leela let out a contented sigh, stretching like a purring cat beneath him, and he just took a second to look at her. All sprawled out. All soft, spent, smelling of him and filled with his come. Why would he ever move when his view was this good?

But he should probably move. Should probably clean her up, maybe get some more food in his system. He was utterly sapped, but when he felt her curious fingers drifting, absently over his shoulder, his back, tracing back up to his jaw, the trail of hair down his chest, stroked across his ribs then—

“Don’t start with me,” he murmured, preemptively, because he knew that look in her eye.

Leela blinked, all too innocent. “What?”

“At least let me grab somethin’ to eat before we get to the clinic.”

Leela propped herself up on her elbows, anxious eyes flicking over his face. “Oh my god. Did I send you into cardiac arrest? Was it that intense?”

Joel snorted, rolling onto his back beside her with a tired grunt, relieving the pangs up his spine. “Figure of speech. I’m not dyin’ with ‘killed in orgasm’ on my epitaph.”

Leela dropped her head against his shoulder, shaking with laughter again. She exhaled against his chest, still grinning. “Why do you talk about death so much after...?”

Joel groaned. “I do not—”

“You do.”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Christ.”

Leela lifted her head off him, her fingers skimming absently over the scar on his stomach, delineating a slow, thoughtful path on the uneven edges.

Joel shot her a look. “Leela.”

She blinked up at him, all naïveté, though her fingers were still moving.

“I just think it’s fascinating,” she mused. “Is it because of the endorphin drop? Or maybe it’s more of a psychological—”

Joel rolled them, pinning her beneath him again with a huff, pressing his forehead against hers. If she wanted a third, she was getting a third. It was Christmas, he'd give her a fourth and fifth, too, and face all the consequences in the morning.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, dropping an unhurried kiss to her lips. “Now, you've really done it.”

X

“You don’t have to lose this, Joel.”

Ellie saw it in his eyes. All of it.

Saw the way his shoulders had gone tight, the way that darkness, so raw, dashed behind his eyes. The way his whole body coiled like he was bracing for a blow he couldn’t take.

And for a second—just a second—she softened. The anger didn’t vanish, not completely, but it damped the edges. Beneath the frustration, the hurt, the sheer stubbornness of it all, there was understanding.

Because for as much as she wanted to push against him, for as much as she wanted to be right—she still fucking cared about his ass. About him. About the life he’d built here. About every step he'd taken to give himself that. And she knew he cared, too. Too much. That was the problem.

Ellie exhaled, her breath curling in the cold. The space between them stretched, thin and brittle, like the ice that formed along the edges of the rooftops in winter—one wrong move and it would crack, and there’d be no stopping the fall.

She tipped her head slightly, studying him. Like she was trying to see inside his head, figure out how the gears turned, how the walls had been built so damn high.

His jaw clenched. The muscles ticked, the tension burning through him like a slow, smoldering fire. “Kid, I don’t need you to—”

She shook her head, cutting him off before he could finish. “No, I know. You think if she finds out, she’ll leave you.” Her voice wasn’t unkind. Just certain. “And maybe she will. But maybe she won’t.” She hesitated. “You don’t know that.”

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working against the lump rising there. His hands flexed at his sides, clenching and unclenching, like they needed something to hold onto. Like they were looking for a fight, but there was no fight to be had.

His voice came out rough, hoarse. Quiet. Like he was afraid saying it too loud would make it real. “And if she gets herself... killed?”

Ellie’s gaze flickered.

There it was. Not just the stubbornness. Not just the fear of repeating the past.

The grief. The bone-deep, gut-wrenching terror of watching someone else die for something they believed in. Joel had been here before. She knew that. She also knew it didn’t change the truth.

Ellie let out a slow breath, shoulders shifting with it. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even particularly strong. But the firmness couldn't be denied.

“Then you trust her to make the right call.”

Joel’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Trust. That was what she was asking for. Not just for Leela. For him. To trust that if he let go—even just a little—the world wouldn’t fall apart. That not every choice had to be his.

He couldn’t breathe.

Because the truth was, he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust himself.

He knew what happened when you let go. When you left things in someone else’s hands. The Fireflies had proven that. Salt Lake had proven that. He’d come too close to losing Ellie—to losing everything—and he couldn’t. God, he couldn’t ever.

Fear had constructed a home inside him a long time ago, and he’d let it stay. Let it bow into his bones, let it keep him moving, keep him surviving, keep him from making the kind of mistakes that got people killed.

This was not about survival. It was about choices. And he was stealing it from her.

His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling, uncurling. His breaths came quick, his whole body was coiled, taut, like something about to snap.

Ellie studied him a moment longer. And then—quietly—she gave him an out.

“You tell her, Joel. I don't care when, but you're gonna tell her before I do.”

She didn’t say it cruelly. Didn’t wield it like a weapon. Just a fact.

A choice. A small, simple one. But a choice, all the same.

She turned for her door before he could answer, before he could say a damn thing at her, leaving him there—standing in the cold, alone. Watching the space between them widen

Pushing him away. Again, again, and again.

X

Joel felt every damn inch of last night in his body.

His back ached, deep and determined. His thighs burned like he’d run halfway across Texas. And his arms—hell, they’d felt strong enough to hold up the whole damn world last night, but now? Large. Leaden. Like he’d spent the night hauling lumber instead of ploughing his girl down into the mattress and making her moan.

Still worth it.

He pushed a hand into his eyes, scrubbing sleep out before Leela's aggravated exclamation pierced the stillness like an ill-timed cuckoo clock.

“No, no, no—don't make me wake Daddy up!”

Joel winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. But still, that stupid smile bloomed on his lips.

Maya had her own shrill objection in return. “No, Mama!”

“Then get in here and finish your breakfast right now.”

Oh yeah, their baby girl had definitely slunk off into the blackberry brambles outside the kitchen door. It hadn't taken him too long for them to sprout once he set them in the beds a few months ago, especially after he found out it was Maya's favourite snack.

Joel eventually forced himself upright, taking longer than he wanted to admit, shoving the covers off with a grunt, rolling his complaining shoulders until his back gave a nice, satisfying crack. That was how he knew he was sleeping better. Real sleep—the kind he hadn’t had in decades. His ears didn’t ring, and he didn’t have to sit there for ten full minutes, waiting for the will to drag himself up.

It still felt strange, some mornings. Waking up without the usual dread clawing at his throat. That didn’t mean he took it for granted.

Eventually, he hauled himself into the shower, knees popping, let the water beat down on him, sadly washing away all the sex, sweat and Leela off him. He dragged on something half-decent, and while combing a rough hand through his damp hair, he crossed the room, caught movement outside his window.

Maya, right where he thought she'd be. That little menace. Out in the yard, barefoot in the snowed down grass, thoughtfully picking at the blackberry bushes like she wasn’t covered in scrapes from doing the same thing yesterday. He knew those nasty thorns. Knew her damn stubborn streak even better. And, sure as the sun, before he could even get the window open to warn her—

“How many times do I gotta tell you? Wait for me. Honey, you’re gonna get—”

“Ow!”

Joel sighed, hanging his head. “—hurt. Goddamnit.”

But she didn’t cry. Didn’t run inside calling for her mama. Just sucked at her scratched-up fingers, picked the thorns off her jacket sleeves, and went back to stuffing her mouth with berries—ripe, unripe, no difference at all to her.

“Yum-yum-yum,” he heard her whisper.

Leela was gonna have her ass if she came in covered in scratches again. And he was going to be the one to clean her up.

Joel shut the window and took off downstairs, shaking his head. And nearly swerved right into the wall at the kitchen entrance. Because—damn.

Would he ever get over this? Over her?

Leela stood at the stove on the island, in front of a sizzling griddle of bacon, dark hair twisted up in a towel, skin fresh and bare, scented with lemons.

The nightdress she wore today from her usual rotation was soft grey, thin-strapped, slipping from the curve of her shoulder. Matched his shirt, the one he’d buttoned on this morning without thinking. And her face—

Jesus, there were a thousand ways to love her, but this? This was the one that got him in the gut. When she was just that sleepy, persistent, clever girl. Stripped of all the careful edges she carried through the day. When she was still shower-warm, soft with sleep, her face stark and beautiful in the morning quiet. He was a lucky, lucky bastard.

She glanced up and caught him staring. A slow, lazy, heart-breaking grin. Her voice warm as honey, came out with, “Good morning, Joel.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, smiling. “Mornin’.”

He made it to her side, hands finding her hips, pressing close, pressing in, letting his nose graze against the damp skin of her nape before kissing the spot, slow and deep. He saw her skin prickle up when he did, bowing his neck to hide a smile.

“What's our number now, hm? Five? Six? Damn near broke me last night.”

Leela bit her lip, trying to hide a smirk.

“And I said I'd fix you,” she said, flat, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. Casually flipped the bacon over. “See? I'm fixing you a big, fat breakfast.”

Joel gave her ass a playful squeeze. “So wifed up for Daddy.”

He leaned in again, lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. But then—she whipped the spatula up between them, blocking his next move, eyebrows arched. “Joel.”

He deadpanned. “Leela.”

She smacked his chest lightly with the spatula. “Hands off, please.”

Joel hummed, letting his teeth scrape lightly along the shell of her ear. “You loved my hands last night.”

She turned back to the stove. “I love not burning breakfast.”

Joel reached past her and plucked the spatula from her fingers. “I got this,” he murmured, tugging her even closer. “You just take it easy.”

Leela glanced him up and down, assessing. Gave him one last suspicious peek before backing away. Joel shook his head, grinning to himself as he took over the stove, the sound of bacon sizzling beneath his hand.

She smothered a laugh, already reaching for the coffee pot. “Look at that—Joel Miller making something that isn’t coffee for once.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “You’ve been around Tommy way too much. Sounding like that little fucker.”

Not that Joel was showing off. But—yeah. He was. Look, he'd been practising for weeks just to impress her.

He cracked two eggs, smooth and clean, and whisked them up quick with a fork. Salted them good, peppered them up. Poured them into the pan, waited just long enough for the edges to set, then, wrist flick—cue the flip. Boom. Scraped them right onto her plate, firm, perfectly golden, just the way she liked them. Unlike the way he liked them—over-easy, yolk spilling out over the toast.

Leela, however, unimpressed, lifted a brow.

Joel leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, chin ticking up. Go on. Say it.

She just smirked, cutting into the eggs. “Do you want a medal for making eggs?”

He reached up to brush a thumb over her bottom lip. “A gold one to bite on.”

She rolled her eyes. But the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her.

Joel turned away, glancing out the screen door behind him. A fresh dusting of snow was still coming down in slow, lazy drifts.

Maya was still tangled in the blackberry brambles, completely ignoring the fresh scratches blooming on her wrists and a tiny cut on her cheek. She was in deep, reaching further, wincing every now and then, but never stopping. Stubborn little thing.

“Maya, get your peanut butt in here before you freeze,” he called.

She turned to look at him, grinning wide, cheeks puffed out, berry-stained. “Mmmmno.”

Joel clicked his tongue. “Mm. Fine.” He reached for the screen door lock and latched it shut. “Stay the hell outside.”

For a second, she just blinked at him, unbothered. But then—realization. Her little fingers flexed in the air, and suddenly she was moving. She ran to the deck, curls bouncing, using all her might to clamber up the three little steps, baby boots thunking, hands full of berries.

“Da-da?” she called like she'd just been betrayed.

Joel ignored her, reaching for the coffee pot instead. Poured himself a slow cup, breathed deep, and let the steam curl up in ribbons into the morning air.

“Da-da!” Maya exclaimed. Then, for backup—“Mama, mama!”

Joel barely glanced up. “Mama's on my side. You got yourself into this, baby girl. Shoulda listened to me.”

Joel hid his smirk behind the rim of his mug, watching from the corner of his eye as Maya tiptoed, huffing and whining, arms stretched high, teeny arms attempting to stretch for the knob. Not a single bit of regret.

“Oh, Joel, open the door. Poor thing,” Leela murmured to him.

He pointed at her from his mug-holding hand. “Don't fall for that. It's what she wants. Goddamn spoilt for trouble.”

But he was weak. Weak and pathetic. But it was about to happen, like the countless other times before.

Maya had made a calculated decision: push Daddy’s patience right up to the edge. Dangle her toes over the line, and make eye contact while doing it. Then—the grand fucking finale.

A full-bodied, betrayed-to-their-core meltdown. Bottom lip trembling, berries angrily tossed to the wooden boards, brows screwing together, a cry pulling straight from her little belly. She was a genius little manipulator. Joel could practically see the gears turning in her head—how long she could hold out, how fast she could weaponize those big, Bambi-brown eyes.

And, she won. Every single time.

Joel sighed, already defeated, and set his coffee down. He reached for the lock, slow, resisting, but really? He was already gone.

The second he nudged the door open, Maya barreled inside, practically collapsing against his legs, her whole little body shaking with the effort of her Oscar-worthy sobs.

She clung to his jeans, damp little fingers curling into the fabric like she’d just narrowly survived the harshest winter known to man.

“Da-da,” she wept, mouth wide, tears wetting her cheeks, dramatic as hell.

Joel sighed, rubbing a rough palm over his face before scooping her up. “C’mere.”

The second she landed in his arms, Maya melted. Like the tragedy of the last thirty seconds had never even happened.

She sank into him, berry-stained mouth pressing into his collarbone, curls tickling his neck, those sticky little hands smushing his face between them, kneading at his scruff and cheeks like he was made of playdough.

Joel sighed, tilting his head back against the fridge. “You’re playin’ me every time, baby girl.”

Maya beamed up at him, all wet cheeks and gap-toothed triumph. It was disgusting, the absolute glee. She hadn’t just won—she’d obliterated him.

Leela, across the kitchen, was no help whatsoever. Just sipped her coffee real slow, entirely too pleased.

Joel huffed, shaking his head, but pulled Maya closer anyway, pressing a grumbling kiss to her curls. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t even say it.”

Leela smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she lifted her cup to her lips. “Didn’t have to.”

Soon enough, he'd ushered himself to the breakfast nook, settling back, bench creaking softly beneath him. The cushion had lost some of its firmness, the corners curling, fabric rubbed raw from the times Maya had clambered across it in her little socks, chasing sparrows like a puppy.

Leela paddled close behind, carrying her breakfast and Maya's, baby girl at her feet, clutching her dress, face wiped clean now, and coughing a little from the cold.

Joel shifted, noticing that cough, rubbing a hand over his thigh. “Heater’s kickin’ on kinda slow again.”

Leela set the bowls down, gave him a look. “You mean the one you said didn’t need fixing?”

“Didn’t need fixin’ last week,” he muttered.

Grabbing his fork, ready to dig into his plate, piled high with a nice strip of sausage, two still-warm eggs, bacon crispy the way he liked ot, and a slice of sourdough toast, butter melting into the notches.

An arm outstretched behind Leela, he took in his surroundings.

His kitchen ahead, he singled out as the best space in the house.

Leela's favourite room, even if she spent half her time holed up in that damn basement of hers. He loved how neat she kept it, how it spoke of her quiet rituals and the neatness that came from knowing where everything was. Labelled jars and boxes stacked just right in her lazy cursive scrawl, the intricate little mushroom motif on the backsplash tile, the clean knives slotted in by height, the copper pots and pans hanging scratched and gleaming from the rack above the island.

