#so they're for sure flaking out there | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

danysdaughter · 2 months ago

Text

Hold Your Breath

pairing | civil!war!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.6k words (whoopsie)

summary I After a panic attack triggers something raw and vulnerable in Bucky, a desperate kiss turns into a night of urgent, clothed intimacy where he clings to you for grounding, connection, and humanity.

tags | 18+, (MDNI!), p in v sex, clothed sex, unprotected sex, emotional sex, desperate sex, riding, dry humping, titty sucking, begging, subby!bucky, soft!reader, angst, soft dom!reader, vulnerable!bucky, slow burn to sudden burn, hurt/comfort, PANIC ATTACK! platonic!steve x reader, oh and PLOT! but premises: Fuck His Pain Away

a/n | THIS MIGHT BE THE FILTHIEST THING IVE EVER WRITTEN. uh, Matt Murdock cameo. and Steve and reader lowkey act romantic but they're purely platonic. inspired by THE Stiles and Lydia. ENJOY!

likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

divider by @cafekitsune

The warehouse looked like it had been forgotten by time. Rust flaked off corrugated walls, the windows long since caked in grime and dust. Faint light filtered in through the cracks in the ceiling, catching on floating particles like a snowstorm of ash.

You stepped through the open door slowly, your heeled boots echoing softly against the concrete floor. The weight of silence sat thick in the air—one broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional creak of aging steel. Sam stood off to the side, posted up by a boarded window, his eyes scanning the outside world like a hawk. Ironic.

He gave you a short nod in greeting, then jerked his chin toward the stairwell.

“He’s upstairs. With him.”

You nodded silently, then started climbing. Each step was slow, heavy with things unsaid. You reached the upper landing and paused at the threshold of a dim corridor, where you finally saw him.

Steve Rogers.

He was leaning against the doorframe to a room that looked like it had once been an office, now stripped bare. His arms were folded, his head slightly bowed, lost in thought. The sharp angles of his jaw were drawn tight, his eyes shadowed with more than fatigue.

He looked tired—drawn in a way you rarely saw. Shoulders too tight. Worry clinging to him like a second skin.

And yet the moment he looked up and saw you, something in his face unspooled.

“You came,” he said, voice low, thick.

You smiled softly, stepping closer. “Where else would I be?”

Steve gave a dry little exhale. “I don’t know. Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm.”

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” you said.

He nodded once, but didn’t move from the door. The weight of the air between you stretched.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

You straightened, gaze steady. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. You don’t have to ask.”

“I do.” His jaw flexed, eyes flicking away. “Because I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. We’re stretched thin. And Bucky… he’s not in a good place.”

“I know,” you said, voice gentler now. “Steve, I know. I’m not scared of him.”

He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face, tension radiating from every inch of him. “I’m not either. That’s not it. It’s just—he’s been through so much. He barely speaks. Sometimes I think he’s back—my Bucky—but then I see that look in his eyes and I don’t even know who I’m looking at.”

You took a step forward, heart aching.

“You’re worried he’ll hurt someone.”

Steve didn’t answer right away. His mouth pressed into a tight line.

Then, almost too softly: “I’m worried he’ll hurt himself.”

That cracked something inside you. You reached out, fingers curling gently around his arm.

“Then I’ll be here,” you said, firm and calm. “I’ll sit with him through it. However long it takes.”

Steve looked at you, truly looked, and you could see it then—how much weight he was carrying. And how close he was to shattering under it.

“There’s more,” he said after a moment, voice even lower.

You nodded. “Tell me.”

He hesitated, like he didn’t know if he should. Then—quietly, brokenly—he said, “I don’t know what’s happening to us. The Avengers. The world. It used to feel like we were fighting for something good. Something that meant something. Now… it just feels like we’re tearing apart.”

You let his words hang in the air. Let him breathe. Then you stepped closer.

“It’s going to be okay,” you whispered.

But Steve shook his head. Slowly. Distantly.

“I don’t think it will be.”

There was something so human about him in that moment. Not the Captain. Not the soldier. Just a man who’d lived too long, lost too much, and still hadn’t learned how to stop hoping—even when it hurt.

He looked at you—really looked at you. The intensity in his eyes bordered on overwhelming. But what you saw there wasn’t fear. It was trust. Worn, heavy, aching trust.

“You can back out at any point,” he said, voice rough. “If it’s too much. If he—”

“I’m here,” you interrupted softly, a small smile blooming. “And I’m here to stay.”

Steve stared at you for a moment longer, then—without warning—you stepped in and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He folded into you immediately, arms winding tightly around your waist like the weight of the world was something he could put down, just for a second, if he held onto you.

His breath was warm against your hair.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges. “For being here. For me.”

Your fingers curled at his nape, anchoring him. “Always.”

When he finally pulled back, his hands lingered on your waist. The kind of touch that said, I can’t ask for more, but I’d be lost without this.

You gave his hand a final squeeze, then watched as he turned and opened the door to where Bucky waited.

The door clicked shut behind Steve with a soft finality.

Bucky sat on the edge of the mattress, shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His hair was damp from where he’d splashed water on his face earlier. There was still blood crusted in his hairline from the fight in Bucharest. He hadn’t spoken in hours—not really. Just a grunt here and there when Steve checked on him.

The room was dark and cold, lit only by a single bulb hanging overhead, flickering just enough to be annoying. Dust danced in the light. The walls were bare. There was a thin mattress pushed into the corner and not much else.

He could hear someone talking outside. A familiar voice. And a softer one.

Then footsteps. Boots against concrete.

He didn’t look up when Steve entered.

Steve took a breath and crossed the floor slowly. He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t try to force conversation.

He just sat, giving Bucky space to choose.

"You holding up?" Steve finally asked.

Bucky shrugged. His metal fingers flexed slightly. “Still breathing.”

It took another minute before Bucky spoke again, voice hoarse, low.

“You’re leaving.”

Steve nodded. “Not for long.”

Bucky lifted his head, the shadows under his eyes deeper than ever. “Where?”

“Sam and I need to pull some others in. It’s moving fast.” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But I’m not leaving you alone.”

Bucky’s mouth tightened slightly. “You’re not?”

“No.” Steve gave him a look. “She’s staying.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “The woman outside.”

Steve smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Bucky paused, then asked—carefully, cautiously—“That your girl?”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, looking down at the floor. “No. God, no. She’s… she’s just a friend.”

“Doesn’t sound like ‘just a friend,’” Bucky muttered.

“She’s just my friend,” Steve said again.

Bucky studied him for a long moment, the gears clearly turning behind his tired eyes. “You trust her.”

“With my life.”

“And you’re leaving her with me.” That wasn’t a question. That was Bucky quietly testing the weight of what Steve was asking.

“I’m not leaving her with you like she’s a babysitter,” Steve said, voice firm but warm. “She offered. Because she cares. Because she’s kind. And because she’s not afraid of you.”

Bucky’s head dropped slightly. “That’s a mistake.”

“No,” Steve said firmly. “It’s not. You’re not the man Hydra turned you into.”

“You sure?”

Steve stood slowly, walking over to the window, eyes scanning the alleyway below. “Yes and she’ll be here when you need her. Whether you like it or not.”

Bucky grunted. “Sounds annoying.”

Steve chuckled. “You’ll get used to her.”

He moved to the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Bucky?”

He looked up.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve said again, softer this time. “But I do care about her. She’ll look after you. Let her.”

Bucky stayed quiet for a long moment, watching his friend’s back. The silence stretched.

Then, quietly, “She got a name?”

Steve turned back to him with a small, knowing smile. “Ask her yourself.”

Silence stretched. The tension in Bucky’s shoulders didn’t ease, but something in his eyes flickered. Not quite trust. But maybe curiosity.

────────────────────────

Outside, you were waiting patiently, arms folded, gaze flicking down the hallway as he approached. You gave him a questioning look.

“How’d it go?”

“He asked if you were my girl.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “That’s a first.”

“I told him no. Just a loyal, stubborn friend.”

You nudged his arm. “Stubborn’s a little rude.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

He gave you a final, grateful look—the kind that carried years of friendship in one glance—then disappeared down the stairwell, leaving you standing in the dim hallway outside Bucky’s room.

You inhaled slowly, squared your shoulders, and turned toward the door.

The door creaked softly as you stepped inside.

The air inside was still—almost unnaturally so. Dim light filtered through the cracked blinds, casting lines of gold across the worn floorboards. The mattress sat low to the ground, old and bare, and on it sat a man who looked more like a memory than a presence.

Bucky didn’t look up right away.

He was perched on the edge of the mattress like he didn’t know what to do with his body. Shoulders squared. Hands resting on his knees. The metal one glinting faintly under the weak light. He didn’t move as you entered, didn’t speak—just turned and looked at you as if you might explode if he blinked.

His face was as unreadable as you'd expected. Blank. Cold. Not hostile, just... emptied out.

Still, you offered him the softest smile you could manage.

“Hi,” you said softly, introducing yourself.

No reaction. Not even a flinch.

You took a step forward, slow and steady, keeping your voice warm. “Steve asked me to check in on you.”

Still nothing. But he hadn’t asked you to leave either

“I’m not here to watch you,” you spoke, stepping forward slowly, palms open, posture relaxed. “Not like that. I’m just here if you need anything.”

Silence.

But his eyes followed you, blue and unreadable.

“I’m not an agent or anything,” you added. “But I figured a quiet face wouldn’t hurt.”

His gaze dropped back to the floor.

Your eyes drifted to the gash above his eyebrow again. The skin around it looked irritated. Dry blood had trailed down his temple, now flaked and cracking.

“You’re bleeding,” you murmured. “Your forehead.”

He blinked once. No acknowledgment. Just the same blank stare.

You nodded slightly to yourself, then crossed to the nearby table where Steve had left a bottle of water, some basic medical supplies. You grabbed a cloth and dampened it gently.

When you returned, you paused beside him.

“Can I…?” you asked gently, holding up the cloth just slightly. “Take care of that?”

There was a long pause. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—suspicion, uncertainty, maybe even something like confusion.

Then he gave a small, stiff nod.

You didn’t sit on the mattress beside him. That felt too close. Instead, you knelt down on the floor, leveling yourself just enough to reach him, and held the cloth delicately in your fingers.

“Okay,” you said, mostly to fill the silence. “This might be a little cold.”

You dabbed gently at the gash on his forehead, careful not to apply too much pressure. The dried blood flaked away slowly under your touch. You worked in silence, the only sound the soft rustle of the cloth against his skin and the hush of your own breath.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

But he watched you.

Close. Unblinking.

Like he was trying to find the trick in your movements. Waiting for the shift—when the care would curdle into expectation. Or interrogation. Or pity.

But you just kept working, your touch steady, your face calm.

After a long moment, he finally spoke—voice low and rough, like unused gravel.

“You an Avenger?”

It caught you a little off guard, but you smiled faintly, not stopping your work.

“Not at all,” you said. “Maybe honorary. I just help Steve out. Here and there.”

You wiped the last of the blood from his temple, then lowered the cloth.

“But mostly,” you added with a small shrug, “I stick to New York.”

He was still staring at you. His brow twitched slightly. “Doing what?”

You chuckled, folding the cloth neatly in your lap. “I’m a lawyer.”

The expression on his face shifted for the first time—just a flicker, but there. His eyes narrowed slightly. Disbelieving, “A lawyer?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

His look said it before his lips did.

What the hell are you doing here?

You didn’t need him to ask.

You met his gaze—steady, warm, sure.

“A lawyer that knows right from wrong,” you said simply.

The room fell quiet again.

He stared at you like he was trying to see the catch—trying to spot where the kindness ended and the judgment began.

It didn’t come.

“I’m just here to help,” you said, barely above a whisper.

You stayed kneeling for a few more moments, wringing the bloodied cloth between your fingers, giving him space even while sitting right in front of him.

Bucky still hadn’t moved.

He just watched you. Not with suspicion exactly—more like quiet observation, like he was still figuring out what you were.

You gave him a moment, then sat back on your heels and rested your arms on your knees.

“So,” you started gently, as if you were just catching up with someone over coffee, “Steve said you were from Brooklyn.”

His eyes didn’t move.

You waited a beat. Nothing.

“I’m from Hell’s Kitchen,” you added, offering a half-smile.

Still nothing. But something in his eyes flickered. Just barely.

“Grew up around a lot of noise,” you went on, your voice soft but casual. “Corner bodegas. Fire escapes. People yelling out their windows at four in the morning.”

Another pause. You risked glancing at him again.

Still no words. But his gaze lingered now. Slightly more engaged.

“I used to go up on the roof with a book and just... tune it all out,” you said, smiling faintly at the memory. “Never worked. Some jackass was always blasting Sinatra or arguing about Mets scores.”

You caught a flicker at that—almost a breath of amusement in his expression. Almost.

“Guess Brooklyn wasn’t so different back then, huh?”

Still silence.

But now, he was looking at you—not through you.

You shrugged, eyes gentle. “Anyway. Just figured I’d try to talk. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

His eyes finally dropped to the floor again, but his shoulders had eased. A fraction.

You added, “And if it helps at all… I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

That got you a flicker of eye contact again.

You smiled, soft and unbothered. “And you, from the looks of it, don’t talk unless you absolutely have to. So, we make a solid pair.”

No reaction.

You let out a small sigh.

The room had settled into a quiet sort of calm by late evening.

Bucky hadn’t spoken much—if at all—but he hadn’t pulled away when you refilled his water or dropped off a spare blanket either. A win in your book.

You hadn’t meant to take the call in front of him.

But you also couldn’t afford to ignore it—not when Matt Murdock’s name lit up your screen with its usual stubborn persistence.

You shifted where you sat on the edge of the room’s lone table, pressing the phone to your ear while still keeping Bucky in the corner of your eye. He sat on the mattress, back against the wall, arms folded stiffly over his chest. Watching. Always watching.

“Good evening,” you greeted softly, careful to keep your voice low.

There was a pause. Then, sharp and unmistakably annoyed, “Where the hell are you?”

You smiled. “Hi to you too, Matty.”

“I came by your loft, you weren't there.”

“No, because I’m in Germany.”

There was a long pause.

“…Germany?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize international borders exist, right? And that we’re not technically allowed to cross them at will?”