And his favourite—the wall of ceramic cups, all different colours and shapes, none of which she ever used, but kept up there like some kind of shrine. Collecting dust in their cubical brackets.

He had his own, though. A deep green mug, wide enough to sit firm in his palm, heavy enough to make him feel like he had a real grip in the mornings. She always made sure it was there for him, even if she never said it outright. Just like how she never touched his coffee spoon when she was rearranging the drawers, or how she was working on fixing up that old, fancy cappuccino machine for him.

Their things sat together now. His mug was next to hers on the rack, the dark red one with the tiny chip at the rim, the one she never let go of. His plate stacked alongside hers—hers finer, older, precious, from a set that had belonged to her mother.

Maya’s, though, had their own space. Lined up tidy and sterile, like Leela wanted to keep them untouched by the rest of the house. Kid-sized bowls and ceramic cups, all in soft, neutral colours, because Maya didn’t like anything too bright.

His plate sat untouched. The coffee had gone lukewarm. But he couldn’t take his eyes off them—his girls.

Leela sat across from him, knees drawn close under the table, her nightdress brushing her thighs. Her face was turned down toward Maya, and her hands moved steadily—one curled around a little ceramic bowl, the other bringing a tiny silver spoon up to Maya’s mouth.

Blended porridge. A morning essential for baby girl. With blackberries smashed into near-purple. He winced internally—so many seeds. Maybe he shouldn't have planted those things, it could hurt her little stomach. But Maya took it all. Obedient for once, chewing thoughtfully, her sticky fingers tapping against the wood of the table as she babbled to her mama between bites.

She was pointing to her scratches. “Ow—... mm-mean be-lli-es, Mama. See, see. Ow.”

“I know, baby,” Leela murmured, brushing a thumb across Maya’s cheek where a thorn scratch had already crusted over. “You were so brave. But you’ve got to wait for Da-da.”

“Wait fo' da-da,” Maya repeated dutifully, even as she reached for another bite.

Joel grinned into his mug.

He wanted to take a picture. Not with a camera—Christ, no. That’d be too easy. He wanted to etch it with a chisel. Burn it straight into his soul. Freeze this one sliver of morning like amber, hold it somewhere eternal, so even when time came clawing, when the world turned crueller—this would still be there. Untouched.

The light was soft, pouring in through the frost-laced window, silvering everything it touched. It kissed the slope of Leela’s cheekbone, caught the copper in her lashes. And Maya—God, Maya. Her curls were lit like a halo, tiny nails still carrying the stains of her berry mischiefs, lips sticky as she babbled away.

The record player crackled from the living room, some funky rap tune threading through the air, not to his taste. Yet, everything felt warm. Real. Good.

It was so much. Too much.

And he knew, with that dull ache behind his ribs, that it wouldn’t last forever. Mornings like this—soft, slow, untouched by worry—were the rarest kind. The kind the world didn’t let a man keep. So he held onto it. White-knuckled.

He watched as Leela licked the corner of her thumb and gently wiped a smear of berry from Maya’s chin. Watched as Maya leaned into the touch, eyes half-lidded, content as a cat in the sun. No resistance. No fear. Just easy love.

Joel leaned back slightly, coffee cooling between his fingers, the other hand resting low over his stomach—where the echo of last night still thrummed. Her. All her. He would die for that trust if he had to.

“Eat your food, Daddy,” Leela warned, not looking up, voice lilting with that dry affection she saved just for him. “You’ll be a shell of a man by noon.”

Joel grunted, winking when that little honeyed nickname hit him. “You sucked the life outta me, girl. Least you could do is let me sit here and suffer.”

Leela huffed a sigh, but her smile lingered, tucked in the corner of her mouth like a secret.

He finally dug in, scooping a forkful of still-warm eggs, letting the bite settle on his tongue. The bacon was perfect—salty, crisp, just the way he liked it. Maya was halfway through her toast, now telling her mama some long, winding tale about a squirrel she saw yesterday, and Leela listened with full attention, humming at the right parts, dabbing honey from the corner of her mouth with a towel.

Joel soaked it all in, and he didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want to breathe too deep, like the air might shift and knock it all loose—the quiet, the sweetness, the warmth bleeding in through the windows.

But Joel wasn’t the kind of man who got to stay still for long, was he?

Eventually, he set the mug down carefully, as if the sound of it touching the table might wake the morning from whatever fragile spell it was under. Then he pushed up from the bench with a grunt, his hand bracing the table as his knees cracked under him.

“Joel? Want me to get something for you?” she asked, confused.

He waved her off. “Nah, carry on, sweetheart. I'll be right back, gonna check on this damn heater.”

She smiled at him, knowing. “I'll do it later. Come, sit, relax. Sun's so nice today.”

He swallowed, shaking his head. “I got this.”

He crossed behind Leela, brushing her shoulder as he passed—just enough to feel the slope of her bones under his palm—and slipped down the hall, heading for the closet under the stairs.

The latch always stuck, just a little. Had to lift it from the bottom and pull at a slant. He didn’t turn on the light. Just let the shadows welcome him in.

The pack was right where he’d left it, tucked behind the empty storage crate of Christmas stuff they hadn’t gotten around to putting back in the attic. He dragged it out, careful not to let the canvas scrape the walls or alert Leela to check on him.

It was already half-packed. It had been for weeks now.

He crouched, fingers moving over the supplies like a checklist he’d memorized. Water tabs, ammo, and the last map Tommy drew for him. Flashlight. Spare batteries. A couple of cans of rations to last him a few weeks.

Joel lingered, fished in the side pouch for the small tin of oil he used for the revolver. Checked it, capped it, slipped it back.

It wasn’t that he wanted to leave. But he didn’t know what waited for him in LA. Didn’t know if there was anything real left to hope for at all.

And if it went bad… he wouldn’t let it come back here. Wouldn’t let it bleed into his house. Into Leela’s clean little kitchen, or the sound of Maya’s laugh echoing down the hallway.

He tugged the zipper closed and stood. Paused, just for a second. Just to look around. The light from the kitchen reached a little down the hall, spilling across the hardwood. He could hear Leela’s laughing voice, trying to follow the lyrics to the rap song while Maya jabbered along with her.

He squeezed his palm to the wall, breathing in, breathing deep, breathing through, breathing out. He rubbed at the space near his heart, feeling that invisible crack, soothing it.

No turning back now.

Then he turned, and quietly tucked the bag back into place.

X

Joel hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even laid down. There was no use pretending.

Behind his shaking shoulders, the house was still.

That rare kind of stillness that only came in the dark hours before dawn, when even the wind didn’t stir and the world felt like it was holding its breath, suspended, waiting for someone to move first.

Joel didn't.

He stood by the front door, dressed head to toe, gear strapped and jacket zipped. Boots laced tight. Holsters fitted snug, a silent verdict. His pack was full—every inch packed with supplies he might need, every pocket loaded with things he couldn’t risk forgetting. His rifle was slung across it, waiting.

He wasn’t.

His hand flexed at his side, then curled into a fist. He looked at it like it belonged to someone else. Now, if he picked it up, he wouldn’t be Joel anymore. Just a man on a mission. Just another ghost on the road.

He should’ve been gone already, nearly an hour ago. Hell, he told himself he’d leave before the light even touched the windows. He’d promised himself it’d be clean. Sharp. One quick motion. No dragging feet. No second thoughts. No lingering.

But his boots didn’t move.

Instead, he turned—slow, heavy-footed, drawing himself down the hallway, deeper into the house. Like his body was already mourning something his mind refused to name.

He didn’t need to count doors and stairs. His feet knew where to go. He’d walked this very path a hundred times—midnight walks with a bottle in one hand and a wailing baby in the other. The boards beneath his feet creaked like they remembered him.

The nursery door sat half-open, the smallest sliver of the blue blush of pre-dawn bleeding out from the crack beneath. He paused just outside, staring at the grain of the wood like it might rise up and stop him.

His hand hovered over the doorknob for a long time. Too long. Like the wood was hot. Like if he opened it, he wouldn’t be able to walk back out.

Then, with a soft creak, he pushed it open.

The room was quiet but not silent. The hush of the old white noise machine whirred low, and the radiator let out the occasional soft ping, heating the small space with its familiar rhythm, the faint scent of powder and old baby soap. Warm. Lived-in. Gentle.

And in the center of it, curled on her side beneath a blanket patterned with little stars, was Maya.

Joel's heart cracked wide open, giving a low throb.

She was chaos and peace, both at once—one sock halfway off, curls sticking up in every direction, her pacifier lost somewhere on the mattress. Her tiny hand was balled into a fist near her face, her mouth slightly open as she breathed in soft, fluttery snores.

His little miracle.

He stepped in quiet, like the floor itself was sacred, like the air around her might shatter if he breathed too loud. He crouched beside the crib, elbows resting on the railing, just watching her.

A full year of her. Not enough time, not nearly enough. A whole year of firsts and fumbling through fatherhood again. Every moment—her first laugh, her first steps, the first time she reached for him—etched into him like blotches.

And now he might miss the rest.

He wouldn’t see her walk to school with her funny backpack. Wouldn’t hear her say daddy like she really meant it. Wouldn’t see her sing, or scowl like her mama, or run barefoot through the summer grass without holding his hand.

And just like that, the consequences came crashing down.

All the things she’d never know.

If he didn’t come back… she wouldn’t remember him. Not really.

She’d grow up with photos from the Polaroids, old videos on the camcorder. Stories Leela would try to tell—how he always smelled like cedar and flannel, how he was the best singer in Jackson, how he played her favourite ‘comma, comma’ song every night on the porch, soft and slow, until she was giggling her head off on his lap.

Maybe she'd even recall the scratch of his beard when he kissed her cheek goodnight. The feel of his calloused thumb brushing her palm as she fell asleep. Remember how he had brushed her teeth with the gentlest fingers, even when she hated it, or how she liked to hold the clippers when he trimmed her tiny nails, so she felt like she was helping.

But not him. Not the way he knew her.

Not the way he knew how she loved the blackberry brambles behind the house. How she'd squeal and wiggle when he pretended to eat her fingers. How she'd copy everything he did—from the way he wiped his mouth after a sip of beer to the way he said goddammit when he stubbed his toe.

She'd grow up. Learn to read. Learn to argue. Learn to sing. Maybe pick up a guitar like he always swore he’d teach her. And she'd be brilliant. Smartass like her mama. Strong like her too.

And maybe… maybe she’d find bits of him in the quiet moments. In her love of old country songs. In the way she counted the stars. In the way she looked at her hands and wondered where she came from.

He reached down, brushing her tiny fist with his fingertip. None of that would be him.

Her palm twitched, then curled her fingers around his in a soft, instinctive squeeze. Still asleep.

Joel closed his eyes when he felt them sting. “Hey now,” he murmured, barely a whisper. “Don’t do that.”

He leaned down, nose brushing her cheek, and pressed the gentlest kiss to her skin.

She made a tiny noise in her throat, face scrunching as she rolled away, curling into her blanket again.

Goddamn it all. Goddamn this world. Already, his baby girl had carved a place so deep into his soul he couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.

He wiped at his face with the heel of his hand, stifling a chesty cough, then reached down, rolled up her sock again and gently tucked her foot back under the blanket.

“Be nice to your mama ‘til I get back,” he whispered, voice thick, broken down to gravel. His throat closed around the rest. The part he couldn’t say. If I don’t come back.

He went on quietly, breaking. “You hear me? Be good, baby girl.”

He slowly stood back up, bones aching from more than just age, shoulders screaming beneath the weight he hadn’t even picked up yet.

Back at the door, he paused. Turned for one last look. Maya, curled up safe. Unknowing. A piece of his heart he couldn’t take with him.

He stepped back into the hall and turned his eyes toward their bedroom.

The door was wide open. It was worse, somehow. If she’d closed it, maybe it would’ve hurt less. Of all the times he despised open doors...

Leela. His partner. His wife. The smartest goddamn person he’d ever known. And she didn’t even know he was leaving. Didn’t know that he was taking her work—the most beautiful thing she’d ever made, apart from their daughter—and walking it straight into the fire.

Yet there she was—sound asleep on her side, arm resting in the warm, empty space he should’ve been. Her braid trailed over the pillow, thick and unraveled, like a line drawn he couldn't cross. The curve of her waist beneath the blankets rose and fell with every slow breath. Her hand twitched, like it always did when she was dreaming.

He didn’t go in. He didn’t kiss her goodbye.

It was too much. Too cruel.

If he kissed her now, he wouldn’t leave. If she opened her eyes, if she asked him to stay, he’d give up everything. Just to crumble and crawl back under those sheets and pretend the world or these fucking Firefly shits in LA didn’t exist. Pretend the world hadn’t started turning again, like it always did—hungry, relentless, cruel.

The responsibility of the decision sat in his chest like a millstone.

He couldn’t tell Leela.

Because if he did, she’d go. She’d insist. Perhaps, fight back. She’d kiss Maya goodbye and pull her braid back, swing on a measly backpack, and look him in the eye and say, “If there’s a chance to make the world better, I’m going.”

And he’d never stop her. Couldn’t stop her.

So he didn’t give her the choice in the first place.

He’d take the burden instead. The road. The fire. The chance of death. Whatever waited in LA.

If the Fireflies were even real. If this wasn’t just another cruel lie—bait strung up on rusted faith. If all of this wasn’t just another fucking false hope strung up like bait.

But Joel had already seen the ending. He'd already stood in that surgery ward, gun in his hand, red lights flashing, Ellie bleeding somewhere behind a locked door while surgeons prepared to carve hope out of her brain.

He wasn’t doing it again. He couldn’t.

That’s why he didn’t tell Leela.

Why he packed the notebook in secret. Wrapped it in cloth and slid it between rations and bullets, behind the photo of Maya with jam on her cheeks.

Because this wasn’t just numbers. It was her life's work. Her mind. Her goddamn heart, her family's legacy, scrawled in ink—proof that she’d cracked something open the world had long given up on. Proof that she could change everything.

He didn’t know what was left anymore. All he knew was that he couldn’t let the two people he loved most take that risk.

So it would be him. Not Ellie. Not Leela. Him.

If someone was going to carry that discovery to L.A.—risk being gutted, betrayed, used—it was going to be him.

Not the girl he’d once saved. Not the woman he loved. Not his baby girl.

Because they deserved to live. Deserved to wake up in warm beds. To feed Maya mashed pears and read her books, and braid her hair. Deserved time and softness and mornings without fear.

The man who started it. The man who lied to keep Ellie safe. The man who couldn’t bear to see that look on Leela’s face if she had to choose between her family and her fight.

He’d choose for her.

If Leela found out—if it broke her, if she hated him for it, if she never forgave him—so be it. At least she’d be alive.

Accepting that, however half-hearted, Joel stepped out, easing the door shut behind him until it clicked. He stood in the hallway for a second, just breathing deep. Eyes on the wood.

Then he bent down, shouldered the pack, swung the rifle into place.

And without another sound, with the first breath of dawn just starting to warm the sky, Joel Miller walked out into the dark, leaving behind the only thing that ever made him believe the world might still be good.

X

Leela darling,

I’m sorry. I had to go. It’s something I need to do. NOT you.

I took the notebooks and the recorder. I know you’d want to be the one to carry it. I know you’d try but I can’t let you. Not with Maya. Not after everything.

I - I lo - I wanted to find the right -I wish things were -Don't hate -I

This isn't about not trusting you. It’s about loving you too goddamn much to let you die.

If I don't make it back - If I die - If -

I can’t risk you. Not again. I’d rather it be me. So let me do this for you.

Please keep our baby girl safe. I’ll find my way back to you in a bit. I promise. I love you.

—J

X

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[hemoglobinjuicebox]

Astarion couldn't believe it. It shouldn't have been possible. Never in all of his life did he ever expect to be where he was.

Bundled in crimson silk from head to chin, cradled to his bare chest, was his newborn daughter. He pressed his nose to her silvery gossamer tufts and breathed, then kissed them. The gentle glow of the candles danced across her sleeping face. Small hands grasped his unbuttoned night shirt.

How could such a tiny little thing like her have him so utterly wrapped around her finger? She was hardly two days old. Yet, he would give her the world if she asked. He would move mountains for her. Seas would part so she could walk wherever she so desired, and the rain would stop just to let the sun shine on her.

“Are you alright, love?” you asked, resting your cheek on his shoulder. “You've hardly said a word since we brought her home.”

Astarion lifted his head and nodded. “Yes, I… I'm fine. She's just—” Hot tears began to trickle down his pallid face. “Look at her. She’s ours. We did this. She’s our darling little girl.”

He tucked her head under his, pressing her pudgy cheek to his chest. You smiled and kissed the bare skin of his shoulder.

“You're going to make such a wonderful father, Astarion,” you said, pecking his lips. They were salty with his tears. “You're going to spoil her rotten.”

“Of course, I will,” he sniffled. “She deserves nothing but everything wonderful in the world.” He let out another wordless cry of joy and pressed his lips to her head again. Oh, how he loved her. How he loved you.

You placed a tender hand on his thigh, rubbing small circles on his warm skin with your thumb. He wept atop your daughter’s hair, whispering such sweet words in her pointed ears.

“I'll keep you safe forever, my little love. I promise.” Another kiss. “You are so beautiful.” Another kiss. “We will love you for the rest of our lives.”

He had come so far. There was once a time in his life when just the sight of a child made his stomach churn. He wanted nothing to do with them. They were wastes of space, wastes of time, wastes of precious energy.

They were the innocence and youth he would never get back.

That is until you came along, stole his heart, picked up all of his pieces, and put him back together again. He was whole when he was with you; he had learned to be whole without you, too. It was no walk in the park—every so often, he would hole himself up in the bedroom and not come out. You would hear his cries and mutters, wishing death upon the wretched world. You would open the door and find him curled into a ball with his knees to his chest and his arms hugging himself tight. He would hiss and spit his verbal venom, trying to turn you away and make you leave for good.

But you stayed.

And it was because of you that he could hold his daughter in his arms. You, who had sacrificed so much for him: your time, your body, your *life.* Each and every time, Astarion wondered if you were insane or desperate and looking for someone to cling to, if you were as broken as he was.

But when his daughter brushed her nose over his skin, he gently shook his head and patted her back. He could ruminate on his life decisions later.

Because his daughter needed him now.

[frenziedfireworks]

Late Nights

Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Summary : You are super tired but your boyfriend has other ideas.

CW : SMUT, 18+ Characters, f!reader, somnophilia, degrading, breeding kink, needy & very horny seb

masterlist

Sebastian was insatiable. You didn’t know where he stored the energy even throughout such a cumbersome day. 

Both of you had spent the day doing chores and getting the house ready for Anne. She would be visiting soon and Merlin forbid she sees a speck of dust in the house. You had been deathly tired after and went to bed early.. or so you had planned. It hadn’t even been thirty minutes before you felt the bed dip and Sebastian sigh. You ignored his hands that trailed up your form and continued to rest.

“Y/N are you awake?” Sebastian’s breath fanned against your ear and you scrunched up. You knew what kind of mood he was in and could tell what was coming.

“No.” You responded and tried to keep in a laugh. 

“Oh what a shame.” Sebastian snorted and you felt his hand crawl under your gown. His fingers played against the flesh of your thighs and his lips nipped at your ear.

“Y/N..” He pleaded again and you sighed.

“If you want me that bad then take me. I’m worn out Sebastian.” You whispered and kicked your nightgown off. Something had awakened in your boyfriend from the comment as he gripped you harshly.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you while you sleep?” He rasped and you felt your core throb. So that’s what he was thinking of. You couldn’t deny that the thought of him using you to pleasure himself even while you were asleep was deeply arousing. 

“Yes. You can use me.” You whisper out and shut your eyes again as you relish in his touch. His hands automatically began tweaking at your chest with a rapid pace. His teeth bit circles into your neck which were sure to leave bruises by the morning. 

“Fuck.” Sebastian groaned as he rutted his erection against your ass. You could only let a small moan as you felt his hand travel down to your mound. His fingers worked fast circles around your nub, desperation clawing away at his mind. He was more akin to an animal than man, leaving not even a second to waste. His large digit pressed into your needy hole, your body shaking at the new pressure.

“Fuck that’s right. Look at you swallowing my finger. Greedy fucking girl even when you’re half asleep.” 

His pace was erratic and you felt him insert another finger. Your body contorted with pleasure as he hit the right spot. A low chuckle filled the silence as he continued.

“Gonna fucking cum on my fingers and then I’m gonna plug you with my cock. You’re gonna take it all like the whore you are.” 

His vulgar words only sent you higher, your hand gripping at the sheet below. Your core spasmed as you came, drenching your boyfriends hand in the process.

“Oh fuck. Look at the mess you’ve made. Can’t even help yourself huh?” Sebastian bit at your neck and you groaned a bit.

“Gonna fuck your poor little pussy now. Fill you up and let you wake up to a mess.” 

Sebastian’s cock rubbed through your folds, teasing you as he positioned himself. It didn’t take long at all for him to plunge into your sensitive hole. You clenched and moaned at the intrusion, adjusting to his size.

“Oh fuck. You always feel so fucking good! So tight for me. Built to take my cock.” 

He began to piston into you, his grip on your hips brutal. The room felt like a sauna and your body flopped with each thrust to your core. Lewd slapping noises and Sebastian’s grunts were the only thing you could hear as your mind fluttered in and out of consciousness. You could feel yourself getting closer and evidently Sebastian was too.

“I can feel you clenching me princess. Why don’t you cum on my cock so I can fill this pussy up like it deserves?” His hand trailed down to rub at your bundle of nerves and your body jolted. 

“Mmm…” you moaned out in a sleepy stupor and he just laughed.

“Yeah I bet you like it slut. Cum for me.” 

Your body did as it was told, hitting that euphoric high for the second time. It wasn’t even seconds later that you felt his pace go slack and his warmth fill you up. His hips jutted a few more times before he finally stopped, an arm pulling you flush against his chest. 

“Thanks darling. You’re the best.” He murmured as he kissed the nape of your neck. You ran your hand along his toned thigh that laid behind you and hummed.

“Night you beast.” You whispered and he snorted.

“Goodnight princess.”

[auspicioustidings]

Kinktober Day 7

Moniker: Price Risk Level: Low. Hi sweetheart. Brief: Domestic, breeding Safeword: Refer to first brief.

You don’t have to come in today if you don’t want to. I’m being a selfish bastard and putting you down for a day with me if you’d be amenable to that - Price

“Hm, something smells good” Price said, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

It was a creature comfort being bundled up in his arms while he pressed a kiss to your head. Your steadfast husband, home early and having his first point of business be to come and breathe you in.

“I made sourdough, it’s just been pulled from the oven” you said, smiling because you knew you had done a good job.

The bread was sitting on the counter looking pretty and perfect. Pretty and perfect was very much how things were done around here, your face was made up just the right amount, your dress pressed and protected by an apron that lay on the line between ridiculous with it’s frills and rustically simple.

“Speaking of buns in ovens…”

You laughed as you felt the scratch of your husband’s beard on your neck and he started to rock his hips up against your ass, probably not getting quite the sensation he wanted since he had to contend with your petticoat. He fixed that quick enough, his hands going to the hem of your dress and pushing it and the petticoat up, firmly bending you over and flipping the offending coverings up and over your back.

“Oh naughty girl, no panties?” he asked as he sucked his fingers to get them wet and slid two inside you, working up to a brisk pumping within seconds.

“Can’t put a bun in the oven if I block the door.”

“Hold on sweetheart.”

You gripped the counter as he used one hand to hold the bundles of fabric out of the way and pulled the other from your pussy to take his cock out, spit on his hand, pump his cock a few times and then guide it into your wet heat.

A deeply satisfied pair of groans came from the two of you as he sunk home, nestled deep inside you where he belonged. God it had only been this morning he had last filled you up but it felt like it had been forever, like you were a plant withering away without water or sunlight.

“Bloody hell, squeezing me so tight sweetheart. Is that needy pussy trying to milk me? Does she want a baby?”

“Yes. Please John, give me a baby, I can’t wait to have your children.”

“Yeah? Plural?”

“As many as you want.”

He really fucked you then, your tits smacking the edge of the counter with force as he sawed into you hard and fast and so fucking deep.

“You know the drill, need your pussy greedy and sucking all my cum into that ripe womb of yours.”

You did know the drill. Your hand jammed between your legs and you furiously played with yourself until you were cumming and your pussy was squeezing around him.

“Fuck! Here it comes, going to breed you so fucking full!” he growled as his cock flexed rhythmically inside you and painted your insides white.

“Yes! Yes John, so good!”

He pumped you so, so full, but he didn’t pull out. That would only let it spill and it was so important you didn’t waste a drop. So instead he stayed inside you as he began to soften, his fingers spreading your labia so he could watch as his cream tried to escape around his cock.

He started rocking a little to force it back in.

“Oh God” you choked as you felt him start to harden again.

“Looks like there’s more for you to drain from me sweetheart. Let’s take this to the bedroom hm? Got that pretty plug in there to keep everything inside after I’ve filled you up again.”

He came inside you twice more that day, obsessively trying to make sure nothing dripped out of you. It was nice to be his wife for the day, nice to have nothing on your mind but making a family with him.

Plus you might actually take up bread making when this was all said and done, it had been unexpectedly fun.

[animasolaoriginal]

INFATUATED ♦️ EIGHT

CHAPTER ONE ♦️ SERIES MASTERLIST ♦️ AO3

In the rare moments where her thoughts aren't hazy, when she isn't fucked out of her mind, she contemplates her situation, questions it, but whatever vile thing he does to her next, she can't help but realize something: she wants it, wants him, wants to please him, badly. And so, she slowly starts to embrace her new role...

ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Dom/sub dynamic. Praise kink. Oral sex/deepthroating. Cunnilingus. Overstimulation. (For more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 6.6k

SEVEN 🟥 EIGHT 🟥 NINE

She should hate him.

Fight him, do anything to not let him get away with all those vile things he's doing to her. In the moment she is usually too overwhelmed to do anything but take it, and afterwards she's too relieved it's over, but there are a few clear moments in that undisclosed time between whatever he plans to do to her next, clear enough moments to gather her thoughts, build them up into that burning bundle of hatred and defiance and the will to get away.

It happens when he carries her limp body to the bathroom, when she squeezes her eyes shut and ignores (tries to ignore) his tight grip, the warm hard chest she's pressed against, the way he holds her, protective almost – yeah, ignoring him is very difficult – and so the moment of wanting to hurt him back slips from her too quickly. But it was there, a tiny instant of thinking through the haze inside her head, those few questions that keep haunting her like little bees buzzing inside her skull.

Why are you allowing this? Why are you still here? Why haven't you even tried to get away, run from this place, from his grasp? Why do you lean into him? Why can't you stop thinking about him? Why? Oh for fuck's sake... why?

And the answers usually come whenever he is nice to her afterwards, caresses her soiled skin, wipes away her tears, holds her close and safe in his strong arms. It's the same thought that rolled through her mind whenever she's seen him in the club, when his eyes accidentally met hers through the crowd. That heat that burnt up then, now soars through her like wildfire, erasing any doubts and fears.

Because she likes him.

In a very twisted, definitely unhealthy sort of way. She likes him, wants him, his attention, his caresses, wants to stare at him, be with him, have him do all these things to her (well, the jury is still out on that part, her innocent mind had not been capable of imagining just what he may do to her). And even after all the pain she's endured and is still feeling, she can't keep these needs down, the wants he told her not to have. But strangely enough they align with his wants, or so she thinks.

So he wants to fuck her on the couch and shove his cock down her throat when he comes, sure, she'll take it, because she wants it too, right? He must know that, he wouldn't be doing it otherwise, right? Right?

It's all a mess inside her head, what she wants, what he wants, how those things compare and blend into each other, how his wants become hers, melting together, and the haze grows, and the hatred fades.

In the end she is that small pliant thing in the shower, legs trembling when he pulls her underwear down, when his fingers brush over her heated skin, when she watches him undress, her eyes moving over shifting muscles and tight skin, the dips and bumps of a strong body, so much taller than her, intimidating and enticing at the same time.

And when he moves her under the spray raining down on them, big hands on her small shoulders, she looks up, closes her eyes when the warm water hits her face, head leaning against his chest as he reaches around her and grabs the bar of soap from the little shelf, lathers it between his hands, arms caging her in, before he moves the suds over her skin.

It's these intimate moments that root her to this place of pain and humiliation, of being his (toy) to use whenever he wants. It's warm and comforting, a soft caress after the rough handling, a balance she needs more than air.

His hands move over her chest, soaping her up, cleaning her, calloused palms rubbing over sensitive skin, fingers teasing and brushing, and she feels how much he's holding back, how his cock twitches, pressed into the dip of her lower back with how close and tall he stands behind her, and she savors these moments of his restraint, where he treats her right no matter how bad he wants to do other things to her.

He continues his lathering gently, big hands running down her arms, lifting them, turning them, testing her limits when he dips his fingers into her armpits, but she's too far gone in her mind to be ticklish, focusing on the good things, the warm touches, inhales the steamy air, forces her head to be empty. When his fingers slip between her legs, she lets out a little gasp, then feels his head next to hers as he leans over, cheek pressed against cheek, rough skin rubbing against soft.

One arm wraps around her middle, holding her, while his other hand moves down her mound, fingers gliding through her slit, fingertips teasing her entrance, but then he pushes against her thighs, nudges them apart, and the soap is back to move down her shaking limbs. He even crouches down behind her, holds her hip, moves his hand down to her ankles, rubs his fingers through her toes.

She holds onto his shoulders when he lifts her feet, one after the other, cradles them in his hands, and this time she flinches when he scrapes his nails over the sole of her foot. His soft exhale of a laugh makes her blush, and when he stands up again, he grabs her chin and lifts her head up, staring down at her before capturing her mouth for a soft kiss that turns into a wilder dance of tongues, her body turned around, pulled against his, one big hand fisting her hair, the other grabbing her rear.