“You do realize you’re blind and still have better spatial awareness than the TSA, right?”

“You were just in New York yesterday,” he said, exasperated. “You can’t keep dropping everything the second Steve Rogers snaps his fingers.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Jealousy and judgment in one breath. Impressive.”

“I’m not jealous,” he bit out. “I’m concerned. You didn’t even tell anyone you were leaving the country.”

You sighed, leaning back against the wall. “I didn’t plan to. Things moved fast. It’s not like I’m on vacation, Matt.”

“You think I don’t know what fast looks like?” he shot back. “This is the kind of fast that gets people killed. You’re not a soldier. You’re not—”

“I’m not you,” you snapped, before immediately softening your tone. “I’m not you, Matt. But you don’t get to lecture me about dropping everything for a ghost from your past when you've barely been present since yours came back.”

The line went still.

You exhaled. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“I know,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “I just… I worry. You matter to people, you know?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you promised. “Just keeping someone safe until Steve gets back.”

There was a beat.

“…Is that someone dangerous?”

You glanced across the room. Bucky’s eyes were still on you, narrowed faintly in curiosity.

“No,” you said. “Not to me.”

Matt didn’t sound convinced. “Call me when you land.”

“I will.”

You ended the call with a gentle sigh, letting your head rest back against the wall.

Across the room, Bucky was watching you.

Not glaring. Not tense. Just watching—with that unreadable look he wore like armor.

You raised the phone slightly. “Work colleague.“

His brow lifted, slightly skeptical.

You tilted your head. “Okay, close work colleague.”

He didn’t respond. But you swore you caught the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something almost like amusement.

You didn’t press.

You just leaned your head back and closed your eyes.

And that’s when you heard it.

Footsteps.

A faint but steady rhythm outside, boots against gravel, echoing just enough through the warehouse walls to mimic something far more sinister.

The blood drained from Bucky’s face in an instant.

His body snapped upright, rigid. His eyes locked on the door.

And his breathing changed.

Subtle at first. A slight hitch. A break in rhythm. The kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

And you weren’t.

You were halfway to the window already, your phone still in hand, distracted by the soft scrape of boots on gravel outside. You weren’t even looking at him when you said, “I’ll be right back. Just want to check it out.”

You moved with ease, brushing aside the edge of the tarp covering the glass. From where you stood, you caught a glimpse—just a guy with a backpack, head down, walking briskly down the alley. Civilian. No uniform. No earpiece.

Harmless.

You turned back toward the room, already ready to reassure—

And stopped cold.

Bucky hadn’t moved from the bed.

But everything about him had changed.

He was still seated, but his hands were clenched into fists, white-knuckled. His shoulders were drawn in tight, and his head was tipped down, jaw locked, chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid bursts.

“Bucky?”

His eyes snapped up.

Wide. Unfocused. Wild.

Your heart dropped.

You took a step closer. “Hey. You’re okay, it was just someone walking past. No one’s coming.”

But he didn’t hear you. Not really.

His breath hitched again, sharper this time. A low sound escaped his throat—almost a growl, almost a sob—and his metal hand twitched violently on his knee.

“I can’t—” he choked, fingers clawing at the edge of the mattress. “I can’t—breathe—”

You froze for half a second, then rushed forward, dropping into a crouch in front of him, palms out, voice gentle but firm.

“Okay. Okay, Bucky. You’re having a panic attack. I know it feels like you can’t breathe, but you are. I promise, you are. You need to try to slow it down, or your body’s going to lock up on you.”

His chest was rising in harsh, ragged gasps now, every breath shallow and frantic. His eyes were darting around the room like he was trapped, like every wall was closing in.

You hovered your hands near his knees, not touching, just there. “I’m not gonna grab you. You’re safe. You’re in control. You’re not back there.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, body trembling. “I can’t—I can’t get out—I can’t—”

“Hey. Hey.” Your voice broke on the word. “You’re not trapped. I’m right here. You’re with me, remember?”

No response.

His breathing was worsening. He wasn’t inhaling fully anymore. Just choking down gulps of air like they weren’t sticking. His fingers curled against the mattress, his body rocking slightly.

He’s going to pass out.

You forced yourself to stay calm, to keep your voice steady even as panic rose in your own chest.

“Okay. Listen to me. We’re going to ground, alright? Just do what you can.” You reached up, hovering your fingers closer to his arm. “Five things you can see. Look around, just five.”

He blinked rapidly, lips parted, shaking.

“Five things,” you repeated. “Just name them. Anything.”

“I—I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t—I can’t see—fuck—”

Your gut twisted.

“Alright. It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whispered, watching his eyes roll slightly upward as if his mind was spinning off. “Bucky, please. Just hold onto something.”

But he couldn’t.

You could see the fight in him, but the grip of the attack had its claws in deep now, dragging him down. His hand jerked, metal fingers spasming like his nerves were short-circuiting.

He was slipping.

You didn’t think. You didn’t plan.

You just acted.

You surged forward and crushed your mouth to his.

Your hand cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the scruff of his cheek, your lips moving against his like your breath could anchor him, like your body could pull him back from wherever his mind had gone.

At first, he didn’t move.

His breath hitched hard in your mouth, his body rigid.

And then—

He breathed.

Not perfect. Not deep.

But something shifted.

The tension in his shoulders dipped slightly. His mouth softened just enough under yours. The rigid rock of his spine eased.

You pulled back after a beat, gasping softly, shocked at yourself, still close enough to feel the heat of his breath on your lips.

His eyes snapped open.

Blue. Wide. Raw.

You blinked, stammering. “I—I didn’t know what else to do. I read once—somewhere—that when you’re panicking, holding your breath can reset your lungs, and so—” You swallowed. “So, when I kissed you… you held your breath.”

His lips parted, still trembling.

Your hand was still lightly on his jaw. You started to pull it away, “I’m sorry—”

But then his hand—his metal hand—caught your wrist.

Gently.

He stared at you, breathing hard, but steadier now. Something wild still flickered behind his eyes—but it wasn’t panic anymore.

It was something else.

Something desperate.

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat.

Bucky’s hand—cold metal and trembling restraint—was still wrapped around your wrist, keeping your hand pressed to his jaw. His skin beneath your palm was warm, rough with stubble, tense with something unreadable.

You should’ve tried to pull away again.

You should’ve said something. But you couldn’t speak.

Not with the way he was looking at you. Like you weren’t real. Like he’d dreamed you up in some quiet corner of his broken mind and was terrified you might disappear if he blinked too long.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Your mind raced, caught between guilt and instinct.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice. “I just didn’t know what else—”

And then you felt it.

His other hand.

You hadn’t even noticed it moving. But now, his warm, flesh hand was at the back of your head, fingers tangling through your hair, firm and certain.

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you in.

The kiss came fast.

No hesitation. No apology.

It collided with your mouth like a dam breaking—like a gasp swallowed between parted lips and bruised hearts. His hand on your wrist still held you in place, while the other tilted your head just enough to claim every inch of your mouth.

You made a startled sound—something between a breath and a gasp—and your hands moved instinctively finding his shoulders as you fell forward into his chest.

Your body hit his with more force than you meant, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he pulled you closer, like your weight grounded him.

His kiss deepened.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was hungry.

Like he needed this more than air. Like the feel of your mouth, the press of your body, was the only thing holding him in the present. His lips moved against yours with bruising pressure, desperate and hot, tongue flicking past your parted lips like he couldn’t stand not to taste you again.

And you melted.

Every thought, every question, every ounce of guilt evaporated the second his tongue touched yours.

Your fingers tightened on his shoulders. Your knees threatened to give out. His breath was ragged in your mouth, nose brushing yours, body trembling with barely leashed tension.

This wasn’t just comfort.

This was need.

Pure and primal.

His hands were on you now—both of them. The right still cradled the back of your head, fingers buried in your hair, holding you close. But the left… the left had found your waist, sliding up beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing along your side like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch but couldn’t help himself.

You felt the chill of metal and the heat of human skin, trembling and unsure.

He kissed you harder. Mouth moving against yours with clumsy, desperate hunger—no rhythm, no restraint. He wasn’t kissing to seduce.

He was kissing to feel.

When his lips broke from yours, they didn’t go far. They dropped to your jaw, then your throat, his breath hot and uneven as he murmured something unintelligible against your skin.

His tongue dragged along the side of your neck, followed by soft, open-mouthed kisses—rushed, messy, too fast. Like he didn’t know where to start. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you at once.

“God…” he breathed, mouth moving to your collarbone. “You’re so soft…”

His hands moved again, a little braver now—palming your waist, then your back, then your hips. He tugged at your shirt, his fingers grazing over the fabric like it was in his way, like he needed to touch more.

And that’s when your thoughts finally broke through the haze.

You gasped, blinking hard, fingers coming up to press gently against his chest.

“Bucky,” you said, breathless. “We should stop.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull back.

His lips paused just below your ear, trembling.

“This isn’t good for you,” you whispered. “You’re in a bad headspace, and I don’t want to take advantage—”

He pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes wide and pleading, voice cracking.

“Please,” he whispered.

Your heart shattered.

“Bucky—”

“Please,” he said again, more desperate now. “I—I need to feel you. I need to know I’m still here. That I’m not… that I’m not him.”

Your hands trembled where they rested on his chest.

His voice broke entirely. “Just… just let me touch you. Let me feel something that isn’t pain. Please…”

You stared at him for a long moment, his words still ringing in your ears, his hands trembling against your waist.

Let me feel something that isn’t pain.

The breath left your chest in a slow, trembling sigh.

And then you leaned in.

Your lips met his again—not rough this time, but slow, deep, deliberate. A promise.

Bucky responded like he’d been holding his breath.

His hands flew to your sides, tugging you closer until your knees straddled his thighs, until your chest was flush with his. He let out a broken, needy sound as you kissed him, fingers dragging up your spine, gripping, clutching, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper against his lips, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He moaned at that—actually moaned—his mouth crashing into yours again as his hands started moving, frantic and restless, skimming beneath your shirt, tugging at the fabric like it was an obstacle, not clothing.

Your fingers slid up into his hair, holding his face between your palms like he was something fragile. You kissed him deeper, letting him pour himself into it, letting him need you. And all the while, you rocked slowly in his lap, hips rolling in a subtle, steady rhythm that made both of you gasp.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered against your mouth. “You feel so good… I can’t—can’t get close enough.”

He pulled harder at your shirt, his hands shaking with how desperately he wanted more of you. You broke the kiss just long enough to fumble with the buttons, undoing only a few before he lost patience entirely.

His hands flew up to your chest, and in one frantic motion, he tugged your bra down beneath your breasts.

“Bucky—”

But then his mouth was on you, and the words dissolved.

He latched onto your breast with a groan so guttural it vibrated through your core. His tongue swirled around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth like he was starved for it—like this was the only thing tethering him to earth.

You gasped, eyes flying wide, one hand clinging to his shoulder as your hips jerked against him.

“Oh my—Bucky—”

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

His metal hand clutched your back, holding you in place as he lavished your breast with open-mouthed kisses, warm and wet and messy. His other hand palmed your waist, guiding your hips in time with his own.

You rutted against him harder now, both of you still fully clothed, the friction unbearable and perfect. His cock pressed thick and hard against you through his jeans, and the way he groaned into your skin when you ground down on him made your thighs tremble.

“Please,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Please don’t stop.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him, anchoring him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathed. “I’ve got you.”

And he moaned again, mouth still on your skin, hips jerking upward into you like he was begging you to believe him.

Your breathing was ragged. His lips were still wet from your skin. And when you pulled back slightly—only just enough to break contact—Bucky let out a whine.

Not a word. A sound. Broken, instinctual.

“Don’t—” he gasped, trying to follow you. “Please, don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice barely stable as you pushed gently against his chest.

He let you guide him back, his body hitting the thin mattress with a soft thump, arms still reaching for you like he couldn’t stand a single inch of distance.

“I’ve got you,” you promised again, voice low and sure, even as your hands moved fast.

You didn’t fully undress—didn’t need to. You shoved your jeans down, just past your knees, the waistband biting into your thighs as you knelt between his legs. Bucky’s chest heaved as he watched you, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he was starving.

“God, you’re…” he breathed, voice hoarse. “You’re not real.”

You reached for his jeans, fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle, your own hands shaking now with the sheer pressure of what you were doing—what this was. You unzipped him, tugging his waistband down just far enough to free him.

And there he was.

Hard. Leaking. So fucking ready it made your mouth go dry.

He twitched when your hand wrapped around him—just once—and he gasped, hips jerking slightly off the mattress.

“Please,” he murmured again. “I—I need to be inside you. Please, I need—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You rose back up onto his thighs, grabbed his cock at the base, and positioned yourself with practiced urgency.

He held his breath.

And then—you sank down.

Slow, steady, deep.

Bucky cried out, head snapping back against the mattress, eyes fluttering shut as your heat wrapped around him. “Fuck,—Jesus—”

You couldn’t even breathe for a second. The stretch was intense, overwhelming—your thighs trembling as you adjusted, hands braced on his chest.

Beneath you, he was shaking.

Completely undone.

His hands flew to your hips, gripping tight, not to guide you—but just to hold on.

You stayed there a moment, full of him, pulsing around him, feeling every tremble in his frame.

Then you leaned down, lips brushing his cheek, and whispered, “You feel that?”

He nodded, frantic.

“That’s real. I’m real. And you’re not alone.”

And then you started to move.

You moved slowly at first—hips rolling, drawing his cock in deep, then easing back up, dragging every inch of him against your walls. Bucky’s head tipped back, a shudder ripping through him, his mouth slack, eyes blown wide as his hands dug into your waist like he was terrified you might stop.

“God,” he rasped, “you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way your body wrapped around him, the rhythm building in your hips—it said everything.

You rode him harder, faster now, the tension rising like a fever. The denim of his jeans and the way your own clothes clung to sweat-slick skin made everything feel even messier, even more raw. The friction burned in the best way, every drag of your body against his driving him closer to the edge.

Bucky couldn’t stop touching you. His hands were on your waist, your thighs, your back—like he couldn’t decide where he needed you more. His voice was low and broken, a litany of groans and murmured please, please, please, even when you were already giving him everything.

When you leaned in and pressed your forehead to his, your fingers tangling in his hair, he was right there with you—breathing you in like oxygen.