Her arms snake around his body, holding onto hard muscles and slick skin as she leans up on her toes to kiss him back properly. These sweet moments... usually end rather abruptly when he changes his mind all of a sudden. This time he pulls her head back, fingers tight around her hair, eyes dark as he stares down at her. She blinks against the water running into her eyes, breathing harder, not sure what to expect, but in the end he lets go of her and pushes the soap into her hands before he turns around and presents his backside to her.

She smiles as she huffs a sigh of relief, then quickly follows the request and lathers his back, rubs the soap between his shoulder blades, down into the slight dip of his spine, to his lower back, around his sides, vehemently ignoring the tight cheeks of his butt. His hands move around to grab hers, and she's forced to pay attention to them after all, but she focuses on the job at hand, quickly rubbing her hands over his warm skin, follows the curves and edges of his body down his strong legs.

As she's crouching behind him, he slowly turns around, and she looks up, eyes immediately jumping to his throbbing erection mere inches away from her face. She swallows hard, and he tilts his head as he watches her. She moves her soapy hands back up the front of his legs, feels the slight shift of his thigh muscles, then hesitates when she reaches his groin. Eyes flicking up to his, she slowly stands up again and brings her hands closer, her heart beating faster.

As soon as her small hands wrap around his length, he puts his own on top of hers, guiding her movements. She bites her lip and looks down, absorbing the way he handles his cock, wanting to learn, wanting to please him more, better...

Those thoughts come and go as well, of putting her own desires to the side and focusing on him and his pleasure. He already takes what he wants, but she's sure she can make him even prouder of her if she puts in the extra effort to do everything the way he likes it best. And it's not (necessarily) to get praised by him, strangely enough, because that would be her own want, it's just to see him satisfied, to see the tension in his body deflating, to see him smile, make him happy.

It may also be the balled-up fear in the pit of her stomach, the fear of making him angry, displeasing him, disappointing him. He's been rough with her before, but that time he's punished her by fucking his cum back into her ass after she's cleaned out the last load, has only been a hint, a little preview of his anger, she knows it. There's so much more darkness within him, more strength, more power, more violence. And she never wants to experience it. It will break her, mentally and physically, she's absolutely sure.

Eventually he guides her hands away from his hard cock, up his chest, over toned muscles, lathering the soap everywhere she's missed before. She watches him, feeling warm and content – which, of course, only lasts so long as he suddenly turns her around, one hand on her lower back as he bends her forwards a little. She stiffens, breathing harder, swallowing her fear.

His other hand moves along the curve of her rear, dips between her cheeks, fingers closing around the base of the plug. He tugs at it, gently, playing with her tense muscles, warms them up, before he pulls it out, and her relief is mixed with shame as she feels thick globs of cum dripping down her legs, washing away in the drain.

She braces herself on the tiled wall as he starts rubbing his hands over her backside, then grabs the shower head and cleans her off, and she flinches when the harder jet of water hits her tense muscles, but he refrains from cleaning her properly.

When he puts the shower head back, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her against him, positions them under the rain shower and lets the soft spray rinse the soap off their bodies. She closes her eyes and relaxes, feels his hands on her, warm and comforting. A strange little moment of peace...

And she should have seen it coming. The sudden change in the atmosphere.

His hand is on her shoulder, turning her around, then pushing her down on her knees in front of him, the spray of the water hitting her back as she blinks up at him. Inhaling deeply, she tries to ignore the sting in her knees, the soreness of her whole body slowly creeping back into the forefront of her mind. But she doesn't wallow in her sorrow, there's no use anyway, she can't fight him, no matter how hard she wishes to in moments like these.

He leans over her to turn the water off, and a sudden cold breeze makes her shiver. When he straightens up again, he looks down at her, and she shivers for a completely different reason. Her eyes rake over his naked body (so tall and intimidating), those shifting muscles when he puts his hands on his hips, the tight skin of his chest, strong arms and legs with veins snaking under his skin, the handsome face, the dark, hungry eyes, wet hair pushed back, water drops gathering on his shoulders, running down in thin rivulets.

She shifts on her knees, moves closer, eyes on his straining cock, standing proud against his lower stomach. Between admiring his restraint and being grateful for it, she licks her lips, raises her hands, but then stops, hovering inches away from grabbing him, her eyes moving back up to him.

He hasn't given her any command, not really. He just pushed her to her knees.

She blinks a few stray water drops out of her eyes. “C-can I –” she starts, quiet, her voice still raw from his earlier demands.

He tilts his head, a smirk on his lips. “Yes? Use your words, baby,” he says, his voice deep, vibrating through the tiled room, sinking into her mind, igniting something hot settling in the pit of her stomach.

“Can I...” she tries again, inhaling deeply. “Can I... s-suck your... your cock?” she asks, voice shaking badly, feeling nervous. As if he would deny her this.

“Can you?”

He's mocking her. Prolonging the humiliation she feels for even asking such a thing. But she remains on her knees, looking up, practically begging him to do this – and there's not a single thought in her mind that finds this very disturbing. It feels natural. He's hard, she's here to take care of that, isn't she? That's her purpose after all.

“May I?” she rephrases, biting her lip, her hands gingerly reaching out to touch his strong thighs. “May I please suck your cock?” The words leave her without revision, they just tumble out of her mouth, while she looks deep into his eyes, focused on him, feeling his skin beneath her palms, and that hot thing in her stomach growls in some sort of need.

He extends a hand and puts it on her head, caresses her wet hair. “Yes, you may,” he says and smiles softly down at her, though there is a glint in his eyes, a hint of the darkness. He keeps his hand on her head, heavy but also strangely comforting, as she shifts on her knees, sits up more, one hand gingerly closing around his hard length before she bends it carefully towards her to bring the tip to her lips.

It's strange to be this gentle with the very thing that brought her so much pain, that stretched and bruised her, punished and deflowered her, choked and soiled her, that, despite everything, felt so good inside her... She closes her eyes and swallows, her lips brushing against his warm skin. His scent, overpowered by the smell of soap, fills her nostrils, his presence fills her head.

He's done so many things to her, with his cock, his hands, his mind, and none of it matters as she kneels in front of him, on her sore knees, fingers closing tighter around his base, as she opens her mouth and closes her lips around his tip, tongue flicking lazily around the spongy flesh, his taste hits her with a force that makes her dizzy.

She wants this. She's asked for it. This is all on her.

His hand moves through her wet hair, gathers it between his fingers, twists it, holds it tighter as she starts moving her head back and forth, hollowing her cheeks, sucking on him hard and with a passion that surprises herself. He's grounding himself by gripping her hair, but he doesn't guide her head.

She feels his muscles shifting under the hand she braced on his thigh, he's holding back, his breaths becoming slightly rougher when she starts twisting her hand around his length, in tandem to the bobbing of her head, moving his tight skin over his hardened core, up and down, while she pushes his tip deeper into her mouth, not too deep, but inch by inch she dares to taste more of him.

Her head feels empty, her sole focus lies on pleasuring him, on feeling and hearing his noises, those little grunts and groans that mix with the loud slurping sounds she creates as she moves faster, strains her lips around him tighter, sucks harder, strokes him firmer. He was already hard when she started, now he's throbbing, basically vibrating with how the blood pumps through the bulging veins that rub along her tongue.

She breathes loudly through her nose, completely lost in the task, her mouth filled with spit and precum, and she doesn't even care what a mess she's become as it starts dripping down her chin and onto her chest. She licks around him, sucks, scrapes her tongue along the underside, pushes him deeper, dares to let him hit the back of her throat, but it's an instinct that she pulls back before she triggers her gag reflex.

A louder groan echoes through the tiled room, and the grip of his hand around her hair tightens, but he still doesn't do anything else, he just stands there, tall and strong, only the slightest of shivers in his legs, and lets her do her thing, gives her time to explore him, find her own pace.

Her eyes flutter open when she leans back a little, his tip heavy and swollen on her tongue, and looks up at him. His gaze is dark, his face a stoic mask, jaw clenched, but he watches her closely. She takes a deep breath, her heart thundering inside her chest, her knees shaking, but something like determination fills her stomach, hot and expanding, and while he looks at her, she opens her mouth a little wider and leans closer, looking up from under her lashes, more of his cock sliding into her mouth, tip hitting the back of her throat, and she braces herself, clenches up, then relaxes, and feels him sliding deeper.

As soon as he does, she squeezes her eyes shut, feels them watering, her hand digging into his thigh, but she keeps going, forces herself onward, him deeper, despite the overwhelming urge to gag or breathe or do anything but let him deeper into her throat. Her body shudders, she can't fight the uncontrollable twitch as she does gag after all, but she still holds him there, his cock in her throat, her chin brushing against his balls, nose almost pressed against his tight skin, those curly hairs tickling in her nostrils, while tears stream down her cheeks and her head feels both full and empty at the same time, her lungs burn, her whole being battles the sensation that shouldn't be.

His cock deep down her throat.

It's him that pulls her back and off him, and she gasps deeply, splutters and coughs, head lowered, spit dripping from her mouth as she takes hectic gulps of air. But there is something in her that makes her look back up, her hands moving towards his cock, grabbing it, wanting to continue. His hand finds her chin.

“Take it easy,” he says quietly, voice strained, but somewhat soft.

She swallows hard, nods, focuses back on closing her lips around his tip and sucking him deeper. Her hands twist and turn his skin as she resumes the bobbing of her head, and she feels him throbbing under her palms, more precum leaking onto her tongue and down her throat. His breaths are rougher, his hand back in her hair, his muscles shifting. She keeps going.

He pulls her back again when she feels him twitching, and it's an instinct, a normal thing, that she leans back a little, hands falling onto her lap, and opens her mouth wide with her tongue out flat, looking up at him, waiting for him to come on her face. He grips his cock hard, his big hand pumping it with expertise, his tip resting between her lips. His eyes are almost black, his face so tense, his nostrils flaring.

As soon as the first spurt hits her tongue, she closes her lips around his tip and sucks, her small hand curling around his, and he groans, strokes himself as he shoots load after load into her mouth, filling her cheeks until they're bulging, but she doesn't dare to swallow yet, keeps it hot and heavy on her tongue. He finishes with a grunt, tilting his head back, his throat working, the tension of his body falling from him with a deep shiver.

Pulling his cock from between her tight lips, he looks down at her, and she looks back, slowly opening her mouth, showing him what he gave her. He licks his lips and nods. “Swallow,” he says hoarsely, and she does, big gulps, savoring his taste, until it is all gone, which she shows him with a strange feeling of pride settling inside her. He watches her darkly, still gripping his cock, before he brings it back to her face. “Clean,” he whispers, and she's already on it the moment his tip brushes against her lips.

She sucks the last drops out of his slit, flicks her tongue around him, laps at his softening length, her head still empty, her only focus on him. Finishing her ministrations the way she has started them, with a kiss to his tip, she then leans away, reluctantly letting go of his cock, watching it bobbing gently before it settles in that semi-hard, semi-flaccid state against his thigh.

His hand is on her head, fingers digging into her hair, a gentle gesture. “Good girl,” he says quietly, his thumb finding her bottom lip. “That was really good...”

She smiles up at him, a sudden warmth spreading within her, and it's not his cum settling in her stomach, mixing with the other loads he's given her before. It's a strange kind of satisfaction, knowing that she's pleased him properly. He hooks his hand under her elbow and helps her to her feet, she feels shaky, grabs his arm for support, leans into him. He lets her and guides her out of the shower.

Slowly she comes back to her senses as the colder air of the bathroom crawls up her naked legs. Wiping at her mouth, she takes deep breaths, fighting the shaking of her hands, the trembling of her legs. He hands her a towel, and she starts drying off, her eyes staying on him as he does the same. It's one of those weird domestic moments, coming out of the shower together, cleaning up, his tall frame next to her smaller one in front of the vanity, their shapes blurred behind the fogged-up mirror.

His hand is on her shoulder, brushing her hair away. She turns to him, inhaling deeply, tilting her head as his fingers trace up along her pulse, over the marks he left, that little throbbing sensation right beneath her skin. It sends shivers down her spine when he touches them, and it makes her heart beat faster when he leans down to place his lips on them. She stiffens, breaths quickening, her arms by her sides while his hands move over her body with confidence, from her nape down to her lower back, from her thigh up to her breasts.

He kisses and explores her, so gentle she is simply surprised by the gesture, overwhelmed by how good it feels, how soft he can be despite being so strong and tall and intimidating. And she feels small, weak, insignificant, just a body standing in the middle of the bathroom, his bathroom, unsure what to do. He takes what he wants, and she's not allowed to have wants, but her own burn deep within her stomach, and lower, between her legs, under his hands, under his mouth, in the wake of his kisses and touches.

A little sigh escapes her, a quiver through her body, and her hand twitches. He's nibbling on her earlobe, teeth teasing, warm tongue licking along her skin, his hands on her waist, slowly pulling her towards him, into him, and she moves her hand and touches his stomach, fingertips scraping over hard muscles, moving over tight skin, around his side, up his back. She's held onto him before, but this feels more intimate, raw, a need she wants to scratch even though she isn't supposed to.

He presses his lips to her collarbone, and her hand is in his hair, digging through it, feeling the wet soft thickness of it, the warm skin, hard scalp, and the shiver that runs through him at the touch. She inhales deeply, takes in the steam in the air, the warmth of him. Her head is spinning. He leans up, her hand slips from his hair, falls to her side, their eyes meet.

She blinks, biting her lip. His eyes are almost black with how his pupils are dilated, that darkness burns inside them, a hunger for more. His tongue moves between his teeth as he exhales loudly through his nose. Without breaking eye contact, he leans down and hooks his hands behind her knees, grabs her thighs and hoists her up easily. Her hands find his shoulders, shifting muscles under her palms as he wraps her legs around his waist, hands under her rear now.

Her fingers slip around his neck, teasing at the hair in his nape, moving higher. She can't help herself, he feels too nice. He watches her, the corner of his lips curling up slightly. She keeps chewing on her lips, they feel raw and swollen, but she doesn't care, her entire focus is still on him, how he holds her against his hard body, strong hands supporting her so effortlessly.

There is nothing dominating about the situation, nothing to be afraid of, no pain to expect, he's just holding her, watching her, immobile, while she fights the urge to dig her fingers into his hair – until she just does it, follows her own want and touches his hair, massages his scalp. The involuntary shiver that shakes his big body makes her smile, a soft little twitch of her lips as she lets her eyes wander over his handsome face.

He stares at her, takes a deep breath, and suddenly he's walking out of the bathroom, and before she can even comprehend what's happening, he puts her down on the bed, he doesn't throw her, or dumps her there unceremoniously, he gently places her down before he crawls over her, braced on his hands and knees, caging her in, and looks down at her. She's shivering, anticipation crashing through her.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers hoarsely, clenching his jaw.

She bites her lip. “I... I don't want anything...” she replies quietly, remembering his rules.

He shakes his head. “But you do, I know it. You can tell me.” His voice is that low thrum in the air, deep and demanding, vibrating through her very bones.

“I...” She inhales deeply. “I want to... touch you...”

His eyebrows rise up. “Baby, you just touched me, you had my cock in your throat, your hands on me.” He tilts his head. “Where else do you want to touch me?”

“Everywhere,” slips out of her without much thought, a simple need falling over her lips. He huffs a laugh. “May I?” she whispers, and even though the lines on his forehead deepen, he nods.

Her hands move quick, almost on their own. First they brush against his chest, then up his neck to cup his face. She feels him clenching his jaw under her touch, his eyes intense but curious at the same time. Her fingers trace along the hard edges of his jaw, up to his cheekbones and over his eyebrows, to his temples, trailing his hairline. An innocent exploration that makes her cheeks burn up the more she touches him, the longer he watches her without doing or saying anything.

For him to allow this, feels almost strange, it's too intimate, too gentle, too much the opposite of what he has done to her. He's this big man leaning over her, a dark shadow taking up her entire vision, he's all she sees, and her small hands move over his face as if she's trying to tame the angry beast. Soft touches, fingertips tapping against skin, easing along creases, brushing over his nose, trailing around his lips.

"My turn?" There's a little tilt to his voice, almost like a question, but it's not. He doesn't ask, he takes what he wants. And still he waits for her to lower her hands.

She does, a little hesitantly, but he's patient for once. Her hands slip between his arms braced next to her shoulders, fingertips brushing against his knees, as she looks up at him with her chest rising and falling faster. He leans down, his body still mostly only hovering over her, that warm big entity, a weight she knows and wants, but he keeps his distance, arching his back as he brings his face closer to hers.

His breath ghosts her tingling lips, mingling with hers. She feels lightheaded, the anticipation gripping her almost a little too painfully. And when he brushes his lips against hers, a soft, gentle touch, she lets out the air she's been holding in a low little mewl. She feels him smiling against her mouth before he deepens the touch, lets his tongue glide over her bottom lip, then over her upper lip, then finally between them, slipping into her mouth as if he belongs there.

She lets him in, meets him with a needy push of her own tongue, and he sucks on it softly, a warm and wet sensation, a flutter in her stomach that turns into something bigger, hotter, burning its way lower until the throbbing makes her hips buck beneath him. The kiss is slow, still hungry and demanding. He captures her mouth as if he wants to devour her, and she moves against him in the same way, quickly mirroring the motions.

Her own wants flare up, melting with his, becoming one. Just kissing him, tasting him, his tongue and lips and mouth and his entire being pressed to her own, it feels like a dream, a strange little escape after everything that happened between them, that he made her do, that he forced on her. This, for once, feels right, and she wants it.

And as if he seems to feel how much she's enjoying herself, he leans back and breaks the kiss. Her eyes flutter open, a pout on her swollen lips, wet and warm with the ghost of his kisses. He smirks at her, winking at her, before he moves his head down again, pressing chaste kisses to her chin, her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. She exhales loudly, melting into the soft bed, closing her eyes as she lets him explore her once more.

He settles between her breasts before he shifts on top of her, sliding back, braced on his elbows, body still hovering over her, but closer, warmer. His hands tease at her sides, long fingers brushing against her small mounds. She stifles a gasp when she feels him closing his warm mouth around one of her peaks, his tongue flicking against her nipple, licking around it, and she can't help it, she arches her chest into his touch.

One of his big hands comes to lie heavy on the other breast, kneading, groping gently, palm pressing down hard enough she feels a little sting. Her eyes flutter open, and she watches him breathlessly, her own hands clawing at the sheets. His gaze wanders up, dark and intimidating as she meets it, hard despite the soft movements of his lips against her flesh, making her shiver deeply. He gives her bud a little suck, and she lets out a quiet moan, which encourages him to do it again, and again, until she squirms beneath him, breathing harder.

He lets go of her breast with a wet pop, leaving the nipple hard and aching, before he switches it up and focuses on the other, his mouth once again closing around the peak, giving it the same ministrations. His hand cups the wet one, palm pressing into it, rubbing over her bud, up and down, before he slides his fingers over her and teases it between them. She gasps again, and downright squeals quietly and jerks against him when he pinches the sensitive nipple between his fingertips.

A deep rumble vibrates through her chest when he laughs against her breast, continuing to lick and suck and nibble on her with a hunger that's on the verge of being cute if it wouldn't feel a little painful. But somehow she's leaning into it. After all, pain has become a part of whatever he does to her, it's always there, and somehow, she needs it to be there now to counteract all the cotton in her head that makes her dizzy.

She's breathing heavier once he's done with her tender tits, the flesh reddened and wet, peaks hard and swollen, so sensitive a simple puff of air makes her flinch. He teases her a little more, blowing against her skin, before he finally moves on, shifting on top of her again, bringing his lips to her fluttering stomach, planting soft little kisses on it until he licks broad strokes over her abdomen, lapping at her, tasting the sweat that's sure to linger there. She feels hot all over, almost exhausted, and she hasn't moved an inch since he put her down on the bed.

His hands move along her sides, and he leans up, watching her, slowly nudging her legs apart as he settles between them, that big shadow kneeling at the foot of the bed, looking down at her with dark eyes, ready to devour her even more. She sits up slightly, leaning on her elbows, licking her lips as she watches him with her chest heaving. He doesn't push her back down, he only hooks his arms around her legs and brings his face down, his hot breath fanning over her sensitive skin, cooling when it hits the slick that's been gathering between her thighs.

Despite everything that's happened, how intently he's explored her body thus far, she feels highly embarrassed when he starts bringing his lips to her aching core, a strange thing between shame and self-consciousness, when he starts kissing her lower lips like he's kissed her mouth before, his tongue skimming along her slit, licking up and down, dipping between her folds, lapping up the wetness seeping from her.

She slumps down onto her back again and hides her face behind her hands, issuing noises ranging from quiet mewls to mortified whines, when he starts to suck her skin between his lips, really going down on her eagerly clenching cunt. He teases his tongue against her entrance, pokes at it, pressing a little deeper, but when she bucks her hips into his face, he retreats, and she sighs.

His amused huff of a laugh is a deep vibration against her center, a warm breeze hitting her clit, and seconds later, his tongue circles the sensitive bundle of nerves, flicks it, prods it, before he closes his lips around it and sucks hard.

She cries out, her thighs twitching in his hold, body arching off the bed a little. He tightens his arms around her legs, pushes her down, his breaths hard and rough as he resumes his assault on her nub. Not to squirm against him is impossible at this point, and she writhes, fights the sensations, gasping and moaning and wailing, her voice raw and hoarse.

Her stomach tenses, hands falling from her face to grip the sheets, and when she feels his teeth teasing her overstimulated clit, she jerks her hips up and screams shrilly as she feels the tension exploding inside her body. Squeezing her eyes shut, inhaling sharply, a deep intense gasp that only lets air in and not out, she floats, there's no other word for it, her head is full of a quickly expanding nothingness, there's no worry, no pain, just a blissful void.

He grounds her by continuing his ministrations, keeping his mouth leeched on to her wet cunt, lapping up whatever seeps out of her. He's grunting against her, loud breaths through his nose, his tongue that hot eager muscle that keeps her afloat, keeps her sensitive, keeps her wailing and whining as it dips into her hole, pressing deeper, doing things she had no idea a tongue could do.

She's completely out of it, held in that state of floating right above the edge, pulled back only to be pushed over it again, and again, and again, until all she can do is shiver and shudder, a boneless mess writhing on the sheets, slick from sweat, his saliva and her own juices. Head empty.

Oh head so deliciously empty...

Time must have passed, she isn't sure. Her eyes flutter open, and she's still this pliant body on the bed, immobile, but no longer held down, alone to be exact. Sitting up slowly, her limbs barely functioning, she looks around, before she flinches when she hears his footsteps to her right. He walks out of the closet, wearing running shoes and a tight shirt and formfitting but still loose sweatpants, in the middle of zipping up a matching hoodie.

He approaches the bed, this intimidating shadow looming over her, watching her. She licks her lips, blinking slowly when he sits down on the edge and extends a hand towards her, gently caressing her cheek.

“I'm going for a run,” he tells her quietly, eyes boring into hers. “Be a good girl and rest now, okay?”

Something hot swirls through her stomach, and she nods. “Yes, sir,” she whispers barely audible, watching him smile as he leans in to press his lips to her forehead.

“Don't explore, I'll know if you do,” he adds when he leans back, standing up, his voice low and dark, causing her to shiver. “If you get bored, you know what I keep in that drawer.” She frowns as he tilts his head towards the nightstand, before she blushes deeply and nods, looking away.

He moves his fingers over her leg as he walks around the bed. She rolls onto her side and watches him. He gives her a wink and leaves the bedroom. There's a quiet clicking sound, and she knows he's locked her in. And somehow it's that noise that wakes her up fully. Her heart starts thundering inside her chest as panic settles in.

Locked up. Taken. Forced to do things she never fully agreed to.

Why it hits her now after she's just experienced the best orgasms of her life, she has no idea. Must be that clarity that comes afterwards. It is one of these clear moments as she sits up slowly, grabbing at her chest, mindlessly pulling the covers around her while she stares ahead blankly.

Is this her life now? Or will he let her go once he's done? Will he ever be done? She's his to use whenever he wants, he's made that perfectly clear, so why would he let her go anytime soon? It's her role, her purpose, to... be used, to serve him, to be this body full of holes he can fill up however he wants.

And yet there is something else. She's more to him than that, isn't she? Would he bother eating her out otherwise? Giving her these amazing releases? Unless he's gaining something from it too, which he probably does, though. He's a selfish man, so much she knows by now. But he's let her rest, even though he was definitely hard when he gave her that extra attention (her body still shivers just remembering it all), yet instead of releasing the tension with her, inside her, he's going running?

She must mean more to him. And maybe him locking her up, is a sign of protectiveness, keeping her safe and sound, giving her the simple task to rest and relax (and possibly play with herself if she gets bored which she knows she won't, the thought alone makes her shudder in the worst way). It's almost a gift after all the things he made her do. To do nothing.

Inhaling deeply, she cuddles into the covers, closing her eyes. Rest does sound pretty good right about now.

SEVEN 🟥 EIGHT 🟥 NINE

End notes: This might have been the softest chapter yet, or maybe the first where she's finally fully embraced her new role as his little plaything? Whatever it was, it was fun to write, a nice change to all the unprediactable stuff he's usually up to. (But don't worry, he won't tone it down any time soon...)

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Monday!

TAG LIST: @qmsvpx @cyan1decandy @bimbos-are-angels @voiceactivated @reader-1290

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

CHAPTER / / / ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE

SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾TEN

ELEVEN TWELVE ◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN◾EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN◾TWENTY

[xqueen-of-disasterx]

Hi hun, I was wondering could you write 🥺 GP Agatha Harkness w/ fem reader with breeding kink  💜

Gift

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: fem!reader x Agatha Harkness

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐲: Agatha gave you a special gift after you’ve been a good girl

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT, Dom!Agatha, sub!reader, nipple play, breeding kink, blow job, praise kink, brief slapping

!Disclaimer English is not my first language so please excuse any grammar or spelling errors. This story is completely fictional. I do not own these characters!

𝐌.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

"Come on baby keep them open" Agatha coated against the wet skin of your neck, when she forced your thighs spread. She licked over your soft spot of your neck paining extra attention to the little spot right under your ear- she knew it would make your eyes roll into the back of the head. "Agatha" you whined rolling your head back to give her more access to the sensitive skin of your neck. 

She kissed her way down to the valley between your breasts "I need you" she mumbled seemingly drunk on tasting your sweet skin. "such a good girl" She grabbed one of your tits rolling her tumb over your hardened nipple. You arched your back wanting more of her touch, which she granted you of course, she could never refuse you pleasure. "It's all icky" You mewled she had been teasing you for quite some time now, making you so soaked your panties were stuck to your glossy pussy. "Oh sweetheart" she faked her sympathy filled voice "Did I make you feel all icky in your princess parts?"

You nodded eagerly you loved when Agatha treated you like that, no other partner you had understood your needs as well as the older woman did.  "Have you been a good girl?" She kept playing with your breasts paying extra attention to your nipples. "Yes" you mewled "I'm a good girl, such a good girl" She chuckled catching your lips in a messy kiss you tried to get a hold on where on her hair but she only pressed them down on her mattress. 

"I think you've been a good girl" She whispered against your lips "and good girls get rewards, and their needy little holes filled" You moaned at her promiscuous words. She kissed her way down again her fingertips slipping from your wrists to your nipples again giving them a little pinch for good measure. 

She forced your legs spread kissing each of your thighs "Those stay open, or do I have to restrain you?" You shook your head violently "No, I'll be a good girl" She chuckled at your eagerness before her hands found their way to her own jeans. Opening your belt before tugging off first the pants and then her boxers. She revealed her half hardened dick standing proud against her stomach. You looked at her with big eyes your mouth salivating at the sight, instinctively you sat up reaching out to her. 

"Good girl" She mumbled petting through your hair "Get it nice and wet baby" You looked up at her through your lashes before licking over her reddened tip. You licked up the sides of her length she moaned at the sensation "My perfect little cock sucker" She patted on your head before forcing you to deep throat the older woman. It brought tears to your eyes and forced gags from your throat which were like music in her ears.

“Just like that baby” She groaned and felt her release coming closer and closer. “Fuck baby swallow it” She groaned and with a few more vigorous truths she emptied herself out into your hot mouth. She pulled out some cum leaking from the corners of your mouth, she smiled and smeared the access cum over your lips while you swallowed her gift.

“On your back” she commanded pushing you to lay flat your legs still spread. Finally she hooked two fingers into your panties pulling them down your legs. “So wet already and all this for me?” You nod whimpering when her cold fingertips made contact with your clit. She rubbed tight circles around your bundle of nerves making you see stars already.

She alined herself with you pushing her bulbous tip past your tight hole. She stilled inside of you before snapping her hips at a rapid pace. She pushed your legs to your chest, she just loved how flexible you were. She released a long string of curse words while she pounded inside of you as if her life depended on it.

“Want my gift?” She groaned and you mewled out some words of approval. “Fuck you dirty little cum dumb” She slapped your tits while she was fucking into her enjoying how they bounced with every single of her powerful truths. You were close clenching around her and so was she- enjoying each of your squeezes.

“Gonna breed this little pussy” with another groan and a few more truths she brought you two over the edge enjoying how her cum dripped from your abused whole when she finally pulled out. She fingered her cum back into you, you were just her perfect little breeding bitch.

:)

[kupakaa]

✧ Vi + Switch + Trying to overstimulate = fun !

So first things first: I am not good with overstim. Like at all. I will become a scrabbly wet cat and you will get scratched and I will slip out of your arms !

Imagining a short drabble thingy with Vi and the reader (which is totally not a thinly-veiled self-insert) where she's fingering you, her palm rubbing against your clit. Her fingers curl juuust right inside you to hit your sweet spot. Your heart pounds harder until you can't hold on any longer and you clench around her, clit throbbing against her palm. When your initial spike of pleasure begins to subside you expect her to lay off and stop pumping her fingers. But alas, she keeps going. And the sensation becomes less pleasurable and more overwhelming, inching towards aggravating.

“Ffff… Wait, wait, wait,” you groan, trying to catch your breath. 

“Relax,” she says. She rubs your thigh with her other arm. “Just one more, yeah?”

A tightness grows in your stomach. Your clit, uncomfortably sensitive, is still dragging against her calloused hand. It feels like a match against strike paper, rubbing again and again in hopes of starting a fire. But you can’t; you physically cannot. Not yet, not until she at least lets the hot bundle cool.