His chest was rising fast now, the rhythm in your hips growing sloppy, desperate. You could feel him pulsing inside you, getting close.

Then—suddenly—he surged upward, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him as his mouth found yours again. The kiss was rough, needy, all tongue and teeth and shaky breath. He needed to be connected—to feel you pressed against him in every possible way as he unraveled.

And then he came.

You felt it—deep, hot, twitching inside you as he groaned into your mouth, burying his face in your shoulder, his entire body trembling as you held him through it. His arms clutched you tight, almost too tight, like if he let go you might vanish.

You didn’t.

You stayed with him. Arms wrapped around his shoulders. Lips at his temple. Your hips finally stilled.

You hadn’t come. You weren’t even thinking about it.

This—this—had never been about you.

It was for him.

To remind him that he was here. That he was human. That he was held.

You were still catching your breath, his body trembling in your arms, when it happened.

Without a word—without even looking up—Bucky shifted beneath you, tightening his arms around your waist. And before you could ask what he was doing, he flipped you.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and you barely had time to gasp before his body followed, pressing you down, caging you in.

“Bucky—” you started, surprised, dazed.

But the look in his eyes stole the words from your mouth.

Focused. Intense. Wild with a need you hadn’t seen before—but not for his own release this time.

For yours.

He was still hard inside you. Still there. And now, he began to move.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

He pounded into you—hips snapping forward with frantic rhythm, as if something had cracked open inside him and he couldn’t bear not to give you back everything you’d just given him. Every thrust was deep, hard, messy. His breath came in grunts and gasps, his forehead pressed to yours, his body slick with sweat.

You clutched at his shoulders, your own body struggling to keep up as pleasure started to crash over you like a wave.

“Let me,” he panted, voice low and wrecked. “Let me make you feel good. You—fuck, you were so good to me—I need—I need to make you come—please—”

Your breath hitched, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut as his cock drove into you again and again, hitting all the right angles now with dizzying precision. His hand slid down, slipping between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, desperate, trying to draw your pleasure up through every inch of you.

The pressure built fast. Too fast.

You were already so full, so overwhelmed—his voice in your ear, his fingers on your body, his cock so hard inside you—and the way he moved… God.

“You don’t have to—” you started, already trembling.

“I want to,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, like he couldn’t get close enough.

You whimpered, body jerking beneath his as the tension in your core snapped tighter, tighter, tighter—

“Come for me,” he groaned. “Please. I need to feel it.”

And then you did.

You came with a moan that tore out of your throat, back arching, hands clutching at his back as your body spasmed around him. Bucky groaned, dropping his head into your neck, hips still moving as he rode you through it, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Like giving you pleasure was what made him feel whole.

His body trembled as he came down, the last few ragged thrusts losing momentum until finally—finally—he stilled, buried deep inside you, heart pounding hard enough that you could feel it through his chest.

He hovered there for a moment, arms shaking, breath catching in his throat.

And then he collapsed.

Not all at once. Slowly, carefully. Like his strength gave out in stages. But even as he let himself fall into you, he caught his weight on his forearms, mindful, always mindful—never fully resting on you. He curled slightly, pressing his face into the crook of your neck like he needed to hide. Like the world was too bright again, too loud, and your skin was the only place left that felt quiet.

Your arms came around him without hesitation.

One hand slipped across his back, fingers splayed wide, gently grounding him with each stroke up and down his spine. The other cradled the back of his head, thumb sweeping slowly through his damp hair, cradling him like something precious.

His breath hitched once.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just held him.

He melted into it slowly, his metal arm resting against the mattress beside your head, his human hand fisting weakly in the blanket beneath you. You felt the tremble still in his muscles—aftershocks of everything he’d just released.

“Shh,” you murmured, soft against his ear. “You’re okay, baby. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His forehead pressed tighter to your throat.

“You’re safe now,” you whispered, voice low and steady. “Right here with me.”

He exhaled, shaky and fragile.

“You’re not alone. You’re not him. You’re not broken.”

He didn’t answer—but he didn’t need to.

He let you hold him.

You kept going, voice like a lullaby, your fingers never stopping.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you murmured. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip on the blanket loosened, and he shifted just enough to finally let some of his weight settle into your body.

Not too much.

Just enough to trust.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x you #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff #the avengers #captain america civil war #steve rogers #matt murdock #daredevil #team cap

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yanderenightmare · 1 month ago

Text

The Rainbow as Boyfriends

♡ AN: from the Promptlist

♡ TW: fluff, different types of drugs, really soft yandere, if yandere at all

♡ FEM reader

Red is loud with a passion that comes across as aggressive to some. He’s charismatic and likeable, but can also be both narcissistic and judgmental, with a habit of butting in where he’s not wanted and flaking when the responsibility becomes too much.

He’s got red hair, but it might be fake—you’re not sure—gelled up in needles, and a cut on his right brow he most definitely had coming. 'Cause if you think he’s loud on the regular, you can bet he’s even louder when drunk. And Red loves getting drunk—bar-hopping and clubbing, he'll drink his fill and dance until the sweat pours, but will just as quickly square up and fight someone until they're both thrown out or taken and thrown inside the drunk tank.

He’s got bloody knuckles and bruises everywhere—on top of tattoos he’s been collecting since he was fourteen—a patchwork of poor decisions he looks back on fondly.

He’s got a lot of opinions and dies on random hills every day, but doesn’t remember any of them come morning. Fighting is a frivolous thing to him—he doesn’t think too much of it, and will sling his arms around the shoulders of someone he soccer-punched the night before.

He doesn’t always get when or why people are upset with him, brushing it off, thinking they’ll get over it. That’s not to say he doesn’t apologize—he does—throws them around like they cost him nothing, because they don't. And he doesn’t get how that isn’t good enough.

He doesn’t bear any grudges himself, and those he does bear he buries so deep within himself that he never ever has to think about them—ones such as the torn relationship he has with his father and his first love. Forgotten. No longer his problem.

You don’t think you’ve ever really seen him angry, but you can say the same for happy, and that's why you can't really bring yourself to fall in love with him, knowing you're only going to get yourself hurt. He’s too destructive to hold onto—always with a bright, big smile on his face, even when someone is shouting and throwing fists at him.

You don’t know… You think he cries in bed when he can’t sleep.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Atsumu ♡ BLLK – Shido ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Togame

Orange is warm. Always pinging you if you want to go sunbathing.

As expected, he’s tan with ginger curls, freckle-faced and muscly, seizing any and all opportunities to take off his shirt. He’s a stickler for sunscreen, though, carrying one on him at all times and interrogating you about wearing it to the point of applying it without asking.

He hasn’t got a single tattoo, not even so much as a wave, despite his love for the beach—he's just never thought to spend money on it. But what he lacks in tattoos, he more than makes up for in scars. He’s a sporty guy—sort of reckless—happy-go-lucky, be it with a ball, frisbee, or a surfboard, and it has led to some interesting accidents and several stitches.

He’s also an avid ocean preserver. Collecting plastic from the sands and helping wildlife back into the water. He brought you along once, at midnight, when the tide was low. You'd collected stranded starfish and tossed them back into the waves.

You were drunk, but ever since you’ve been struck with this sense of guilt you’ve never had before. To think that starfish actually dry up and die once the tide pulls out is a horror you didn’t need to know.

But it only goes to show how sweet a guy Orange really is. He never made it to college because he’d already decided what he wanted to do a long time ago, planning on taking over the beach cafe where he’s worked his entire life. He calls the owner there his uncle, even though they aren’t related, and is practically running the place already.

He’s a simple guy with simple plans and simple dreams, but at the same time, you can’t help but feel as though he’s smarter than all the rest of you. He’s the guy who has it all figured out. You can’t tell if he’s actively decided to let go of all bigger ideas and dreams, or if he’s been that enlightened since birth.

In any case, you stick around him, hoping that some of that peace of mind of his will rub off on you. Everyone’s so caught up in being famous today that you forget you have real life to live.

But out here, on the beach with him, phone tucked away in a locker, toes in the sand with no makeup on except for sunscreen, and no bustling city cars or club chatter, just frivolous laughter and the sound of splashing waves, you can be content with the fact that no one knows who you are.

♡ BNHA – Kirishima, Shoto, Denki, Hawks, Natsuo, FatGum, Mirio ♡ JJK – Yuji ♡ HQ – Yamaguchi, Hinata, Sugawara, Bokuto, Osamu, Ushijima, Ukai ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ BLLK – Nagi ♡ DS – Tanjiro ♡ WB – Umemiya

Yellow was born rich and grew up wild for no reason.

He’s daddy’s golden boy, but acts and dresses like a gang member every time he leaves the house outside of any and all family occasions, galas, and charity events.

He’s like Bruce Wayne, without the crime-fighting, and if Batman were just his street name.

Not that you real street urchins don’t spot him a mile away. But hey, he’s fun and likes spending money, so you let him hang out despite him being from the other side of town.

He likes riding fast cars and taking fast drugs and is surprisingly good at drag racing. Actually, he’s the best. Blew every single one of you away when he took on the previous best racer. You thought he was high on something and acting stupid, but no. Won fair and square like it was nothing to him.

It all makes sense when you learn his father’s the owner of a major automobile conglomerate. As his son, he’s got several fast cars—several of each big brand, new models and retro ones, collectors' items and ones that are personally customized.

Your jaw is on the floor as he takes you through the garage. You have to scoff at the term—garage—as if it isn’t a whole underground parking lot beneath his house.

You’re surprised to find out he actually does work on them. In overalls with a wrench, oil stains and all.

He tells you he always dreamt of being a real racer, running his own team right alongside Red Bull and McLaren. But when you ask him why he doesn’t, he tells you dreams are for poor people—that cars are a business, not for play.

You don’t know. It’s the first time you fully realize how truly different the two of you are. You’d ignored the expensive clothing and salon hair up until then. But now it was suddenly all you could see.

You’re just the flag girl who initiated his first race—the girlfriend he doesn’t introduce to his parents because he has no real intention of staying with you for long. So you decide to rip off the band-aid and break up with him.

He’s dumbfounded.

But just like the golden boy he is, he’ll win you back by sparing no expense.

♡ BNHA – Denki, Touya, Hawks, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Gojo ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Lev, Oikawa, Atsumu ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Rin ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Doma

Green is an earthy guy. He knows everything about any botanical type you can name—which can overwinter, which can survive with minimal sun, which needs water every day. He can even bring flowers back from the dead. He’s like a witch doctor for plants.

His parents own the flower shop he manages, as well as the plantation from which the flowers come.

You start working there, sort of on a whim, just after college. You don’t know why, you’ve never considered yourself especially green-fingered, but they were hiring, and you, despite having a degree, didn’t really know what you were or wanted to be doing yet.

Green is about your age, so it’s a very chill job. And the plants make for nice scenery and a pleasant aroma as you try to figure out your life. In fact, it’s so nice you end up getting a little lost in it.

And Green is so laid back, you end up becoming good friends, and after seeing the way he carries those big bags of soil on his back so easily, you end up becoming a little more than that, despite him being your boss. So, with the benefits being as good as the salary, there wasn’t much to encourage you to leave.

But how could you have known?

You thought he was a normal guy until he casually took you into one of the greenhouses on the far side of the plantation on day, just to help him with some plants there he’d told you, only for it to be a whole ass weed garden you hadn’t known anything about.

The salary suddenly makes more sense then.

He’s so normal about it, you’re almost convinced it isn’t illegal, the way he adjusts the sprinklers for a light drizzle, and tells you to check each plant for any damage and disease.

You didn’t know if you should say anything at first, but of course you do—asking him what it’s all for. To which he responds by just smiling that dopey smile of his, bringing you in for a lazy hug while placing a soft kiss on your forehead, then telling you it’s best not to ask any questions.

You don’t know… but it sort of feels like what he really meant to say was Shut up and do your job.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Mahito, Gojo, Yuji, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Yamaguchi, Hinata, Sugawara, Kuro, Bokuto, Atsumu, Osamu, Ukai ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ WB – Kiryu, Umemiya, Togame

Blue is an artist—a tortured one.

Though not a particularly poor one.

He’s also a young entrepreneur who started his career in art curation while still in middle school, and therefore lives alone in his penthouse apartment, never once having ever bothered to turn on the lights.

He’s a real hermit with a tendency to fall in love with his own depression.

He can spend entire days in bed, awake, rolling around, thinking, wondering why he feels the way he feels, even though he knows that getting up would probably solve half of it. But when he finally does get out of bed, he simply wraps himself in the duvet and relocates to the sofa.

It’s a cocoon, he insists—his metamorphosis. He’ll come out when the sun goes down again. All night long in front of the canvas. So many shades of blue on his palette—it’s enough to get lost in.

You’re his assistant, but you feel like a nanny half the time. You have no idea how he’s managed the firm so far—he doesn’t even step out of his home, let alone go to any galleries where he can actually do business.

On top of that, he never answers his goddamn phone—all but forcing you to make the trip over. Shaking your head, you always buy dinner on the way, knowing he’s probably forgotten about it. Thinking you’ll hit two birds with one stone, you just make for you both.

You know the passcode to the door, and so you step right in like you live there—in fact, with how often you're there, sleeping over and tidying up, you're at the point you're fighting the urge to call it home.

Finding his phone uncharged in the middle of the floor, you sigh. You’re not sure, but you think he does it on purpose. Ignoring your texts, knowing you’ll be on your way.

He heard you come in, but doesn’t step away from his work, listening to you pad up the stairs to his studio. He’s in a bathrobe, hair greasy, nearly matted to his head, and just like a mother, you tell him to go march his ass into the shower while you make some food.

At least he actually listens to you when you come over. But my, he’s a handful. Over dinner, he even asks you to just move in for real, given that you’re already doing the job of a wife.

But he writes your checks, and they’re well beyond what you’d make if you were an actual nanny, so you guess you’ll put up with him for a little while longer.

♡ BNHA – Shoto, Shigaraki, Touya, Hawks, young Aizawa, Shinso, Overhaul, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Geto, Gojo, Megumi, Yuuta, Choso, Higuruma ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Kuro, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins, Suna ♡ CSM – Aki, Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Ego ♡ DS – Zenitsu

Indigo is a guy who never sleeps. He’s all late nights, dark clothes, and too many drinks to count, and yet never seems too drunk.

He’s like a bottomless well. A wishing well of sorts that doesn’t mind listening to all your drunken ramblings while the two of you sit on the floor after the party’s over.

You should have shut up hours ago, but he doesn’t mind. He just watches you silently as you spill all your deepest, darkest secrets—a small smile on his lips, you can’t see. But his intentions aren’t bad. He just finds you cute, is all.

He’s at every party—outside, leaning against the back of the house with a cigarette between his lips. The darkness of the night makes his eye color impossible to place—they just look black.

You seek him out for reasons you’re not too sure of yet. Or… the mysterious hot guy—how could you refuse?

You’re tipsy, giggling, all smiles and more, twirling and accepting his offer of a puff with your lips and not your hands, so that he has to hold it for you. He smiles, and this time you see it, further spurring you on.

You ask him then and there, in the night, to go skinny dipping with you alone. And he just hums, lighting another cig, telling you to lead the way.

When he removes his shirt, you spot the tattoos in the moonlight. It’s strange—they’re all the girly type, but suit him so well—his astrology symbols, a heart, the infinity sign, an arrow, a flower, an anime cloud. You don’t know why, but it’s hot for some reason, like the doodles you'd make in a textbook instead of writing notes.

He isn’t what you would call a pretty boy, but he is pretty. Dark-eyed with long lashes, you might accuse him of wearing mascara, and yet it doesn’t run down his pink-dusted cheeks when you’re in the water.

Skin to skin to keep warm, naked and held on his lap, sharing kisses while bobbing in the lake, everything quiet except for breaths and the soft splashing around you, so close now you can finally spot the true color of his eyes—dark, dark, dark indigo blue.

It might be the drink in your system, but you swear, that way he looks at you—it’s enough to make you fall in love on the spot.

♡ BNHA – Shoto, Touya, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Geto, Megumi, Toji, Choso ♡ HQ – Suna, Kageyama, Iwaizumi, Sakusa ♡ CSM – Aki, Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ WB – Suo ♡ HxH – young Chrollo

Violet is an old soul, and yet a never-aging one at the same time. A soft, timeless presence—mild, like a breath of fresh air, a gentle breeze ruffling your hair.

Far removed from town, between a forest and a flower field runs a white gravel road, and at the end of it stands his cottage—pale bricks and ashen rooftiles that all but disappear within the foliage growing up and over it. And yet, peaking through the leaves and flowers are cute windows and a round wooden door leading inside.

Behind a picket fence connected to the house is a little garden where he grows tomatoes, salad, and carrots, which he’ll use to feed the fluffle of bunnies living out on the field. They all know and trust him, and so when he takes you through it for the first time, you feel convinced you’re dating a faun.

Everything about him is like a fairytale… Doe-eyed and silly, he’ll lie you down in the wildflowers and grass to watch clouds, both on your backs, giving them names while holding your hand. He’ll weave you a flower crown and name you a princess, and though it’s all odd and new to you, there isn’t a single thing about it that isn’t perfectly perfect.

He likes scented candles, incense, and organic food. He doesn’t touch alcohol or meat, but you’re very sure he’s got something in his tea and puts it in everything he bakes.

You don’t mind it. Or well… you’re a little sceptical when he first introduces you to mushrooms, but you trust him enough to try.

You don’t think you’ve ever really felt the forest before. Touching the trees as you pass them, feeling the deep wrinkles of bark run under your palm—it’s like the skin of something ancient. After taking a closer look, you swear you can spot the faces.

The wind is like a song, and the river sings along. You don’t know, you feel so small, but in a good way, in a way that everything around you suddenly becomes transcendent.

You look back at him, and hidden there, in the trees, you don’t even realize, but you’ve forgotten about the rest of the world.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Shoto, Denki, Kirishima, Hawks, Shinso, Natsuo, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Yuji, Megumi, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Sugawara, Kuro, Bokuto, Osamu ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Tomioka, Tanjiro ♡ WB – Kiryu, Nirei, Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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kookooluvr · 1 month ago

Text

TEACH ME HOW TO LOVE — PART 8

jeon jungkook, a fellow professor at yonsei university, is your friend, co-worker, and secret bed buddy. you have rules set in place to make sure there are no misunderstandings in your little arrangement. the #1 rule is as clear as day; no catching feelings. simple, right? wrong. let's see how un-simple it gets when a certain economics professor falls for an emotionally unavailable political science professor.

pairing: professor!jungkook x (fem) professor!reader, fwb to lovers

genre: fluff, angst, smut, fwb au, economicsprofessor! jungkook, politicalscienceprofessor!reader, slow burn, some emotional constipation, some sappy moments, lots of sexy moments.

rating: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

w/c: 13.8k

warnings: jk's mood starts out kinda down, oc pours her heart out on a long ass voicemail, the long awaited reunion (yay yay yayyyy), lots of tears (happy tears, don't worry guys), loads and loads of fluff, love confessions, mentions of oc going to therapy, mention of jk's kiss with hana (🙄), talks of oc's past relationship trauma, explicit sexual content; lots of kissing, nipple play, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), unprotected sex, missionary, morning sex, brief cowgirl, doggy, post-sex shower and breakfast.

a/n: AHHHHHH !!!! WAR HAS ENDED !!! i'm so happy for my babies y'all, they're so in love 🥹🥹 pleasssseeee let me know all your thoughts because i'd love to hear them. do all the lovely things (like, comment, reblog) because it really helps me, and enjoy !! 🫂🫶🏼

taglist: @rpwprpwprpwprw @livinluvl @puppybunnyjkay @mimi1097 @bumblebee-21s-blog @koosluvss @sou-17 @svnbangtansworld @junecat18 @shrek-the-destroyer @tastykookoonut @sturniolowrld @palomanazareth @chimmisbae @daskewl @ramyun-h @heyitsroshni @matryoshka-poetry @almatiarau @gukkie7 @ambiee3 @blueberriesm @milkk1400 @yuriouki @lovelovethebeatles @somehowukook @deedeeps @emily-hung @jkaxl @bhonbhon @bearchermer @annafarrr @in-out-inbetween @mar-lo-pap @lilacstellar

SERIES MASTERLIST

SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

The snow falls in quiet, gentle flakes outside his office window, blanketing Yonsei's campus in white. It's beautiful in that cinematic, melancholic kind of way. It's the kind of snow that makes you wish you had someone to hold hands with, someone to snuggle under a blanket, someone who would gently brush their fingers over your eyes and say, "It's sticking to your eyelashes, dummy."

But all Jungkook has is silence.

The campus is mostly empty, buildings shuttered for winter break, windows no longer glowing with office lights. The buzz of the semester has finally burned itself out and so has Jungkook.

His office is warm but sterile, lit by the dull buzz of fluorescent lights. He could have left by now, just like everyone else. The last of the faculty had filtered out hours ago, eager to escape into the arms of winter break, laughing in wool coats and boots as they made promises to unplug, to rest, to spend the break baking and sleeping in and binge-watching dramas.

He could've gone home too, should have, honestly, but he stayed. Not because he has to, but because there's nothing waiting for him at home except a fridge of neglected groceries, a sleeping Bam, and a bed that feels cold and lonely to sleep in. He barely sleeps in his bed. Most nights, he just falls asleep on the couch after drowning himself in work. That must be why he hasn't noticed anything missing from his home, anything that would be incredibly valuable to him, like a box filled with his heart written out on paper.

Taehyung hasn't said anything about the box he stole that night. He's done what he could do and all he can do now is wait and see what you choose to do with what you were given.

Jungkook hasn't gotten a chance to speak to Taehyung in the past week because he's been spending his time grading the last of his students' exams and spending his free time with Jihyo. He's happy for him. At least one of them got their girl.

Life has started to feel like it's moving again, and he can't decide if that's a good thing or not. It's not to say that his life has been meaningful in any way because that would be a lie. He goes to work and goes home to Bam, who he pours all of his affection into. He goes through the motions of eating and sleeping because he has to or else he won't survive, but it doesn't feel as burdensome as it used to.

Does that mean he's starting to move on from you? He can't lie and say yes. He doesn't know how to do that.

Move on.

A part of him still holds onto the hope that it'll all end with you. The other part of him feels like four months is too long a time to keep hoping. Something inside of him, that petty little thing gnawing at his brain, wishes you would come crawling back and beg for his forgiveness for breaking his heart, the forgiveness he stupidly already gave you without you even having to ask for it.

Most days, going home means stillness, and in stillness, you return. Home is where the walls still remember your voice, whether it be laughing at something he said or moaning as he explored your body. Home is where Jungkook lies awake in bed thinking about the day he finally told you he loved you, and you couldn't say it back. Not because you didn't feel it, he knows you felt it, but because you didn't feel safe enough to say it.

It still hurts, but some days work takes his mind off of things for a while and it hurts just a little bit less. Like today.

He leans back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes with the heel of his palm. The last batch of admin forms is finally filed, course evaluations uploaded, and emails answered. His brain feels like static on a tv screen, his body running on bitter, re-heated coffee. He didn't eat lunch. He barely had time for breakfast because he accidentally overslept and had to fly out the door without even a glance at the mirror.

He heaves a deep sigh and glances at the clock on the wall.

6:57pm.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, gathering his things. He shrugs on his coat and slings his satchel over his shoulder before flicking off the office light.

The hallway echoes with his footsteps. For the first time in months, he doesn't turn his head in hopes of catching a glance at you in the hallways.

Outside, the snow crunches beneath his boots as he makes his way to the parking lot. It's basically empty, given everyone already left to enjoy the start of their winter break. He'd normally text Taehyung to ask if he's still on campus, maybe suggest grabbing a coffee, but his phone is sitting right on his kitchen counter at home. Of course. That's the result of forgetting to set an alarm in the morning.

Today's apparently just not his day. And now, the final cherry on top: two hours' worth of traffic.

Jungkook groans as his car crawls along the main road, brake lights stretching endlessly ahead of him like a red river of holiday misery. The snow isn't helping, but neither is the wave of exhaustion crashing over him. He stares out the window, chin resting against his knuckles.

He should be excited to have time off. Everyone else is. All he can think about, however, is how much emptier everything feels now.

By the time he finally pulls up to his driveway, it's well after 9pm. The snow is still falling, covering the sidewalk in a thin white coat, his foot almost slipping when he gets out of the car. He slams his car door shut, trudging up to the front door, shrugging off his coat and kicking off his boots in the entryway. Bam greets him at the door, tail wagging, whining excitedly as he rubs his head against Jungkook's leg.

"Hey, big boy," he murmurs, dropping his bag to kneel down and scratch behind the dog's ears. "I missed you too, buddy."

Bam licks his cheek and bolts to the living room, expecting their usual post-work playtime, but Jungkook's energy is spent.

He heads straight for the kitchen, pulls out a can of beer and stares at it for a few seconds before cracking it open with a sigh. The first sip tastes bitter but he drinks it anyway. Then he sinks into the couch, his shoulders slumped, and stares blankly at the black tv screen. The beer does nothing to warm the hollowness inside him.

He leans his head back against the couch, closing his eyes, letting the low hum of the heater fill the room. Now that he has no work to keep him busy, he's left with a dull ache in his chest.

His beer is halfway finished when Jungkook hears the buzz of his phone coming from the kitchen counter.

He doesn't feel like speaking to anyone right now, but he reluctantly drags himself off the couch and pads over to get the phone from the counter, letting out a sigh as he unlocks it to see who's bothering him.

It's a text from his mom.

Mom [9:46]: Jungkook, please make sure you're careful out there! I read something about a man who slipped and cracked his skull open in the snow. Dead instantly! Love you. Wear proper shoes!!

Jungkook stares at the screen, blinking. He lets out a faint chuckle, his thumbs flying across the screen to let her know that he is in fact alive and well, and that she should stop reading those Facebook posts.

He goes through his missed notifications and doesn't find anything out of the ordinary. That is until he sees it.

Missed call. One voicemail.

From you.

His entire body goes stiff, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at your name on his screen, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. He doesn't press play. Not right away. He stares at the little play button like it might bite him. In fact, it might just kill him.

You called him after months of radio silence and he can't figure out why. He doesn't even realize he's pacing around the living room until Bam lets out a small huff of confusion. Jungkook runs a hand through his hair almost a million times, his phone clutched to his chest.

What if it's closure?

What if you're saying goodbye for real this time?

What if you're trying the fix what you broke?

He doesn't know which of those scares him more, if he's quite honest with himself. But then he remembers your face. The way you looked that morning when you broke things off. You didn't look angry, just...scared. Wounded.

He has to listen to the voicemail. He can't not listen to it.

He takes one deep breath, a really long, drawn-out breath, and hits play.

Your voice crackles softly through the speaker and his legs almost give in.

"Hey...it's, uhm...it's me. I, uhh...I know it's been months...and you probably don't want to hear from me...and I wouldn't blame you..."

There's a long pause before you continue, and he stands frozen, waiting with bated breath.

"I know you're hurt...and angry...and uhm..."

There's another pause before a deep sigh.

"You said you wanted to get to know the...the real me, so, uhm...I wrote some things down and I wanted to read them to you. It's kinda stupid, I know...and if you just want to put the phone down right now, I understand...but..."

Jungkook chews on his bottom lip, hearing the shakiness of your voice. It makes his stomach churn with nerves.

"I grew up very shy...kinda nerdy. I was bullied a lot in elementary school, so my parents had to put me in another school because girls would call me ugly names and lock me in the bathroom during break. I have a close relationship with my parents. They're the people I hold most dear to me, and my sister, Yuna, who you already know about. My parents worked really hard to provide the best for us. My mom was a seamstress, and my dad actually worked as a lecturer at SNU for almost thirty years. I think I saw how passionate he was about his job, so I followed in his footsteps," you chuckle.

"I took ballet from the age of five to thirteen, and piano around twelve, but I forgot most of it, so please never ask me to play. I had braces at thirteen and I had a 'Dora the Explorer' haircut for most of middle school," you sigh.

As the seconds tick by, the ache in Jungkook's chest swells. With every word, every pause, every breath you take on the other end of the line, something in his unravels. He sits down on the couch and closes his eyes, listening with a smile on his face, his eyes stinging with emotion.