You can see the mischief in her eyes. Your toes curl. You try to close your thighs, but her hand forces them open. Stubborn. Always so damn stubborn, she was. A need to wipe that cheeky smirk off her face runs through your veins, almost overpowering the pleasure of your orgasm.

When she’s distracted by the sight of your glistening pussy, you rush forward. She gasps, finally pulling her hand back and out of you. You wince at the sudden movement but you try not to let it distract you. You grab the wrist of her offending hand and hold it tight, threatening it with your nails. One of your knees presses her thigh against the bed while the other presses against her crotch. You can feel a quick throb beneath the fabric of her trousers. Her other arm is free, but you let her know with a stare that you won’t hesitate to try and stop it if she tries anything funny.

“I say wait, you wait, got it?” you say between your panting. You can feel your slick and cum flowing down your thigh. While you weren’t yet ready for a second round, you couldn’t deny how arousing it was to have her beneath you. The mighty pink-haired brawler, staring up at you with flushed cheeks and a small tinge of embarrassment. 

Sure, she could flip the tables with a little effort. But that silent glee behind your eyes… Who is she to take that away from you?

She swallows, then nods. “Uh, mhm.”

[ragnarockz]

Getting in on this, 40 "don't you fucking dare stop" bottom!agatha/agnes, 41 "desperate little thing aren't you baby" bottom!rio, + humping your choice of object.

😉🥴

Oh my god, this is a twofer

"Don't you fucking dare stop, Vidal,"

Agnes screamed down into her pillow, her words muffled by the fabric. She could hear Vidal laughing, breathy and hard as she rolled her hips with no rhyme or reason. She rolled into Agnes; her hands placed down firm on Agnes' back to hold her down. It was such a turn on to see the detective at her mercy; pounding her with abandon as the only thing Agnes could do was whine and beg.

Agnes' right hand was clutching the sheets beside her, trying to hold herself down while her left was trapped under her body. Covered in sweat and her own cum; she held that portion of the sheets up between her legs. Did Vidal know? Could she see? The bunched up bed sheets pressed up into her clit. Every time Vidal moved her hips forward, it caused Agnes' body to move forward; grinding down onto the little balled up piece of fabric. Her clit throbbing; sensitive. It was almost unbearable. Her face was scrunched; eyes screwed shut as she rode out Vidal's cock and the tight friction taught between her legs.

She could feel her muscles contract against the silicone and the jolting feeling in her lower abdomen, the burst of a bundle of nerves firing off. She came quickly onto the toy; another strangled scream leaving her mouth. She felt dizzy, used up, exhausted. Vidal had stopped moving entirely but Agnes, still with that searing shot of nerves, continued to grind her hips down against the sheet bundle.

Vidal watched, eyes wide, taking in Agnes' need. It was sexier seeing her like this than it was watching her filled up with the green strap Vidal wore. She watched each roll of the detectives hips, pounding down and then swooping back up in fluid, precise movements.

"Fuck, Baby...how many times have you done this before?"

Vidal whispered, incredulous to Agnes routine. She was a pro, could do it, and probably had, in her sleep. Vidal felt herself blush at the realization. This wasn't a new thing for Agnes; this was something buried deep that found the light once again and now here she was, comfortable enough to get herself off in front of Vidal. Humping at the little bundle of sheets like her life depended on it; giving Vidal another show.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Desperate little thing, aren't you, Babe,"

Agnes grunted into Vidal's neck as she lifted Vidal up again, hands on her hips. She slammed her down into her lap, into her cock and Vidal choked out a sob. Agnes had Vidal on her lap while she sat on the kitchen chair, halfway eating dinner. Vidal couldn't help herself, kept making eyes at Agnes and eating her food like she was attempting to eat something else. There was no reason for her to use her tongue like that against her food, Agnes thought. The detective pushed her chair back in haste and demanded that Vidal get on top of her that instant.

"You wanna act like a desperate whore, then show me how much you are."

And now Vidal was sitting on top of Agnes, her back to her and unable to see Agnes' face, her expression. All she knew was that the detective had taken her shirt off and gave it to Vidal to hold.

"And you're not allowed to look back at me, you keep your eyes fucking forward when I fuck you, understand?"

Vidal wasn't used to this side of Agnes. Something had snapped inside of her during dinner, something brewing. Maybe it was because of the shitty week they had at work where everything that was so out of Agnes' control was out of her control. Everything she thought she had a good grasp on failed right in front of her. Vidal knew she beat herself up a lot over these things, things she didn't have a say or a hand in. But this? How she acted at home, her sexual desires and fantasies? That, she most definitely had a say in.

Vidal tried her best to focus on the sensation of being constantly emptied and filled. Agnes was ruthless tonight, not staying even an inch inside of her. She could feel the dull ache every time Agnes pulled out, hoping the time in between wasn't long. It was merely seconds but to Vidal, it felt like eternity until the toy filled her up again.

Clutching Agnes' shirt, she held it in both of her hands, using it to harness some sort of control, some sort of grounding. It was held low in front of her. The edges of the fabric brushed against her stomach, her thigh and then with a sudden movement from Agnes, it accidentally brushed against her clit.

Her brain was going haywire; the sensation of the thick shirt fabric felt good, felt like a fucking relief to the relentless fucking Agnes was giving her. And it smelled like her, was still warm from her body heat. It was making the agents head spin. She kept the shirt where it was so Agnes wouldn't figure it out, moving it just a little closer to her. The fabric brushed against her clit, causing a wave of pleasure, sending a shiver through her which caused her shoulders to shake. Her head hung to one side, so engrossed by the double sensation she was receiving. She'd have to let Agnes in on her little secret after the fact, she thought, because knowing that if Agnes knew right now, she wouldn't hold anything back.

[faerunsbest]

Pinned

in which Zevlor is placed in a rather compromising position with Tav(she/her)

Zevlor finds himself in a rather unfortunate or at least uncomfortable situation. A bit of equipment holding in the groves storage facilities have snapped. With nowhere to run, Tav and the old paladin find themselves pressed into a corner. Various sacks of supplies have fallen and press rather firmly against his back. The bones of the storage structure have fallen and locked it all in place on top of them, noise and shouting could be heard behind them as people tried to lift it. 

Zevlor tried to control his breathing carefully, not wanting to be puffing in Tavs face. He looked as away as he was able, even his horns were trapped in place, limiting which way he could turn his head. 

“Apologies…”

He muttered unsure what to say, Tav however grinned at him with his arms over her shoulders, hands pressed to the wall as he tried not to let himself be right on top of her.

“ For what? I'm having fun”

He raised an eyebrow at her, unsure of what she meant.

“...might I ask how?”

She reached up to pull the end of his left horn out from its pace embedded in the side of a burlap sack. He huffed with relief as he could now move his neck. 

“How else would I ever get so close to you?”

He blinked looking down at her, now with her chin against his breastplate. Veiled eyes that hid none of her interest looked up at him. 

“Why… why would you want to be so close…to me?”

Something tightly banded beside her leg snapped,  the quick loosed strip of leather whipping her calf. Zevlors ear twitched at the unexpected moan. For a moment even she looked embarrassed. The bundle was arrows, now jabbing up against her. She worked her jaw, placed her hands on his shoulders and pulled herself up. Zevlor grunted, hearing the clatter of the arrows falling to the empty space where her little slippers had been.

“Because I think you're pretty”

 She gripped him by his shoulders, setting her thighs against  his hips and suddenly he had enough room to shift his footing. While he was in his normal armor, she was in attire more casual. Much thinner. He swallowed loudly as they wound up pressed further against the wall.

Her thighs gripped his hips tight so she could free her hands to reach up and keep anything else from getting tangled in his horns.

As she did, she made a point of gliding her palms down all the way to the base of his horns, caressing the sensitive skin there. She watched him close his eyes at the feeling. Breath hitching as he tried to behave himself

“ This isn't appropriate”

“Why?”

Zevlor pushed a knee forward, against the wall. He felt her weight settle on him, for a moment they just listened to the others struggling to get them free. He stayed quiet since he really didn't have a reason…not a good one anyway. She felt a small weight in her stomach form as she watched him keep from looking at her.

“Zevlor?”

“ Hmm?”

“Do you mind this?”

Again he looked around at the mess, then down to her quizzically. For a moment he wanted to pretend he didn't understand, then her fingers went to his hair. Gently gliding through, he shivered. Her hungry gaze from before, now replaced by something gentler though just as sincere.

“I dont… I don't mind”

“Would you like me to leave you alone after this?”

He paused to think, unsure of what an appropriate response would be. Hard to think when he could smell the soap on her skin, something herbal only slightly floral. Hard to think with her soft fingertips brushing through his hair.

“No.”

He relaxed his arms to let himself press against her more fully. As he did something behind them popped and whatever had been holding the structure in place fell loose. Suddenly everything came tumbling down. On reflex, he curled his body around her, her arms reaching up to guard his horns from damage in the unexpected avalanche of items.

With a huff the pair dug their way up from the mess, surprised to see Dammon standing there holding a hammer.

“ I told you!”

He said to Danis, who seemed to have lost all color in his face. Without warning, Tav started laughing. She held onto Zevlors arm as she doubled over cracking up.

“still having fun?”

[more-better-words]

Kiss prompts!

🧨 kisses to keep your lover quiet during sex OR

pulling your lover in by their collar/tie

<.<

>.>

Ahem. 🧨🧨🧨

"Are you certain you do not require assistance?" T'Pol asked, head tilted as she watched Trip sort through bundles of conduit in the small maintenance closet.

"I am perfectly capable of doin' my job without supervision, thank you very much," he snorted, then shot her a knowing look, eyebrows waggling suggestively. "Besides, it's a tight squeeze in here. We'd have to get awful friendly."

"I did not offer supervision," she said. "I offered assistance." She returned the lascivious gaze steadily. "And I am not afraid to be friendly."

He smiled, the cheekiness shifting into warmth. "I won't say no to the help," he said. "Get this over with faster."

She stepped towards him, the door sliding shut behind her. It was a confined space, particularly with both of them in it; his lips moved in a little smile, and he handed her one end of the conduit. "Hold this," he said. Their hands brushed as she took it.

It was pleasantly warm in the little closet, the dry, sharp odor of electricity blending with the rich organic scent of Trip himself in a surprisingly satisfactory manner. And it was pleasant to be working together - as he liked to say, they made a hell of a team, and that was rewarding.

As was watching the way his mouth moved while he worked, and the sure, steady, confident motion of his hands. His hands really were a pleasure to observe...

"There we go!" Trip announced cheerfully. "All buttoned up." He gave her another little half-smile. "Thanks for the help."

"You are very welcome."

The focus of his eyes seemed to shift, ever so slightly. If she wasn't mistaken, he was looking at her lips. "How welcome am I?" he asked, very softly.

"Extremely," she replied, just as soft and did the only logical thing, which was to kiss him.

It wasn't enough.

One step, and she had him pressed to the bulkhead, his mouth curving against hers as the kiss grew harder and more urgent. In a pause for breath, he whispered raggedly, "Well, hi there."

"Hello." Her right hand was unzipping his uniform; she couldn't say why precisely, but it seemed like an excellent idea. And he offered no objection, his hands sliding down her sides to pull her against him. It was absurd, she thought, even as her lips sought out the soft, sensitive spot below his ear - they were on duty, and this was extremely unprofessional.

Actually, posited another part of her mind, if his proximity had led to this state of arousal, where was the logic in self-denial? This argument seemed to be more than good enough for her right hand, which dived low into his uniform. He groaned at the contact. "Oh, baby..."

They might be concealed from sight with the door closed, but this closet was not soundproof. Only one course of action, then. She kissed him again, deeper, her tongue silencing his, her hand busying itself, which prompted his reciprocation.

This had been, she judged, a profoundly logical course of action.

Fifteen minutes later, they exited the maintenance closet, straightening their uniforms and glancing both ways before setting off in opposite directions.

[jegulussyy]

A poem from Regulus, 1975

I say, “Mother, mother!

Do you love? Do you love, at all?”

My mother sits on the couch, silence shrouding her like a cloak,

dipped in blood, as black as coal.

Her hands trail down the seam of her dress robes,

If she sees a wayward string, she tucks at it hard enough to

Unravel it all.

Unravel it all. Stitch them back together with a wave of your wand. Unravel it all, the rips and cracks can be sutured with a word uttered, fond.

“Conned. You have been conned.

I have ripped and stitched, ripped and sutured, again and again, for nothing at all.”

I say, mother, mother! Do you love?

Do you love, at all?

My mother sits on the couch. Her ghastly countenance, unravels me at the seams. Her ghostly fingers, skim the pages of my lifeless form’s achingly ugly bumps and ridges.

She beams, and I ask myself,

Is this all she seeks?

I think she loved. She loved, before.

I think she must have loved, loved some things, if not us. She must have loved the frilly dress in her wardrobe once, the color black but still not fitting, of us. She must have loved it once, got in it and twirled around the house.

She must have loved the house, once. Grim and old, with creaky floorboards, Dark hallways and cold walls. She must Have loved it once, ran her fingers on the Cashmere curtains, sat on the windowsill Of the drawing room, admired the view With a fleeting glance.

She must have loved to dance, once. Held her kids by their chubby hands, spun them on her lap, holding them close to her heart. She must have loved it once, dressing them up in fancy black robes, the collar too tight on their throat, teaching them how to step the right way, the right amount, keeping counts.

And perhaps, I should think, even as the thought seems too daring, She must have loved us too, once. She must have tucked us into a bundle, pressed a ghostly kiss to our temple. She must have whispered our names so near, gazed up high and sought us clear. She must have trailed her hands on our pale, soft skin, slicked the few strands back with care, her shoulders a home to our chin. She must have loved us, once, before it unraveled, unraveled it all. Before she ripped, instead of weaving. Before she ripped and sutured, ripped and stitched. She must have loved us, once, when her hands, perpetually cold, still warmed us inside.

And so I say, Mother, Mother!

“Do you love? Do you love at all?”

And my mother, from where she sits on the couch, begins.

She says, “My dear boy, oh how imaginative your mind is! You make me merry with feelings! Of course, I love, I love you all. I love your countenance, so similar to mine—

What is it, my dear boy?

Does it not sound right?

Very well, my child,

let us dispense with illusions,

as much as you let me recite.

I love your strained smiles,

and though I rarely hear them,

I love your laughter,

coerced out of you with one look of mine!

I love the way you stand, poised and polished in front of our guests.

I love how you obey me,

and do every little thing I say.

I love how you never seem to say no,

I love how you let your personality forgo!

I love how it’s my footsteps you follow!

There is more, my dear child.

I love many things,

many,

many things.

Say, my boy,

why are you so quiet?

Why must you look at me, from your spot on the couch,

with eyes the grey of murky waters?

Don’t you want to hear,

what you have been wondering?

Do I love, Do I love at all?

Of course, I love!

I love how sensitive you are,

I love it so much I can make you cry!

I love how fragile you are,

I love it so much I can leave a scar!

I love how kind you are, I love it so much I can make you char!

Why do you think I named you after a star? Do you think it is because it’s our family’s core? You can’t fathom

the real reason

Why I would name you after a rock in the sky!