"I love spicy food, even though my stomach hates me afterwards. I love it, can't stop eating it. My mom always scolds me and says I'm hurting my body, but...oh well," you scoff. "I know you always make fun of me for liking matcha, so shut up, I don't wanna hear it, Jeon Jungkook. I like matcha, okay? Sue me. My favourite flavour of ice cream is vanilla, boring and basic, I know. I love baking, which you already know because you've gotten a batch or two of cookies on your desk at work from an unknown source, even though I know that you know it was always me. I love chocolate cake, the really fudgy kind that's almost too sweet and you have to drink a glass of milk with it. I had two pets throughout my childhood and Miso is my third. I might be biased but she's the best. Okay, uh, what else? Uhmmm...I have a fear of heights...and snakes...and clowns. Fucking hate clowns. I'm allergic to pollen and get really stuffy and sneezy during spring, but you always give me your little pack of tissues, which I never actually see you use, so I think you only buy them to give them to me. I've never travelled outside of Korea, but I'd like to someday. Maybe to Barcelona or Paris. I love romcoms and all the cliché, sappy stuff that's way too unrealistic to actually happen in real life...and my embarrassing guilty pleasure is Love Island. Don't make fun of me because I know you will!"

There's another long pause while you brace yourself for what's to come. Jungkook hangs onto every word, the phone clutched tightly in his shaky hand.

"I was in a seven-year relationship with my ex, Sunghoon...the one I told you about in Jeju. We met when I was sixteen...and...I thought I was going to marry him and have babies...grow old together..."

Jungkook feels his face burn hot with suppressed emotion. This is it. This is what he's been waiting for. You're finally giving him the missing puzzle pieces he never had before. You're finally telling him why you could never fully give yourself to him.

"Sunghoon proposed to me and, naturally, I said yes because...I thought that he was...my person," you sigh. "He told me that I was the one true love of his life and that he would never do anything to hurt me. And then he...cheated on me. He cheated on me with a friend of mine and...I packed up my things and I left."

Your voice is shakier now, like you're willing yourself not to cry, and this almost breaks Jungkook completely.

"I cried on Jihyo's bathroom floor for God knows how long. It took me almost two years to stop hurting. I blamed myself. He blamed me too. I let him convince me that it was somehow my fault that he cheated, that I just wasn't good enough for him. And I was so depressed for such a long time because of what he did to me. I promised myself that I would never let anyone in like that again...I would never allow myself to be loved by a man because that would give them the power to hurt me. And then I transferred to work at Yonsei and...and then I met you. And we became friends...and you were so...kind...and so welcoming...and you made me feel comfortable. And then we got drunk at that staff Christmas party last year and had sex, and maybe I was stupid enough to think that no one would end up getting hurt in the end. And when we kept doing it, I needed those boundaries to keep me safe from being hurt by the cute economics professor I was secretly hooking up with. Those stupid rules and boundaries would protect me from you and the feelings I knew I was starting to develop for you. I knew that if I let you stay the night...if I let you kiss me whenever you wanted...if I fell asleep in your arms every night...I knew that I'd fall in love with you. And yet...stupid me, and my stupid heart...I didn't care about any of that because I still fell. I fell in love with you."

You let out a soft sigh, your voice trembling.

"When we started hooking up, you made me feel like a woman again instead of an empty shell. You made me feel desired and...sexy...and beautiful. You made me feel like I wasn't the problem all along...like Sunghoon cheating on me wasn't because of anything that I did. And when you told me you loved me it all just became a bit too real, and I freaked out because Sunghoon loved me too at some point, and he still betrayed me. And if I told you that I loved you...it would be opening myself up to be hurt again. And I get it if you never want to speak to me again because I wouldn't either if I were you. I'm a mess and I run away when I get scared and I hurt people before they can hurt me...and...and I punished you because of Sunghoon's actions. I hurt you because he hurt me and I'm so, so sorry, Jungkook."

It's as if time stands still for Jungkook. He almost thinks that's the end of it, but your voice comes through right at the end in a soft, shaky murmur.

"You are...the sweetest, kindest...most amazing man that I have ever met...and I love you, Jungkook. I'm so utterly...madly in love with you...and you deserve so much better than me...but if you give me the chance...I swear I'll never hurt you like I did before. So...yeah...that's all. Please call me back. Bye."

Jungkook doesn't move for a while after the voicemail ends. He just sits there, staring down at the phone in his hand as if it still holds your voice, like if he listens hard enough, maybe he can hear you right here with him in his living room.

He doesn't realize he's crying until he hears his own broken sob slipping from his throat and harshly stabbing his ears. It startles him. It sounds raw. Uncontrolled.

His head spins as the weight of the voicemail finally crashes into him. Everything you said, everything you gave him in that voicemail, it was real. It was all of you.

You're finally letting him see the real you.

You gave him everything he thought you'd never trust him with; your pain, your past, your fears, your truth. And it wrecks him.

He sinks onto his back on the couch, the phone clutched like it holds all the most precious secrets in the world. The only thing wracking through his brain is your voice. It echos in his ears, every confession whispered with shaky breath.

You really love him.

He presses a hand over his mouth as another sob escapes, muffled and aching, tears slipping hot and fast down his cheeks. It's quiet devastation. It's relief and love and hope.

He has to get to you. Now.

Jungkook rushes to stand up and gather his things. His hands shake as he looks for his keys. Where the hell are his keys? He pats down every pocket, rushing from the living room to the entryway, looking frantic, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might tear through his ribs.

He yanks on his boots, almost falling over in the process. He doesn't even care to put his coat on because he finds his keys and rushes to yank the front door open, but he freezes at the sight that greets him.

There you are. Standing on his porch.

Your hand is raised as if you were about to ring the doorbell, but you freeze, caught mid-motion. Snow falls around you, gathering in your hair, on your shoulders, soft and shimmery in the porch light. You're clutching something against your chest.

The box.

His box.

Jungkook's heart lurches into his throat, so hard and so fast it's almost painful.

Neither of you say anything at first. You both just stare at each other with wide eyes and ragged breaths, cold snowflakes melting on heated cheeks and old tears drying as new ones form.

And then you speak, soft and steady.

"I read your letters."

His stomach twists sharply, his hands trembling where they hover uselessly by his sides.

He blinks at you, completely stunned. "W-What?"

You tighten your hold on the cardboard box as if it's the only thing anchoring you there. The lid almost falls off, which feels quite like your emotions as you stand before him, just begging to spill out at the seams.

"I read all of them. Every single one. Even the ones from as far back as four years ago."

Jungkook's mouth opens but nothing comes out at first. His eyebrows furrow, a million questions running through his head. When he finally does speak, his voice is breathless, almost too quiet to hear. "How did you get those?"

You shift the box in your hold, steadying it under your arm while you wipe your damp cheek with the sleeve of your sweater, fresh tears falling.

"Taehyung," you croak out, your chuckle shaky and broken. "He...he must have stolen them if you didn't even know I had them."

He scoffs, his eyebrows shooting up. "That little-"

You cut him off with a shaky laugh, stepping forward, the snow crunching under your shoes.

"I'm glad he did, Kook," you murmur, your voice wobbling with your emotions. "Because if he hadn't...I never would've known..."

He stares at you, his heart hammering with every inch that disappears between your bodies. "Known what?"

You swallow thickly, your tears glistening in your lashes. "That you loved me even when I didn't deserve it. Even when I insisted on keeping you at arm's length. That...you saw me, even the parts I tried to hide."

You let out a breath, your voice quivering, your eyes welling up until everything spills over and runs down your face.

"That you waited for me to be brave enough to love you back."

You step closer, your words spilling out, desperate and earnest like you have to convince him of your true feelings.

"I read every word, Jungkook. I read about all the little things you noticed about me when I thought no one did. I read about all the nights you got close to confessing your feelings for me but didn't because you knew I wasn't ready to receive it. How much you hoped that I would choose you someday. And it made me realize that I was never scared of you hurting me. I was scared because...because you loved me so deeply and...I didn't think I deserved to be loved like that by someone as good as you."

You sniffle, laughing weakly through heavy tears. "But you loved me anyway. You loved me so...patiently. And I was too much of a coward to let myself have it."

Jungkook's body buzzes with adrenaline, his muscles trembling, his emotions boiling so violently inside him that he feels as if he might fall to his knees. But he remains firm. He owes it to himself.

"I'm so, so sorry, Jungkook," you whisper. "I'm sorry for pushing you away and I'm sorry for making you think you weren't enough. You're everything. You always have been."

He can't take it anymore. He can't bear to stand here anymore and not have you in his arms where you belong.

In one swift motion, Jungkook steps forward and grabs the box of letters from your hands, tossing it somewhere inside without a care before cupping your cheeks in his trembling hands, pulling you to him.

And then he's kissing you. Hard. Desperate. He kisses you like he's trying to pour every unsaid word, every lonely night, every broken piece of himself into you, where he feels safe.

You whimper against his lips, your hands clutching the fabric of his shirt like you'll drown without him. The snow falls even heavier, but neither of you notice. All he knows is that you're here now. You're home.

"I'm sorry for hurting you, Kook," you mumble against his mouth, pulling away to look at him.

He shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowing. "Don't apologize. You're here now."

"Still. I shouldn't have hurt you just because I was still hurting from my past. It wasn't your fault. You didn't deserve that."

He hears the genuine remorse in your voice, sees the guilt in your eyes, and it twists his heart. He wants to argue and tell you that he knows you were just protecting yourself, that it's all okay, but he doesn't. He can't deny that it hurt, the silence you gave him, the cold shoulder.

He takes a deep breath, reaching for your face and gently stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. "I understand why you did it...but I'm not your ex. I wouldn't...I'd never..." he trails off, his words getting caught in his throat.

You nod, offering him a soft smile, your eyes growing glossy. "I know."

He swallows, his throat feeling tight. "I couldn't hurt you like that. I care about you too much."

"I know, baby," you whisper, gently pecking his lips.

The pet name sends a shiver down his spine. It has never sounded better than when it rolls off your tongue.

He kisses you back, closing his eyes as he savours the feeling of your mouth on his, your tongues moving in a slow dance. He wraps his arms around you, keeping you against his chest, his hands trailing up and down your back.

He breaks the kiss only long enough to press his forehead against yours, his breath coming out in ragged gasps, his thumbs gently stroking your back through the wool of your sweater.

"I missed you," he chokes out. "God, I missed you so much, ___."

His mouth finds yours again. It's softer now, slower, tasting the saltiness of your fresh tears, the sweetness of your lips on his, the warmth of having you, really having you this time.

He drags you inside, kicking the door shut with his foot, not once letting you go.

Bam barks excitedly somewhere behind him, but Jungkook barely hears him. His world has narrowed to the feeling of you in his arms, the weight of you real and warm and finally his to love.

"Don't leave me again," he whispers into the kiss. "Please."

You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him harder. "Never," you promise, your voice breathless, thick with emotion. "Never again."

Outside, the snow falls, blanketing the city with the finality of the year past, but inside, your kisses hold the promise of everything that's still waiting to begin.

Jungkook doesn't break the kiss as he walks you backwards down the hall, pausing every few steps just to murmur your name against your lips like he still can't believe you're really here.

Your back hits the doorframe of his bedroom, and he smiles against your mouth, his hands tightening on your waist as he guides you inside. The room is dim except for the glow of the snowfall filtering through the curtains, silver light dusting over the bed, the walls, you.

He kicks the door closed to make sure Bam doesn't interrupt because he can't afford to stop at a moment like this. He keeps moving until he stops in front of the bed and pulls away from the kiss to look at you properly, looking at you like you're something holy, something he's afraid to touch too quickly and ruin.

His hands drift down from your waist, slow and reverent, until they find the hem of your sweater. His fingers brush teasingly along the strip of skin just above your jeans, and you shiver under his touch.

You reach for the hem to help him, but he gently shakes his head, his lips brushing against your temple. "Let me. Please."

You nod, your heart pounding, your eyes shining as you look up at him in the dim light of his bedroom, the moonlight making everything feel that much softer and sweeter.

With infinite tenderness, Jungkook lifts your sweater, bunching it higher inch by inch. His hands graze over your sides, your ribs, the underswell of your breasts. You raise your arms for him, and he pulls the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without ever taking his eyes off you.

His breath hitches, his hands skimming back down to cradle your waist. "You're so goddamn perfect," he murmurs, like a secret meant only for you.

Your fingers find the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of him. Without speaking, you undo each one and slowly pull the cotton off of his shoulders, watching it fall to the ground. His skin is warm and solid under your touch, and your palms flatten against his chest, feeling the pounding rhythm of his heart.

Jungkook captures your mouth in a slow, passionate kiss, his hands sliding down to your hips. You clumsily kick off your shoes and he gently walks you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and then, with a careful push, he lays you down among the pillows.

He hovers over you, just staring, his gaze drinking you in like you're the most precious thing he's ever seen. His thumb strokes lightly across your cheekbone.

"Hi," you whisper, smiling up at him, like two lovers meeting after an eternity apart.

"Hi, baby," he whispers before dipping his head to kiss you once more. But he doesn't stay at your mouth for too long.

His lips trail lower, across your jaw, down the curve of your throat. He worships every inch of skin he comes across in his path, kissing slowly, desperately, down to the hollow between your collarbones, the soft curve of your breast, his fingers reaching behind you to unclasp your bra.

He gently tosses the material to the floor and dips his head to swirl his tongue around a nipple, giving it a nice, slow suck before pulling off with a pop, moving on to the other nipple.

Your fingers thread through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as he licks and sucks on your breasts, leaving them glistening under the moonlight.

With a lingering kiss to the underside of your breast, he moves lower, trailing his wet lips down the dip of your stomach.

He pulls away to sit back on his knees, reaching for the button of your jeans. "Can I take these off?"

You nod, appreciating that he asked, even though you would never say no to that request.

"Yes," you breathe out, lifting your hips to let him pull the denim from your legs, the weight of it hitting the floor with a dull thud. His lips are back on you in an instant, teasing your hipbones.

You arch into him, soft whimpers leaving your throat with every brush of his mouth. Your hands bury themselves further into his hair, needing to anchor yourself somehow, needing to hold onto something in case you float up to heaven. That's how good his lips feel on your sensitive skin.