We are a family forged in the heavens,

we float in space with our grandeur,

and we are of nothing but pure!

Toujours Pur!

Toujours Pur!

Always pure!

Always pure!

Nothing like your brother,

always so small,

oh but you love to ask, Mother, mother!

Do you love, do you love at all?

And here you sit—“

And here I sit, on the couch,

opposite to my mother.

Her lips a thin line, her eyes

filled with darkness hard to define.

Silence rings out, reaches my ears

like the deafening sound of a chime.

But my thoughts are louder,

taking shape in my mind’s deepest corner.

I should think,

If my mother was to ever hear,

she would only leer.

But if she were to ever answer,

if she were to ever hear me and

be as honest as she can be,

She would say, “I have loved. I have loved you all. I have loved all the time,

anything and everything galore!

and I wondered

Was it better

to never have loved at all?”

[sugudollz]

Fem! Gojo eating you out ❤️ not proofread (it’s 3 AM I’m going crazy)

Imagine fem!Satoru eating you out… her tongue on your pussy, sliding up and keeping her eyes on you the whole time. The way your expressions constantly contort into one of overwhelming pleasure, it made her wet. A smile plays at her lips as she reaches your clit, then she sucks and sucks until she draws moan after moan after moan from you. “Hey, hey, look at me, baby,” she says, snapping her fingers in your face to get your attention. Through glassy eyes, you look down at her—her chin is painted in your juices, but she isn’t even near done, no, and it’s obvious with the way she slowly drags her tongue up your leaking cunt, her eyes glued to yours the whole while. You whimper, eyebrows knitted together and your cheeks flushed. “You’re doing so good f’me, hm?” It’s a low murmur when she says this, her voice deep and seducing, and it makes you whine. She sinks her sharp teeth into her lower lip before diving right in between your spread out legs again, slurping and sucking and it’s loud, and that’s the way she wants it; messy and nasty. Her moans are muffled in the heat of your pussy, only adding to the stimulation. She plants kisses up until once again she’s at your pussy, where she sucks again, before reaching her hand up for the bundle of nerves. There, she rubs and rubs and your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Yeahhh… be my sweet baby ‘n cum for me, yeah?” She leans up to whisper in your ear as her two fingers slip into your tight little her, your warmth embracing her digits and clenching around them as she slowly starts to slide them in and out. “You can do it, I know you can, baby doll,” and it’s the way she adds a third finger and then the way she whispers it in your ear and the way her heated breath hits your skin and the way her words are so filthy. You’re coming undone with just a few thrusts of her skilled wrists, reaching up for her hair and tangling your hands in them, shoving her head in the crook of your neck as you whine and whine. Whimper after whimper is drawn out of your lips, your toes curling and drool slipping past your parted lips. She’s pressing wet, sloppy kisses along the slope of your neck, and her fingers keep fucking your little pussy even as you’re gushing all over them. “That’s it… yeah, I knew you were good girl, huh? So sweet for me… you’re doing so well, hm?” She whispers against your skin, right before pulling her fingers out. You’re panting heavily, your forearm rested on your forehead as sweat trickles down it. “Hey, look at me.” She taps on your cheek, and you do as you’re told—looking up at her after she removed her head from your neck and is now standing above you. You’re confused, until she teasingly places her two long, pretty fingers that were coated in your juices on her tongue, a sly smile embracing her features when she sees your eyes grow slightly wider. She slides her wet fingers down the wet muscle, until they reach the top of it when she wraps her wet lips around them and sucks, her eyes locked on yours in the process. “Stop it… ‘s embarrassing…” you whimper and cover your eyes with your two hands. Of course, fem Satoru isn’t having that. “Hey, hey, don’t do that… look at me, alright?” She grabs your wrists and throws them back to your side. “Lemme see that beautiful face all times of the day, yeah? Especially when I’m eating this five star pussy, ‘Kay?”

[arcadiaa-writes]

He pulled her into his lap, her dress riding up slightly, he was pawing at her, desperately needing her. His hand found her hair, pulling her mouth to his, she barely had time to think as his tongue danced with hers, his other hand gripping her butt, pushing her down into his grinding hips. She was moaning into his mouth, her resolve slipping, pulling him closer, kissing him harder.

He pulled her back, panting in tandem with her, their need for each other more than evident.

“So needy,” he growls at her, rolling her hips slowly over him, watching her eyes flutter.

“You started it,” she quipped back,

He tightened his grip on her hair, causing her to yelp desperately,

“And I’ll fucking finish it,” with his free hand, he tugged playfully at one of her clothed nipples, making sure to flick the metal bar through it to make her squirm more.

He pulled her body closer to him, kissing at her exposed skin, nibbling her neck, dragging needy noises from her, her heat evident in his lap. Her hands found his hair, keeping him close to her as he explored her body.

he was ravenous, kissing, licking, biting at her, until he found her mouth again, asserting his dominance over her.

Whilst she was melting into his lap, matching his energy, he took the opportunity to take advantage, running his free hand down her back, and underneath her, pressing his fingertips against the fabric that separated him from where she wanted him.

She jolted at his touch, gasping desperately against his mouth, causing him to smirk playfully.

“There?” He pressed again, and she whined,

“Not enough,” she sighed,

He pressed a lil harder, rubbing the little wet patch slightly, knowing exactly that’s not what she meant.

she shook her head at him as her hand slid down to meet his, and in a slow, slightly shaken movement, she grabbed his fingers, and pulled the fabric of her underwear to the side; sliding his fingers back to where she needed him.

He couldn’t help but growl at the feeling of slipping between her dripping wet folds, as he rubbed that bundle of nerves so carefully.

“You brave girl,” he beamed at her, kissing her softly, she was whimpering in his lap, eyes rolling back, and he lovingly tucked her head into the crook of his neck, kissing her temple, running his fingers up and drop her back,

“That’s it, stop thinking,” he encouraged her as he felt her drift, her hips rocking against him; her neediness pooling into his palm. Her moans were filling the room, and he was drunk off the sounds, off the feeling of her against him.

“I need you,” she purred in his ear; squirming against his touch,

“Oh sweetie, I’m right… here,” he took the opportunity to dive his fingers inside her, stretching her tight heat, with a smirk that could kill.

She tried to find words, but she was useless as he pumped his thick fingers in and out of her, mess dripping out of her, into his lap. He could feel her insides fluttering, gripping his fingers, she was getting close.

“Oh, is my sweet girl gonna cum?” He taunted her, and all she could do was mew in response.

He wrapped his arm around her, holding her tight against his chest, his fingers moving faster, and he felt her body go completely tense, as her orgasm built around him.

Capturing her mouth in a kiss, he hooked his fingers inside her; and dragged her orgasm from her… she was practically screaming into his mouth as her whole body vibrated against him, as his hand and lap was flooded with her release.

“Such a good girl,” he smirked, kissing her forehead softly, she hummed appreciatively at him, as she fell against his chest, nuzzling softly, spent.

“Oh, I’m not done with you yet,” he stated, matter of factly….

[willlville]

I'll keep this brief.

Had no breakfast, woke up late. I made the bed and took a shower.

I cannot remember what I did before I went to the Cafe.

I wore my yellow Secret Room Press hat. I love that hat.

The wind was blowing hard and the waves crashing on the shore.

While I was there I had a breakfast sandwich and coffee. There was a pair of young parents sitting close to me and their baby was observing me very closely I smiled and continued to eat my sandwich. His Mom looked at me and smiled and she "He is very observant, I hope you don't mind." I told her I didn't at all. I waved and said "Hey buddy how are you doing?" his Mom told me his name is "Forest" and I said "Hello Forest."

I told them that I am an uncle to a 2 year old and a 4 month old. I said that it is a lot of fun. I mimed a fun gesture. The Dad said "Oh yeah, I was the fun uncle for awhile it's awesome." "Then we got older and thought, hm maybe we should be parents." The baby let out a long grunt that was an exclamation. I thought it was funny that the baby knew how to talk in his own way. I could understand him a little bit. They had daughter that was three with them as well.

I thought that I couldn't wait to see my nephews. It's going to be fun since one of the can communicate a lot more since I last saw him. I hope I get to be a parent one day.

They left and we said goodbye and nice to meet you. I hope I see them again.

Bill and Laurie came into the cafe and I said hello and we talked and caught up for awhile. I told them about Korea. Laurie is the first person who understood the kinds of observations that I made about being there. That made me feel heard. I made her laugh with a joke about my boss from the trip. Bill has aged a lot since I saw him last. He was bundled up and had a hot chocolate and bread pudding. He is a champ for braving the weather here and never complaining after being a lifelong Californian.

They told me about their trip to California where we had all lived at one point and said that it has changed a lot. Way more people - bustling and too many cars for the roads.

When I left the wind had gone weak and the waves disappeared.

I came home and was high on Coffee. My neck and back was hurting from the caffeine tension. It felt as though the muscles were tightening down pulling the back of my head onto my shoulders. The way I tighten down hard and slow on turn buckles with rebar. I felt like wire, tight and painful but strong.

I took ibuprofen to keep from getting a headache. I am not moving around enough. That was the great part about the ship, I am always moving and on my feet all day. I feel loose and strong.

I looked out the window breathed deep watching the rain and the trees bend in the arriving gale.

I took out all of my clothes from the bins, boxes, and random drawers just to see what I have. I find it hard to know what I actually own since I have no place to put it other than the plastic containers I use to move. There is a rod in the closet now.

With it all laid out, I saw that I don't have much. This made me a little sad knowing that so much of my stuff has gone from all the moving I've done. Most of the clothes I thought to myself I don't every want to wear. What would that leave me with? Not much. I like the funny and odd clothes I have. Although I don't wear them, I probably won't get rid of them.

My thesis in school was vaguely about this. That seems so long ago now - Have I learned anything regarding the life energy and memory that imbues itself into the objects you own? Yes and No.

I went to a yoga class and I was the youngest person there. The instructor was nice and when I came in she asked me:

"What's your good name."

I told her "William" I told her "I am a beginner" and she said "This is the best class, about all we do is roll around on the ground." I chuckled.

The class was good, but it hurt. The class was packed and the attendants were all older people. One person kept audibly farting and I found it hard not to laugh. Namaste.

OOOOOoooommmmm.

I came back home and cooked stir fry with my Mom. I am trying to cook with her as much as I can while I am here because her cooking is good. I like her cooking because it defined some of my taste and preferences. I want to emulate it on my own. I am taking this chance to learn from her since I didn't when I was younger. She is a good home cook.

I put tuna salad on toast as a snack and ate chocolate as well. Very interesting style of chocolate. Sweetened with dates, it was almost more of a fudge while giving a cooling sensation in the mouth. Interesting.

I cooked rice and watched her do the rest. So much style in one's cooking is in their preparation to cook. The shapes that one cuts things into.

I ate it very fast then did all the dishes.

Later I scanned all the drawings I did while on the ship. None of them really make me happy, they just make me feel weird or perverted. I set out to get better at drawing faces and figures. I started drawing both men and women, but I stopped drawing men because I was tired of looking at men since I worked with men all day. later, I threw all the drawings of men away except for one and kept all the drawings of women.

I drank a glass of milk.

and Now... I am typing this.

[shamelessliarkickapow]

Arrvatarr! The Last Arrbender!

a Zutara pirates AU WIP rated M (fer Me hearties)

Chapter 1, part 2/3

(Go back and read the summary and part 1 here)

The waterbender wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Zuko had seen some waterbenders at the North Pole - distant figures who moved in sync and were all about the same vaguely mannish shape bundled up in their furry parkas.

The waterbender before him now was very obviously a woman, and also very obviously beautiful.

Her hair was tied back on top in a feminine style and decorated with a few blue beads, but the rest of it hung wild and wind-teased, a thicket Zuko sensed he could easily become lost in. Also dangerously enticing was the curvaceous grace of her body as she drew her water back into a ready position. Her features were rounded, sweet, pretty, with large eyes dark as the sea by night and soft-looking lips that tugged upward in a wicked smirk.

If it weren’t for that smirk, Zuko might have forgotten she was also a pirate and attacking his ship.

It was no more than a few heartbeats and a flick of his eyes, scanning an opponent before fixing on her smirking face. Yet even that much lit a stubborn ember in his gut and slowed his mind.

“All we want are your supplies and valuables,” she said, exposing teeth bright and deadly as her ice. “Surrender and we’ll have mercy and let you and your crew keep your miserable lives. Fight-” Those lips stayed ever so slightly parted, still faintly smirking as she paused on the word - and that had Zuko’s heart pounding all the harder. “-and I promise you, I’ll win.”

“We’ll see who comes out on top, thief,” he spat, and then bore down on her with a fresh burst of energy.

For a desperate few seconds, he expected the other pirates to move in on him as well, but they stood back near the gunwale where the swordsman had tumbled, ready and attentive, but clearly just there for the show now that the waterbender had arrived.

And it was a show. She handily quenched and diverted his every strike, swinging her defenses effortlessly into tripping streams and blasts that knocked him back with their force even when he managed to block. Zuko had never fought a waterbender before, and he was clearly at a disadvantage in this fight in no small part because this particular waterbender obviously knew just how to break a firebender’s root. He also didn’t have enough power to fully match her - not at night - but Zuko fought on, fought harder.

He was head-and-shoulders bigger than her, so he knew he had physical strength she didn’t. That was the way to win. He closed the distance between them until they were fighting from just arm’s length away. Any second, she would falter and give him an opening and he would use sheer muscle and speed to subdue her.

Then, the waterbender would be his hostage. Anticipation and smug satisfaction prickled down his spine at the thought. He would grip her with her back pressed to his chest, he decided, with one arm perhaps just beneath her breasts so that he might accidentally feel their weight if she chose to struggle-

Although that was perhaps not… entirely honorable…

…but she was a pirate and was here to rob and possibly kill him!

…not that her attempted crimes would justify being… enjoyed by a man against her will…

The fantasy shriveled back to something more utilitarian.

Her waist then. He would loop his arm around that trim waist and hold her tight to his chest and he would probably like it, but not too much.

And to still her, he would cradle a flame just near enough to her cheek to warm her smooth skin; he would force the other pirates to free his men and get off his ship. Only once they had sailed clear would he release her. She was a waterbender, after all, and wouldn’t have any trouble getting back to her own ship.

So it would be alright to hold this fierce, fine woman against his chest for… just a little longer than entirely necessary.

It was perhaps because Zuko was running all this through the back of his mind that he missed his chance. He made a grab for the lapel of her short jacket, but it slipped teasingly through his fingers. The very tip of his middle finger brushed her tunic, felt the soft warmth underneath. He caught the briefest glimpse of her smirking at him again.

Then she dragged up all the water she had been gathering on the deck as she fought him and raised him up in a blast of ice, pinning him hard against the wall of the observation tower.

“Oouh!” he grunted at the impact. For an instant, all he saw was stars. Then they cleared and all he saw was her, grinning coolly up at him, perching her dainty hands on her hips.

“Looks like I’m on top, firebender. Order a surrender. Unless,” she pouted mockingly, “you’re not actually in command of this ship.”