Jungkook kisses lower, slower, until he's kneeling at the edge of the bed between your legs. He looks up at you one last time, his hand stroking up your thigh, a silent question in his eyes.

You nod, your voice breaking as you whisper a soft, "Please, baby."

And then he removes your panties and places them with the rest of your clothing on his bedroom floor, his eyes locked onto your waiting core. "You're so beautiful, ___," he sighs, his voice taking on a blissful, almost dreamy tone.

He leans in, placing a feathery light kiss to your mound, his breath brushing against your skin.

The first drag of his tongue through your folds is enough to make your back arch off the bed, an airy moan spilling from your lips. He is devastatingly slow, deliberate, like he has all the time in the world, like your pleasure is the only thing that has ever mattered to him.

He slowly licks up and down between your folds, collecting your essence on his tongue, his hands softly squeezing your thighs.

"You taste amazing," he breathes, pulling back so he can look up at you, his gaze meeting yours, his tongue trailing over his lips before diving back in.

He licks from your slit up to your clit, your eyes fluttering shut, your fingers gripping his hair.

You've never had a man know your body the way he does. He knows you inside and out, and the thought is enough to make you clench around nothing.

"Fuck, baby," you moan breathlessly as he focuses on your clit, swirling his tongue around it before sucking slowly, your thighs trembling in his hold.

Jungkook groans against your pussy as he feels you writhe beneath him, as he tastes the depth of your need. His hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you open for him as he works you with his tongue, giving your clit slow, patient strokes, never rushing, never letting up.

He pulls back only briefly to kiss your inner thigh, whispering, "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

You sob his name, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer as his tongue trails lower to tease your entrance, gently pushing inside.

He smiles against your wet folds, burying his tongue deep within your velvet walls, thrusting the muscle in and out while his nose rubs against your swollen clit, devouring you with the kind of tenderness that feels like a prayer. It's passionate. It's overwhelming. It's everything you've both been aching for.

"Does that feel good?" he mumbles, his voice muffled against your pussy, looking up at you through his lashes. He trails his tongue back up to your clit, licking and sucking it with more vigour and determination to make your eyes roll back in your head.

"S-so good, Kook," you whimper, arching your back as he laps at your clit, spreading your things wider, your stomach clenching as the pleasure flows through your veins. "Just like that, baby..."

He hums against your core, the sound sending vibrations through your body. He brings two of his fingers to slide through your folds, getting it wet before slowly pushing into you, feeling how tight you are for him. It makes something within him ache, makes the fire in his veins grow hotter.

"Tell me if it's too much," he mumbles between licks, always considerate of your needs and your pleasure.

"N-no, it's...it's not too much," you mutter breathlessly, moaning as he curls his fingers inside you, the feeling twisting in your gut. "Feels...s-so good...I'm almost there," you gasp, feeling him flick his tongue a little bit faster.

He laps at your pussy like a starved man, his fingers pumping in and out of you faster, wanting to bring you the pleasure only he can give you.

You cry out in pleasure as he curls his fingers at just the right angle, rubbing against your sweet spot, his tongue flicking at your clit with toe-curling precision.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck...!"

And when you cum on his tongue, crying out his name into the air, Jungkook holds you through it, murmuring soft words of love and praise against your pulsating core.

Your grip on his hair is almost painful, your vision going black as your orgasm washes over you. He gives your clit a few gentle licks to help you through it, slowly pulling his fingers out of your entrance, now glossy from your slick.

"Oh my God," you whisper under your breath, slowly catching your breath as he presses wet, lingering kisses to your folds, your body going completely limp against his mattress.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice hoarse from how hard he's breathing, his eyes flicking up to yours.

"I'm...amazing," you chuckle softly, watching as he crawls back up your body, hovering over you to make sure you're feeling good. You watch with heavy-lidded eyes as he licks and sucks his fingers clean, your pussy clenching at the sight.

He leans in to kiss your lips, his tongue gently pushing into your mouth, feeling you sigh out against his lips. He licks over your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth before gently biting down and giving it a slow tug, watching it bounce back in place with a soft smile on his face.

"You're the most perfect woman," he whispers tenderly.

You look up into his eyes, feeling like it's now or never. "I love you, Kook," you murmur, gently cupping his face in your shaky hands.

He smiles and tilts his face in your hands, softly kissing your palm, his eyes never leaving yours. "You love me?"

You nod sincerely, smiling as you watch him rise from the bed. His hands move to the button of his pants, working it open with slow, deliberate movements, his dark gaze trained on you. There's something intense about the way he looks at you, like he's letting you see all the hunger, all the love, all the devotion he's carried for you for so long.

He pushes his pants and boxers down his hips in one fluid motion, letting them fall to the floor.

And then his hand wraps around his cock, slow and sure, stroking once, twice, his eyes burning into yours, his fist twisting at the tip.

Your breath catches in your chest. You can't move, can't look away, feeling hypnotized by the sheer beauty of him, by the tenderness that lingers behind the lust in his eyes.

He groans softly at the feeling of his palm wrapped around his cock, the sound deep and rough, his muscles flexing under the soft glow of the moonlight.

But he doesn't leave you waiting for long.

Jungkook lets go of his cock and it stands fully erect, the tip a faint red, oozing a clear pearl of precum. He lets out a shaky exhale and crawls up the bed toward you, his hands planted on either side of your head as he cages you beneath him.

Your legs part instinctively, your knees bending to cradle his hips between your legs, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes slipping shut as if the closeness alone is almost too much to bear. He presses a tender peck to your lips and lowers his hips just slightly, grinding down against you in a slow, dragging motion.

The feeling of his hard length pressing against your sensitive core makes you whimper into his mouth, your hands trailing down his toned chest and stomach, up to his shoulders, over his back, touching every inch of skin you can reach.

Jungkook takes ahold of his cock, trailing the head through your soaked folds, lightly pressing the tip against your entrance. He swallows thickly as he looks down at your body, your thighs spread wide for him, offering yourself to him.

You tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling him down into another kiss, slow and deep, tasting of second chances. You pull back, your noses brushing against one another, your breath mingling in the tiny space between you.

"I love you," you whisper, your voice trembling.

Jungkook's hand cradles the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheek with devastating tenderness.

"I love you too," he breathes, pecking your lips. "I've loved you for so long."

And when he finally starts to push inside you, he does it slowly, like he's savouring every second, like he's memorizing the feeling of having you wrapped around him after so many long, torturous months.

Neither of you can stop the soft, broken moans that fall from your lips as you become one again, in every way possible.

His hand slides up the side of your thigh as he slowly sinks deeper into you, his chest tightening at how good it all feels, how right it feels to make love to you.

He presses his forehead to yours once he bottoms out, his lips hovering just above yours for a moment before he kisses you, his whole being aching with love, his hips pulling back only to thrust back inside, burying himself in you as deep as he can go.

The rhythm between you builds naturally, slow thrusts of his hips against yours, gentle kisses that grow deeper, heavier, more desperate. You cling to each other like you're afraid to let go, the emotion between you too much to hold back, too much to contain.

"Fuck," Jungkook chokes out, his voice raw. "You're...you're everything to me..."

You wrap your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his hair, your lips moving against his so passionately you almost don't register the fresh set of tears wetting your lashes.

He rocks his hips into you in the slowest, most tender rhythm you've ever felt. Each thrust is deep and languid, every roll of his body against yours speaking more than words ever could.

"I'm sorry, baby," he breathes against your lips. "I'm sorry I let you go. I should've fought harder."

You shake your head, tears slipping down your temples into the pillow. "No, Jungkook...I'm sorry. I should've been braver. I should've-"

He kisses you again, swallowing your shaky apology. "It's okay. We're here now," he murmurs, his voice quivering. "We're here."

You nod, clinging to him tighter, your arms and legs tightening around him.

The world outside blurs into nothing. Only the slow, rhythmic joining of your bodies remains, the gasps, the whimpers, the whispered 'I love you's between desperate kisses.

He's everywhere, his mouth mapping your jaw, your neck, your shoulders, his hands roaming your sides, your thighs, your hips. Worshipping you. Reassuring himself that you're here, that you're his.

"Baby, tell me if it's too much," he mumbles, his lips softly pressing to your cheek, his cock pumping in and out of your heat at a devastating pace.

"It's perfect, baby," you moan, cupping his face in your hands, feeling him thrust deeper, faster. "Feels s-so perfect."

His muscles tremble above you, his heart pounding in his chest. "God, I'm so in love with you," he groans against your skin, his thrusts growing more intense, his body craving more of you.

He makes love to you like no one ever has before, his fingers intertwining with yours against the sheets. Your bodies fit together like you were made for one another, like you were meant to do this for the rest of your lives.

He wants you like this forever, wants to spend the rest of his life with you, exactly like this. He loves you so much that it aches, his chest full, his mind spinning.

"Fuck, you feel so good," you moan, pushing your head back into the pillow, your walls clenching around him, your chest heaving. "I'm so close..."

"I know, baby," he mutters, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. "I'm right here. I've got you, my love."

He slides one hand down between your bodies to rub circles over your clit, thrusting his hips harder, that thick, heady feeling growing in your lower belly.

"Oh my God...f-fuck, baby, I'm c-cumming..!"

When you reach the peak of your pleasure, when your legs tighten around his waist and your walls clench desperately around him, Jungkook doesn't speed up.

He stays with you.

He carries you through it.

He presses his mouth against your shoulder, murmuring soothing reassurances, feeling you tremble and sob beneath him from the intensity of your second orgasm.

And when he follows you over the edge seconds later, it's with a low, guttural groan of your name, his arms shaking with how tightly he holds onto your body. His muscles shake, his cock twitching as he coats your insides with thick, white ropes of his cum.

It's been a while since he's felt such an intense pleasure. Sex with you always feels amazing, but making love and knowing that you love him back is something that he doesn't know how he'll ever get used to.

Neither of you lets go. Even when the aftershocks fade and your breathing evens out. He stays inside you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

The snow falls quietly against the bedroom window, but inside, everything is finally still.

You're safe. You're home.

"I'm never letting you go again, ___," Jungkook whispers against your damp skin, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Never."

You nod, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

He kisses your tears off your skin and whispers sweet promises into your ear, pulling soft giggles from your lips. It's not long before his cum starts to dry between your legs, so he reluctantly pulls out of you to go and get a warm, wet rag from the bathroom. He cleans you up between your thighs, making sure to be as gentle as possible as he drags the rag through your messy folds.

Jungkook quickly goes to toss the rag back in the bathroom and crawls back in bed. He pulls the covers over the two of you without breaking contact between your bodies, wrapping you up so tightly in his arms that you can feel the steady beat of his heart against yours.

He rolls onto his back, welcoming your head on his chest. His fingers trace slow, absentminded shapes along your back, his other hand tangled with yours under the covers. Your legs are draped over his, your cheek resting just below his collarbone, where you can feel the soft rise and fall of his chest with every breath.

You both bask in the silence for a while, just breathing each other in, your hearts syncing back into rhythm. But eventually, you shift, angling your face up toward his. "Can I tell you something?"

He hums. "You can tell me anything."

You pause, your fingers toying with the edge of the blanket draped across his chest. "I recently started going to therapy."

Jungkook's brows raise. He shifts so he can see you better, gently brushing some of your hair out of your face. "You have?"

You nod. "Yeah. I started going about two weeks ago. I didn't know what else to do after everything. I felt like I was stuck in this loop of blaming myself and not letting go of what Sunghoon did, of how it ended. So…I'm trying. You know, to start fresh, I guess. Learn how to not self-destruct every time I get scared."

His eyes soften, his lips spreading into a gentle smile. He presses his lips to your forehead and keeps them there for a moment. "I'm so proud of you, baby."

You let out a breathy chuckle, but your voice is quiet when you respond. "I wanted to be better. Mostly for the girl who believed she wasn't worthy of love. I owe her that much."

Jungkook kisses your cheek, your nose, your temple. "You've always been worthy. And I'm proud of you for taking care of yourself. I'll support you through it all."

Your eyes sting with a combination of emotions. You lean into him, your voice coming out smaller, softer. "I want to be someone who's capable of loving you the way you deserve."

He presses a kiss to your lips, his arms tightening around you. "You already are that person, baby. You always were. You just had to believe it."

You nod, a small, shaky exhale falling from your lips. "I do now."

There's a long pause. You feel his fingers still against your back. He shifts slightly beneath you, as if something's weighing on him.

"There's actually something I want to tell you too," he murmurs slowly, his tone sounding rather nervous. "Because I promised myself I'd never lie to you, not ever."

You tilt your head slightly, your heart giving a cautious thump. "Okay."

He takes a deep breath, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. "One night...a little while ago...Taehyung dragged me to a bar. I was…not in a good place."

You nod slowly. "Okay...? Go on."

Jungkook swallows thickly, hesitating. "Hana was there. And...we, uhm...we kissed."

Your breath stills.

His grip on you tightens ever so slightly. "I was drunk. And really...really sad. She kissed me and I kissed her back. It was for, like, a second. I wanted to feel anything that wasn't…the feeling of losing you."

Your chest tightens, but you remain silent, letting him finish.

"I stopped it," he says quickly, urgently. "It got...heated for a second, and then I realized how wrong it felt. I told her I loved you, that I wasn't going to use her to forget about you because I didn't want to forget about you. I could never, I swear."

You nod slowly, absorbing it, letting it settle.

His voice cracks slightly, his nerves peeking through. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I hate that it did, but I promised myself that if I ever got you back, I'd tell you everything. I don't want to start over with anything hidden between us."

There's a long pause, the air in the room feeling tense.

And then you sigh softly, reaching up to cup his jaw in your hand. "Thank you for telling me."

He blinks, clearly not expecting that response. "You're not…mad?"

You shake your head. "I mean...I can't lie, it hurts a little, yeah...but I get it. I pushed you away. I left you with nothing. You don't owe me perfection, Jungkook. All I ask for is honesty and you gave me that. That's more than Sunghoon ever gave me. You chose me, and that's what I'm holding onto."

Relief floods his whole body, and he leans in to kiss you softly, gratefully.

"I love you," he whispers against your lips. "So much it makes my chest hurt sometimes."

You kiss him back, cradling his cheek in your hand. "I love you too. Thank you for choosing me. And I don't mean choosing me over Hana. I mean...thank you for choosing me...in general, just me, for who I am and all the shit I come with..."