“Rrh!” He bared his teeth at her and began breathing as deep as he could against the restraining ice, working up his heat to try and blast free. “A prince of the Fire Nation never surrenders! Especially not to jumped-up peasants and filthy brigands!”

Her eyes sparkled in sudden delight. The metalbender snickered a little nastily.

“A prince? Oh, we are gonna ransom you so hard…”

The swordsman rubbed his hands together. “Ooh hoo hoo! Jackpot! I knew all that long pretty hair had to be some kind of status symbol.”

“What long pretty hair? He’s got long pretty hair?”

“Yup. Like some kind of inky waterfall of manliness.” He raised one suspicious - jealous? - eyebrow. “He must condition it a lot. It’s almost too glossy.”

“He’s also got a big scar,” the warrior added more quietly, “on his face.”

The metalbender paused and, as if unable to hold it back, uttered a begrudging little, “That’s pretty rad.”

Zuko hardly heard any of this commentary about his appearance because he was absorbing the implication, noticing the way she never turned her head to look at things so much as to listen. “You’re blind? What kind of sideshow is this?”

“The butt-kicking kind,” she grinned toothily at him, but Zuko kept going.

“A blind earthbender, a girl with fans, a swordsman who doesn’t know how to use the sharp side of the sword, and-”

“Hey! That was a non-lethal maneuver and you’re welcome.”

But Zuko’s glare had fallen on the fourth pirate standing among them… though the term ‘pirate’ seemed especially laughable for him. Certainly, he was dressed up in the same assortment of worn and patched textiles and mixed armor parts, but he didn’t fit in at all. For one thing, he was a child, and he was dramatically smaller than the rest of them. For another, he was smiling cheerfully back at Zuko with absolutely no menace - as if this was all just a grand game.

“-what even are you?” Zuko demanded with a curled lip.

“I’m the rarest bender of all,” the kid declared at once-

Zuko didn’t really notice how all the pirates tensed. He was too focused on the kid, who raised a fist in the air before him and struck an overly piratey pose.

“-an arr-bender!”

Zuko stared back with a distasteful twist of his lips. “A clown. Perfect.”

“Don’t talk to our swab,” the waterbender commanded.

Zuko’s focus returned to her in a snap. She was watching him with - he realized suddenly - a fiercely hungry yet disgusted look. As if he’d become both deplorable and delectable in equal measure. As if she could already taste the sordid profit of his ransom.

Or as if she perhaps had some other sordid use for him in mind…

Zuko’s heart was suddenly in his throat and his good ear grew hot. That… couldn’t be right. It had to be the promise of money. That was it.

“Your royal highness is at our mercy,” she went on, smug and confident. “And unless you want to watch your ship sink with your crew still trapped aboard, you’ll be ordering that surrender now.”

Zuko glowered, breathed deeper, and felt the ice starting to yield to his heat. “I have a better idea. You make your little friend fix the damage she’s done to my vessel and then take your troupe of fools back to whatever backwater spat you out, and I won’t be forced to apprehend you and deliver you to port authorities to face justice for your crimes.”

The pirates shared a stupid little chuckle at that.

“You actually think you could apprehend me? Maybe you missed it, but my victory was pretty decisive just now.”

She folded her arms over her chest and, even through the layers of her jacket and tunic, he could see how her breasts pressed delectably together. Sumptuous. It was all Zuko could do to keep meeting her eye.

“Then again,” she went on snidely, “I guess it was over kind of quickly, wasn’t it? Maybe you really did miss it. So much for that famous firebender stamina, huh?”

Zuko snarled at her, having lost his focus on the ice entirely. “Laugh while you can, harpy. You beat me under the moon. When the sun rises, you’ll find me a harder opponent by far.”

The metalbender snickered, but Zuko didn’t really hear her over the waterbender.

“If you’re really that desperate for a rematch, I’ll take the time to put you on your ass a second time-” She gave him that mocking pout again and he realized how it plumped her little lips even more. The look of it from above was positively indecent. “-but the sun won’t rise for a few hours! And by then you’ll be shackled in my brig, helpless as a baby moose-lion with a hurt paw…”

And she reached up with one hand to stroke a callused finger down the underside of his jaw. Zuko froze, his good ear swiftly going hot enough to sting. The touch terminated in a firm pinch of his chin as she held him just where she wanted him, face down-turned to stare straight into those large eyes that flashed in the moonlight.

“But aren’t you a determined little thing,” she taunted in a low, amused voice.

Internally, Zuko sputtered and crackled, so excited and confused and offended he wasn’t sure how best to lash out. Her touch inflamed him. Her condescension incensed him and teased him with the prospect of escape, of resuming their fight and teaching her just how determined he really was-

-and just how little he really wasn’t.

Outwardly, he scowled and jerked his face up out of her grasp so he could look down his nose at her properly. “Unhand me! How dare you lay your dirty hands on a royal scion, pirate scum!”

“I’ll lay my hands wherever I please,” she smirked - though said hand returned to her hip at present, “especially on things that belong to me. Which, until I get my price from the Fire Lord, includes you.”

Her claim was a scorching tether, reeling him in-

-but Zuko was struck with the chilling knowledge that it was pretty unlikely his father would raise a finger or drop a copper to see him out of this situation.

Not that he needed help!

(The aching, screaming wound throbbed in his chest.)

He would escape on his own!

The ice around him finally melted down enough to fully free his lungs and Zuko blasted the rest of it away with a roar. He had about half a second to savor the waterbender’s startled eyes, her pretty parted lips as he began to drop toward her.

Then steel curled around him like tentacles and slung him right back against the wall.

“Uff!”

“She said maybe later, you cinder-spitting strumpet!” The metalbender was grinning, all too delighted.

Zuko snarled and struggled almost mindlessly in his thwarted rage, but unlike the ice, the steel didn’t give at all. He breathed a plume of fire, driving the waterbender back regardless. She watched him not with fear but with bright, excited eyes. An annoying, insulting challenge that demanded Zuko answer fiercely, fight her, impress upon her the very-seriousness of the threat he posed-

“Incoming, seven,” the metalbender suddenly said. “Looks like they’re the last.”

“Are you sure, Toph?” the warrior asked, frowning thoughtfully.

The swordsman seemed to immediately pick up on what troubled her. “Yeah. That’s an awfully small crew, even for a little ship like this-”

Zuko raged harder against his restraints but the pirates were no longer paying attention to him. They could not have guessed the insult of it, the way his crew had been cut back over the years.

“Hey, I just know what the metal says. And the metal says seven and no more.”

They spread out on the deck, the waterbender shepherding the kid-swab back behind her before pulling up another stream. Zuko watched her with seething resentment - most especially her comforting smile for the kid and the way that jacket splayed open over her tunic-covered breasts when she sank into her ready stance.

She was so… feminine. The other girls were still clearly girls - women, whatever - but the waterbender was soft in a way they were not. Not just her body-

(but also, yes, especially that body)

-but her mannerisms, her grace. She could have easily been any of the thousand village girls Zuko had seen in passing - looking after the children, glancing at the young men and imagining which of them she might like to take for a husband…

…and yet she was also this fierce bender, this force that sought to dominate him, him, a prince of the Fire Nation…

…determined little thing…

The fucking nerve.

She caught his stare and tipped her head to the side, raising one eyebrow.

Well, if she wanted to match arrogance for arrogance, daring for daring, she was about to find herself woefully out of her depth. Zuko gave her a smirk of his own, then drew a great breath and bellowed.

“Look out, Uncle! They know you’re coming!”

He knew from long experience that his voice was loud enough to carry pretty far through this ship. He had thought that perhaps, with advance warning, the formerly great Dragon of the West would devise a strategy that might counter his loss of the element of surprise. He did not anticipate Iroh’s muffled response, though.

“We surrender!”

“What?” Zuko choked. “Uncle! No, we don’t!”

But the old man was already leading out the remaining crew, all their hands raised and unarmed. Admittedly, they weren’t the sort of elite fighting force that might have turned the tide in any case. The navigators, the medic, the cook, and the engineer were all among them.

“Lieutenant Jee,” Zuko barked. “What are you doing?”

Bringing up the rear, the lieutenant turned - and looked up - to meet his eye with an expression of almost apologetic bewilderment. “Sorry, sir. They’ve got us beat.”

“A wise leader can acknowledge when a direct contest is unlikely to end in victory,” Iroh said, casting Zuko a sly glance back over his shoulder.

Zuko heard the unspoken echo of past lessons. Maybe they couldn’t overcome these opponents head-on, but there were other ways to attain victory. He bit back his furious protests and waited.

Iroh, hardly pausing, glanced around the deck at the pinned-down soldiers and the pirates who stood at the ready. “We are clearly outmatched and have been taken completely by surprise. What is it you want, so that we might resolve this peacefully?”

“The usual stuff,” the swordsman shrugged. “Food, medical supplies, undisclosed booty.”

“And we’re taking your prince,” the metalbender grinned, “for ransom. And so Katara can pound him in the rematch he’s so thirsty for.”

Katara. Zuko watched her through narrowed eyes as the syllables of her name beat through his head.

Only, she wasn’t smirking at him now. She was peering at his uncle, and her voice was firm but almost reassuring.

“You and your crew may go free,” she said, “but we’re going to sink your ship. We don’t allow Fire Nation battleships to sail these waters freely.”

“What?” Zuko shouted - and was summarily ignored.

“Technically,” Iroh said with a raised finger, “this is not a battleship, but an old-model voyager. Perhaps you might consider making an exception?”

It was closer to begging than Zuko would have allowed himself to get, even though the ship was kind of his life. It was his transportation, his training ground, his home-

(His prison.)

-His father was not going to give him another ship. He was certainly not going to pay a hefty ransom and then give Zuko a new ship. And that would leave Zuko to, what, wander the Earth Kingdom on foot through largely still contested territory?

But despite the tang of desperation that thought inspired, Zuko had no trouble at all tossing those notions aside. The waterbender, Katara, was shaking her head. She almost did look sorry. Almost.

“Your nation has spread war and hate and grief across the entire world. You don’t get to ask for exceptions from us.”

Zuko scoffed loudly, disgusted. “You want to be a pirate and still take the moral high ground? This is ludicrous!”

When she looked at him now, she did not look sorry at all. She wasn’t smirking, either. She was mad.

“Hey! We’re good pirates, alright? We’ve never once targeted anyone helpless or stolen from anyone who couldn’t afford it. We strictly rob Fire Nation vessels because you’re the aggressors! You’re waging this war and you feel like you have the right to invade traditional Water Tribe territory. As far as the scale of relative morality goes, I’m way up here-” She indicated a place above her head and then, with her other hand, pointed at the deck. “-and princes out on pleasure cruises to survey their conquests are waaay down there.”

“How dare you! You don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

Iroh cut through the argument with his reasonable calm. “Differences in opinion notwithstanding, your terms are not entirely unreasonable-”

Zuko sputtered in disbelief.

“-however, I would urge you to reconsider your choice of hostage. My nephew is… perhaps not the most lucrative candidate for ransom.”

This was objectively true, but hearing his uncle say the words stabbed Zuko through the heart nonetheless. Yet Iroh did not so much as pause.

“I am.”

[heniareth]

13, 15 and 18 for the ship memeeeee? 🥰

Helloo Lilou!!!!!! Here are some answers for ya (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

13. How do they keep in contact when they’re apart? Do they write letters, talk on the phone, or simply wait out the time?

Given that this is Thedas and modern means of communication haven't been invented yet: letters. Letters, letters, so many letters. Although you bet that as soon as Dorian starts producing and selling his sending crystals, Astala is getting some. There's no way anybody can intercept their messages that way, too!

Especially during the time Zevran is in Antiva, they have to be very cautious about what they write in their letters, lest the Crows intercept their correspondence and either of them comes to harm. It's endlessly frustrating to Astala and very, very scary for Zevran because he knows exactly how capable the Crows are and therefore overthinks every little detail. He also writes way less letters due to the nature of his work. Astala writes them almost like they're a diary and then sends them off in a neat bundle (with some kind of protection to make sure nobody else opens them. She has the resources to do that as arlessa). She also sends pressed flowers, little doodles and small trinkets to Zevran. Zevran's letters are comparatively sparse, but they make up for it by being chock-full of sentiment. He is way better at words than Astala. Astala tries to let him know how much she loves and misses him, but she also doesn't want to distract him from work or add to his unhappiness over their separation, so you end up having to read between the lines of her day's report to get what she really means.

15. What songs remind you of their relationship?

Hoooooo boy oh boy oh boy!!!! Songs!!!!! I love those, I'm planning to listen to all those you put up for Revka and Zevran 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

For Zev and Astala, I have:

Dust to Dust by The Civil Wars: this is SO Astala and Zevran over the course of the Blight. The first verse is about Zevran, the second is about Astala, it's perfect.

Bulería by David Bisbal: I wrote the first version of Zevran's ambush on the Wardens to this song. It's dramatic, it's over the top, it's delightful. It's also a song that could fit Zevran's relationship to Rinna very well. I really don't want to pit Astala against Rinna, but both have a similar effect on Zev, and... well. The female LI dies in the music video. Like Rinna dies. And like Astala (almost) dies. If it fits, it sits

Alone by Heart: this is for a potential modern AU where Astala is recently widowed with a little kid and works shitty jobs and Zevran is an assassin on the run

18. How do they care for each other when one of them is wounded/sick?

Astala has experience caring for sick family, so she has very good bedside manner. Apart from care, she offers conversation and a distraction if Zevran wants it. She'll smile at his groaning and makes sure he takes whatever medicine he has to take, drinks and eats enough, has fresh bedsheets and clothing, all of those little things that make being sick or wounded a bit more manageable.

That said, if Zevran is in real, immediate danger, all that composure and her cool head falls away. With wounds she'll be tight-lipped and grim, but still help and do so well. If it's a very bad cough, however, if Zevran has spent days sick, unresponsive, and shows o signs of getting better, she gradually loses her nerves and patience. In these situations she needs somebody close who helps her take care of him, because the fear of losing him will gradually make her more scattered, have her freeze up, and generally impede her to function. She basically shuts down under the helplessness. All of this harks back to the time after Adaia's bed when her dad and Shianni got very sick with some kind of cough and she had to manage the household and take care of them. If Zevran gets something similar and gets it bad, it takes her right back to that time.

Zevran, on the other hand, has a terrible patient to manage. Astala will insist on getting up and wandering around when she shouldn't, so a lot of his efforts go towards keeping her in bed. Where the doctor said she should stay. He bears it with good humor whenever he can, makes sure there are plums or other fruit around the house for when Astala feels better, and is not above sitting on her if it will keep her down (he has a very stubborn wife). Apart from that, he'll attempt to lighten the situation with jokes and humor as much as he can. He will also read her letters she gets and pen down answers if she can't be convinced to not work.

The more serious things get, the less light Zevran will be able to make of the situation. He will still try, for Astala's sake, but most of his energies will be focused on getting help, getting medicine, making food, all of that. He is, arguably, better at keeping the work up when things get dire; he's able to set his feelings of helplessness aside and keep going. He can break if worst comes to worst and Astala dies, but right now she needs him functional.

-

And these have been the answers to these questions!! Thank you so much for indulging me, it's been fun to rotate these two in my brain XD XD XD Have a lovely day!!