His expression softens, gently flipping you onto your back, hovering above you, his hair falling into his eyes as he leans in.

"I'll always choose you," he whispers, kissing your cheek.

"Even on your worst days." A kiss to your jaw.

"Even when you try to push me away." A kiss just below your ear.

"Even if you eat the last slice of pizza and deny it."

You burst out laughing. "Oh, so that's your love language? Eternal devotion, but with conditions, huh?"

"I never said eternal," he scoffs, feigning seriousness. "My letters said I'd love you for at least fifty years, and then I'll reassess based on your behaviour."

Your mouth drops open in mock offense. "Fifty? That's it?"

He grins and nuzzles his face into your neck, chuckling softly against your skin. "Okay, okay. Maybe fifty-one. Maybe."

You giggle, tilting your head back as he kisses a warm trail down your throat.

"But seriously," you murmur, your eyes searching his. "Those letters…they broke me...in the best way. You wrote about things I didn't even realize you remembered. Like the cardigan I lost in the library."

"The blue one with the frayed cuff," he says instantly. "You said it felt like a hug."

Your throat tightens. "How do you remember all that?"

He kisses your nose, your cheeks, your lips. "Because I loved you for four years, baby. I memorized you."

You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, more intentional.

You break the kiss with a soft giggle, as if realizing something. "You wrote a three-page letter about my eyes."

He groans, rolling onto his back and covering his face with his hand. "I was down bad. Shush."

You're full-on laughing now, your cheeks sore from how hard you're smiling. You roll onto your side to face him, leaning up on your elbow.

"And the one where you wrote 'Sometimes I pretend to forget stuff just so you'll explain it to me and look at me all proud when I understand'?"

Jungkook grabs a pillow and covers his face completely. "Okay. That's enough. This is character assassination."

You peel the pillow away, still smiling, and cup his face. "No, baby. This is love. And I'm keeping those letters forever, so get used to the emotional blackmail."

He laughs through the embarrassment, his cheeks burning but his eyes are so full of affection and admiration. "As long as you're staying, you can blackmail me all you want."

He rolls onto his side so you're facing each other, your noses almost touching, your smiles matching, both of you curling inward like two magnets finally allowed to rest.

"I feel like I can finally breathe again," you whisper.

"Me too." He presses his lips to your temple. "And this time, I'm not letting anything get in the way."

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, his heartbeat echoing against your chest.

There's still healing to do. There's still work to be done, but you'll do it together. And for now, that's more than enough.

The world is quiet outside, and for once, both your head and your heart match it.

You wake up slowly, sleep-drunk and tangled in warmth, your legs tangled lazily with Jungkook's under the warm covers. His arm is heavy across your waist, his chest rising and falling steadily behind you, and you feel the soft brush of his breath at the nape of your neck.

Neither of you talk at first. There's no need. You're both wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after a storm, the peaceful kind, the kind that says 'we made it'.

Eventually, you feel him shift slightly behind you. A soft kiss lands on your shoulder, then another.

"Still here," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, his lips brushing over your bare skin. "Was worried I dreamed the whole thing."

You smile to yourself, your eyes still closed. "If this is a dream, don't wake me up."

He chuckles lowly, curling in closer until his nose nuzzles behind your ear. "Don't tempt me. I'll keep you here forever."

You stretch slowly, turning in his arms until you're facing him. His hair is a mess, his eyes are puffy with sleep, and there's a tiny crease on his cheek from the pillow. He's devastatingly handsome, and yet, utterly adorable.

You're so in love. You can admit that out loud now and know that it's not scary.

"You drool a little," you whisper, brushing a finger under the corner of his mouth.

He furrows his eyebrows, his lips puffing out into the faintest pout. "I do not."

"You do," you grin.

He rolls onto his back, dragging you with him so that you end up sprawled half on top of him, legs tangled and bare skin pressed to bare skin. "Fine," he sighs. "But you love me so you'll overlook it, right?"

You smile, rubbing your hand up and down along his chest. "Mm. I do."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips, kisses it softly. Then again. And again. His voice softens. "Still can't believe I get to wake up like this. With you."

Your smile melts into something softer, more vulnerable. "It feels different, doesn't it?"

"Yeah." His fingers trail along your arm, his nails lightly tickling your skin. "Like everything finally fell into place."

"It's crazy that Tae kinda made this happen. I mean, you confessed and I was a dick about it but if he didn't give me those letters, I wouldn't have known how sincere you really were."

"I owe him," he scoffs. "Remind me to thank him for completely violating my privacy and saving my entire life in the same breath."

You grin, your fingers dancing lazily over his chest. "He knew what he was doing. He always knows."

"That cheeky bastard," Jungkook murmurs affectionately. "I'll call him later. Tell him he's officially off the hook for every embarrassing story he's ever told about me on drunken nights out."

"Even the one about you bending over and your pants ripping mid-lecture?" you chuckle.

Jungkook groans. "Especially that one."

You laugh again, melting deeper into his embrace. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, kissing the warm skin there. "So…what now?"

He hums thoughtfully, eyes fluttering shut. "We enjoy the holidays. We get snowed in together. We raise Miso and Bam together, which might be a challenge at first but they'll grow to love each other. I make you breakfast in bed every morning. Bam learns how to make coffee."

You laugh, your voice muffled against his skin. "Very realistic plan, professor."

He lifts his head just enough to kiss your temple. "Okay, but really?" He looks up at you as you pull away. "I want to take you on a date."

Your heart flutters. "A date?"

He nods. "A real one. Not just grocery shopping or late-night convenience store runs. I mean...dressed up, picked up, nervous butterflies, 'walk you to your front door and kiss you goodnight' type of date."

You pretend to think about it for a moment. "When?"

"Next Friday," he says confidently. "Dinner. Just you and me. Somewhere special. Our official first date."

You bite your bottom lip, smiling so hard it hurts. "That sounds…kinda perfect."

Jungkook grins. "Good, because I plan on wining and dining you and then making you cum so hard that you-"

You cut him off with a laugh, playfully pinching him. "Jungkook!"

"What? I'm being romantic!" he laughs, warm and hearty and carefree. "I think my girlfriend deserves both a five-star meal and a few really good orgasms in one night."

Your face burns red as you bury it in his chest. "We're not calling me your girlfriend yet," you mumble, slowly looking up at his face.

He leans in, his mouth ghosting over yours. "Says who?"

You blink up at him, lips brushing, breath mingling. "Says me. Just for now, until after the first date."

He grins wickedly. "Then I guess I'll just have to make sure it's the best first date of your life."

You kiss him again, slowly, sensually, your tongue licking into his parted lips. He tastes good in the morning. He's not as minty fresh as he normally is, but it's that 'I like kissing you even if you didn't brush your teeth yet because I'm so utterly in love with you' type of taste.

Your lips don't part as you swing a leg over his hips, straddling him, your hands on either side of his head on the pillow. The room is chilly but the look in his eyes and the feeling of his semi-hard cock nestled between your legs warms you from the inside out.

You sit up straight, revealing your bare breasts to him, your messy hair falling down your shoulders and back.

His hands rest at your hips, touching your skin with tenderness and reverence, looking at you like he's seeing the sun rise for the first time.

"You're stunning," he whispers, almost like he still can't believe he gets to have you like this. "You look like an angel."

You feel heat bloom across your cheeks. "An angel?" you tease, raising your eyebrows at the comparison.

He nods, his jaw clenched, his fingers digging into the flesh on your hips. "The kind that...ruins men..."

You let out a breathless laugh, your head tilting back, exposing more of your neck to him. Before you can respond, his hands slide up your sides, large and warm and steady, until they cup your breasts with delicate care.

"They're so perfect," he sighs, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, feeling them harden to stiff peaks.

You smile as he sits up just slightly, leaning back on his hands as he presses open-mouthed kisses over the soft curve of one breast, then the other. His mouth is warm and tender and adoring, and it makes you arch into him without even thinking.

He groans softly, one hand splaying over your back, drawing you even closer. "How do you expect me to survive this?"

You wrap your arms around his neck, your eyes hazy. "You're doing just fine, baby."

His mouth is greedy as it worships your breasts, licking and sucking your nipples in all the ways he knows you like, his chest tight and his breathing deep as he feels his cock grow harder between your legs.

He finally pulls away and slowly lifts his head to press soft kisses up your neck, his voice deep and rough when he speaks.

"Best tits in the world," he mutters, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

You chuckle softly, gently tugging on his soft strands of hair, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. "Best in the whole world?" you tease, your nipples glistening with his saliva.

"Mhm," he smiles, leaning back against the headboard, his fingers pinching your nipples, his tongue running along his bottom lip. "Gorgeous."

"You're gorgeous," you whisper, leaning in to press your lips to his. "You don't even realize how gorgeous you are, Kook," you whisper, trailing soft kisses down to his neck.

He lets out a quiet, breathy little laugh, his eyes half closed as he feels your lips on his skin.

"You're ridiculous," he grins, his hands slipping under the covers to cup your ass.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you murmur softly, kissing over his cheeks, the little mole under his mouth, the tip of his nose and each eyelid.

"I could spend hours writing love letters about how beautiful a man you are," you whisper against his skin, pouring all of your love and affection into your kisses.

He smiles lazily, his hand giving your asscheek a firm little tap. "Are you making fun of me for my love letters?"

"Mm-mm," you shake your head, your lips trailing down his jaw, your hips sensually grinding down on him. His cock slots perfectly between your pussy lips, feeling thick and ready.

"They were sweet. Made me cry a few times. I might write you some of my own someday."

His stomach clenches, inhaling sharply through his nose, his brows furrowing at the feeling of your wet heat gliding along his cock, your clit brushing against the head with every tantalising drag of your hips. The friction feels delicious, your bare skin soft and warm against his.

"Yeah?"

You nod, slowly reaching between your legs to align his tip with your entrance. "Yeah...later. Wanna make love first."

His eyes shine with excitement, his hips aching to lift up into you. "Fuck. Please."

You slowly sink down on him, your warm inner walls enveloping him whole. You both moan when you reach the base of his length, his fingers digging into your hips as you take a quick moment to adjust.

"Feel good?" you breathe, watching his eyes roll back in his head.

"Fuuuck," he groans, his chest heaving with labored breaths, his head dropping back against the headboard, his nails digging into your skin.

"Move, baby...please. I need you to move," he mutters through gritted teeth.

You roll your hips in a fluid motion, riding him nice and slow, just how he likes it in the morning.

"Fuck, you feel good," you moan, working up a steady pace, resting your hands at the back of his neck.

He lets out a sharp, shaky moan, his lips parting in ecstasy.

"Y-yeah, just like that," he breathes, his hands sliding up your back to your neck, pulling you towards him. "Kiss me, baby."

You lean in to kiss him, sliding your tongue into his mouth, tasting the man you love. You moan into his mouth as you ride him faster, your walls fluttering around his shaft, squeezing him like a vice.

"Turn around for me...get on your hands and knees..." he mutters into the kiss, his voice thick with arousal, his strong hands gripping your hips to slow them down.

A jolt of excitement shoots through you, obeying without a second thought.

You do as he says and get on your hands and knees, your ass up in the air.

"Like that?" you tease, looking over you shoulder as you shake your ass for him, knowing how much he loves to see it jiggle.

He lets out a soft groan, his eyes running over your ass, his hand pumping his wet cock, your slick coating his skin.

"Yes, just like that, my love," he scoffs, his hands running over your ass, gently squeezing, his gaze growing even darker. He sits up on his knees behind you so he can get himself aligned with your dripping entrance, his hands trained firmly on your ass as he thrusts into you from behind.

You press your face into the mattress as he fucks into you from the back, your hands gripping the sheets.

You moan desperately, feeling him so much deeper like this, your eyes rolling back in your head as he hits that sweet spot over and over again.

"Ohhh f-fuck, baby," you whimper, your toes curling, your head feeling fuzzy, feeling his presence surround you.

He looks down at your ass, watching the fatty flesh shake with every thrust of his hips, the little puckered rim winking at him, making his cock twitch.

"Goddamn, baby," he groans, landing a hard smack to your right asscheek, leaving a red handprint. "So fucking sexy."

He leans forward and drapes himself over your back, one arm wrapped around your waist as he hovers his mouth next to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, his voice deep and husky in your ear.

"Tell me you love me," he mutters roughly, thrusting harder, his pelvis slapping against your ass.

You can barely focus on anything other than the pleasure he's giving you, your body feeling like it's on fire.

"I...I love you, J-Jungkook," you moan pathetically, sounding desperate and needy for him.

"Say it again..." he mutters, his lips pressed to your neck, his thrusts growing rougher.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you whine, feeling him thrust faster, deeper, harder. "I love you, baby..."

"That's my good girl. I love you so much," he whispers, his free hand sliding up your spine and grabbing a fistful of your hair, pulling it back and exposing your neck, his lips soft against your skin, feeling your pussy pulse around him.

"Yes...yes, baby...!" you moan, your voice growing breathless as he pounds into you, the sound of skin slapping skin bouncing off of the walls of his bedroom.

His pace gets a little messy, a little sloppy, and you start to feel your high rapidly approaching. He's very rarely rough like this, and when he is, it does magically things to your body. The passion overtakes both of you, getting lost in the sensation of his thick cock drilling into you.

"Oh my god, baby...l'm gonna cum s-so hard," you gasp, gripping the sheets as the pressure builds in your lower stomach, threatening to unravel.

"That's it, baby," he mutters breathlessly. "Cum for me, ___," he growls, pulling your hair harder for him to bring his lips down to the side of your neck, sucking and nipping at your flesh.

Your body tenses up as the coil within you unravels, letting out an airy whine, your muscles trembling underneath him.

He quickly pulls out of your throbbing pussy, giving his cock a few quick tugs before cumming all over your ass, his stomach muscles flexing and relaxing repeatedly, his head thrown back, his eyes screwed tightly shut. His moans sound like something out of a porno as he paints your skin with his release.

He slowly opens his eyes and looks down at his masterpiece with a proud grin before plopping down next to you on the mattress, both of you panting as you catch your breath, your bodies glistening with a thin layer of sweat.

He turns to you and wraps his arm around you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, grinning innocently. "Have I mentioned I love you?"

"Once or twice, yeah," you chuckle weakly, slowly coming back down to earth. You lay flat on your stomach, the side of your face smooshed against the bed.

You feel his hand trail from your waist to your ass, lazily rubbing his cum into your skin.

"Kook, what are you doing?"

"I'm just rubbing it in. It's like lotion," he murmurs, gently squeezing your ass cheek in his hand.

"It's good for your skin..." he adds with a grin, his eyes sparkling with that playful, mischievous glimmer they get when he's in the mood to tease you.

"Good for my skin?" you laugh, leaning up on your elbows. "You're an idiot."

He grins, letting out a breathy little laugh, leaning in to place a couple of soft, lingering kisses to your shoulder.

"Just let me rub it in for you," he repeats softly, continuing to massage his cum into the skin of your ass.

Eventually, you manage to peel yourselves out of bed. Jungkook groans in protest, but you tug on his hand and lead him into the bathroom with a teasing, "Come on, loverboy. We smell like sex and I have your cum all over me."

The bathroom is cold, the tiles cool beneath your feet. You turn on the shower and step inside together, the steam quickly wrapping around you both like a comforting hug.

It's not rushed. It's not even particularly sexy. It's intimate and raw and unfiltered.

He lathers shampoo into your hair, careful and slow, his fingers massaging your scalp until you're practically melting under his touch. You rinse off, giggling when the water drips down your face, and you help him wash his hair in return, watching the suds slide over his firm muscles.

He kisses your shoulder when you reach for the body wash, and you return the favor when he turns to rinse, your lips pressing over the back of his neck, over the curve of his spine. Neither of you say much. You don't need to.

Once you're clean and warm and thoroughly pruned, he hands you a towel and wraps one around his waist. You smile at his damp hair sticking up in all directions, and he playfully shakes his head to flick water at you in return.

The two of you move through a shared routine like it's the most natural thing in the world. You brush your teeth side by side at the sink, giggling like teenagers. Jungkook leans over and kisses your foamy mouth mid-brush, just to make you squeal and shove him away.

When you rinse your mouth and reach for the hairbrush, he kisses your cheek and disappears into the bedroom to get something to wear.

You stand at the mirror, brushing out your damp hair and massaging moisturizer into your face, while the distant sound of kitchen cabinets opening and Bam's excited barking fills the house.

He talks to Bam like a child, "Yes, I know it's breakfast time. You've mentioned it seventeen times in thirty seconds," and the clatter of dog food into the bowl is oddly comforting.

You smile to yourself, your eyes trained on your reflection. Your skin is glowing. Your lips are kiss-swollen. Your heart feels full.

There's something so deeply romantic about all of this. Not just the physical intimacy, not just the sex, but the normalcy of it. The routine. The quiet. The way the spare toothbrush, which now belongs to you, sits beside his, the sound of his voice floating in from the kitchen, the coffee starting to brew.

This is what you've always wanted. Not grand declarations or cinematic gestures. Just this. The everyday softness of being loved.

The smell hits you first, something buttery and warm and just a little sweet wafting from the kitchen, curling into the hallway like a ribbon. You step out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around your body, your hair still slightly damp.

The house is quiet except for the low hum of Jungkook's Bluetooth speaker playing in the kitchen and the sound of Bam's paws clicking excitedly on the hardwood floor.

You put on the oversized sweater you find in Jungkook's closet. It hangs off your frame ridiculously, the sleeves almost swallowing your hands completely, but it's so warm and soft and it smells like him. You pair it with a clean pair of his boxers because your panties are still ruined after last night. It's a look that definitely says 'I'm someone's girl now', and you smile at the thought as you pad barefoot down the hallway.

"Bam," you call gently, and the Doberman immediately runs over to you, his tail wagging like crazy. He nuzzles his head against your thighs, and you scratch behind his ears with a soft laugh.

"Good morning to you too, handsome."

"He's only been asking where you are for the past ten minutes," Jungkook jokes from his spot at the stove.

He looks like the picture of domesticity in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His hair is still damp, curling slightly at the ends, his bicep flexing subtly each time he flips something in the pan.

You hop up onto the counter, legs swinging as you watch him.

"What's on the menu this morning, Chef?"

"Pancakes," he smiles down at the pan. "With syrup and strawberries. Also eggs and bacon. You know, for balance."

You hum in approval. "Look at you. A man of muscles and meal prep."

He chuckles and leans in to peck your lips before dumping the pancakes into a plate, moving onto the eggs.

Bam, with his tail wagging excitedly, walks over and sits before you like a good dog, clearly hoping for a piece of bacon to fall from the heavens.

You reach over to the plate already filled with fried bacon and carefully peel off an extra crispy piece, holding it out to Bam with a playful whisper.

"Don't tell your dad."

Bam gently takes it from your hand, his tail thumping against the floor as he enjoys his little treat.

Jungkook glances over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised. "Are you corrupting my son?"

"He said he was hungry," you shrug innocently, popping the last bite of the bacon into your mouth. "Plus, he used his puppy dog eyes on me."

Jungkook snorts, scrambling the eggs and adding salt and pepper. "Must have learnt that trick from you."

You hop off the counter while he plates the food, and the two of you sit down to eat, knees brushing beneath the kitchen table. For a moment, you both just eat silently, occasionally glancing at each other with small, almost shy smiles.

It's blissful.

Quiet, but not awkward. Comfortable, not rushed.

Jungkook wipes a bit of sweet syrup from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, quickly popping it into his mouth. "You're really staying calm about this whole thing. The old ___ would have laughed in my face if I made love to her and then cooked her breakfast afterwards."

You chuckle, picking a strawberry off of his plate and taking a bite. "What can I say? I've matured."

"Mmm. And the therapy." He nods, resting his elbow on the table with his chin in the palm of his hand. "You're emotionally stable now, huh?"

You chuckle. "Mostly."

He leans in and kisses your cheek. "I like you in every version."

You set your fork down in your plate, letting a moment of silence pass before you speak again, more softly this time. "So…you're really okay after everything that happened?"

Jungkook meets your gaze, thinking it over.

"I'm not okay with the fact that you were hurt like that to make you cope the way you did," he sighs. "But I am okay that we took the time we needed. And I'm okay because you're here now."

You look down, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. "It still kinda scares me. How easily I shut down. How quickly I let that fear control me."

"Hey." He nudges your foot under the table. "You're working on it. That's all anyone can ask. And now, when that happens again, which it might because healing isn't linear, I'll be right there. I won't let you carry it alone."

Your eyes sting a little, but not with sadness. Just...relief.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"For what?"

"For loving me even when it was difficult."

Jungkook leans across the table and takes your hand in his, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.

"I never stopped," he murmurs softly. "Even when I thought I should have. You were still it for me."

Then, just to lighten the air a little, you tease, "Well...you did almost let Hana become your coping mechanism."

He groans and drops his head to rest his forehead against the table. "Baby, please, don't remind me."

"But you kissed her," you shrug teasingly.

"It was barely a kiss," he scoffs, sitting up straight.

You raise an eyebrow. "You said it got heated."

"I was vulnerable! She ambushed me by the back alley of the bar like some deranged rom-com villain."

You try to keep a straight face. "That sounds romantic. What stopped you? The smell of garbage coming from the bins?"

He glares at you but there is zero heat in his eyes. "You, obviously. I kept seeing your face in my head and realized she could never be you. Not even close."

That shuts you up for a second.

Your playful grin fades into something softer, your eyes dipping down to your plate before finding his again. "Good...because I don't think I could've handled seeing you move on like that. Even if I told myself it was for the best."

Jungkook leans in closer, resting his elbows on the table, his voice low. "I didn't want to move on. That was the point. I was drunk and lonely and stupid, but I wasn't trying to forget you. I just wanted to stop hurting."

You nod slowly, his words hitting you in the chest. "Yeah. I get that."

He reaches for your hand again, threading his fingers through yours. "But I'd rather hurt with you than pretend I'm okay without you."

You let out a shaky exhale, giving his hand a squeeze. "You won't have to do either anymore."

His smile is soft and crooked and so full of affection. "Promise?"

You nod, pulling him closer by the back of his neck with your free hand, your nose brushing against his. "I promise," you whisper, pressing your lips to his in a tender kiss.

You kiss him once. Then again. Then again, this time with a lazy little sigh against his mouth.

"I thought we were finishing breakfast," Jungkook mumbles between kisses, his lips curving into a smile.

"We are," you whisper, tugging him closer by the back of his neck. "I just needed a little dessert first."

He groans into your mouth, grinning like a lovesick fool when he finally pulls back. "You're evil."

You both finish the last of your breakfast, soaking in the winter sun that shines in through the frosted kitchen windows.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, at least temporarily, and reality sets in when you glance at the clock on the wall, letting out a sigh.

"I should probably get going."

Jungkook blinks, like the words take a second to register. "Already?"

You nod, offering him an apologetic smile. "Yeah. I need to go check on Miso. I don't want her thinking I abandoned her for a man."

He grins. "Right. She's the jealous type, huh?"

"Very," you scoff, knowing your furry baby is probably plotting her revenge for not getting her breakfast yet.

"Can I borrow some sweats? My jeans are in the laundry hamper."

"Of course," he smiles. "Check in the bottom drawer."

You make your way to his bedroom, wearing his oversized sweater and a flush on your cheeks. You tug open the bottom drawer of his dresser and grab a pair of grey sweatpants, one that's extra soft and worn-in.

When you turn around, he's there, leaning against the bedroom doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you with the softest smile.

"You wanna watch me change?" you tease, your eyebrow raised.

His lips twitch. "Just admiring my girl."

You roll your eyes and try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach at being called his girl as you slip into the sweatpants. They're big on you. You cuff the ankles and tie the drawstring tight to keep them from slipping, and still, you look like you're drowning in him.

"You wear my clothes way too well," he mutters under his breath.

You shoot him a grin as you put your shoes on and walk past him, brushing your shoulder against his arm on your way to the front door. "Don't compliment me too much, I won't wanna leave," you chuckle.

"Then don't," he scoffs under his breath as he follows you down the hall, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweatpants. As you reach for the doorknob, you feel it, his fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you back just before you can open it.

His voice is soft, his eyes even softer. "Wait."

Your chest tightens. "Yeah?"

"I just…" He moves closer. "Can we pause time? Just for a second? I'm not ready to let you go yet."

Your heart squeezes. "I'm coming back, baby. I'll see you on Friday."

"I know. But that's so far from now."

You smile up at him, your free hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You gonna miss me?"

"I already do," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you.

It starts soft, just a brush of lips, a promise in the making. But it lingers. One kiss turns into another, his hands cupping your face, his nose nudging yours as his teeth tug at your bottom lip, his tongue moving against yours in a languid rhythm.

When you finally part, breathless and smiling, he presses his forehead to yours.

"Friday night," he reminds you. "I'm picking you up. Real date. No takeout or Netflix."

You grin. "I'll wear something nice."

"You always do." He brushes his lips against your cheek, trailing his hands down to grab ahold of yours, your fingers intertwining. "Even when it's my clothes that are far too big."

You shake your head, giggling softly, before you lean in to press one last kiss to his lips. "I love you, Jeon Jungkook."

"I love you more," he whispers, reluctantly letting go of your hands and stepping back to open the door for you. "Drive safe, okay? Text me when you get home. And tell Miso I said hi."

You roll your eyes with a fond smile. "She probably won't care."

"Tell her anyway."

You take one last look at him before stepping outside, snowflakes gently floating in the air around you. He stands in the doorway, bare-chested and soft-eyed, completely smitten.

You don't even mind the cold air or the snowflakes brushing along your cheeks. His clothes are warm, but it's his affection that burns fiercely beneath your skin. And as you leave, with rosy cheeks and a racing heart, snowflakes catching in your hair and melting on your lashes, you realize something simple and sure:

This is how love begins again. Not with loud fireworks and a spectacle, but with the quiet certainty of someone waiting at the door for your return. With borrowed sweatpants and soft goodbyes, with the warmth of a kiss that lingers longer than it should, and the promise of a date that already feels like forever. It begins in the hush of winter air, in the way your heart aches less now, and in the way his love doesn't ask for anything but your presence.

As you drive away with snow settling on your windshield and his scent still clinging to your skin, you know this is the start of something worth staying for.

PART 7 || PART 9

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ddejavvu · 11 months ago

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tyler owens who has the fattest crush on someone who’s the complete opposite of him

poor girl is terrified of literally everything (me irl) and he’s just head over heels in love with her

come participate in tyler owens night !

"Baby," Tyler croons, eyes a mixture of pitiful and amused, "It's wind."

"And it's rain," You urge, standing firmly in the doorway and refusing to budge, "I'm not driving in a storm!"

"It's not a storm," He insists, "Baby, my truck can withstand EF-4s. There's no way a little rain's gonna shake us."

"But we could spin out," You reason, "Or someone else could, and they could hit us, or an EF-5 could strike, or-"

"Or the ground could open up, swallow us whole." Tyler lowers his head, gaze steady on you as the amusement-pity deepens.

"You're right." You nod, clearly missing his sarcasm, "It's safer at home. Let's stay."

"No, that's not- what I meant." Tyler grabs your bicep, and you're useless against his strength as he drags you out towards his truck, "Baby, a tornado could whip through the farm and blow you away anytime. But y'gotta live despite all that. Come out with me, I'll drive real slow and I'll stick to the main roads."

Tyler stops to give you a boost up to the seat of his truck, his strong hands framing your hips and raising you to the lifted vehicle, "Just get all cozied up in that blanket of yours, and we can listen to your music on the way there. Nothin' that I like, none of that rowdy country stuff. M'kay baby?"

You're still nervous about driving in the rain. Maybe you always will be, no matter how many times you do it unscathed. But Tyler's eyes are soft and sweet as melted chocolate, the same color, too, and they stare pleadingly up at you where he's watching you from the ground. Slowly you settle into the seat of his truck, reaching for the blanket he keeps in his glovebox for you, and click your seatbelt firmly into place.

"I'm gonna use the harness," You warn, and Tyler reaches up to help you fasten your seatbelt despite your complete ability to do it yourself, "No making fun of me."

"Never, baby," He promises, hands lingering at your lap far after the click of the seatbelt, "You do whatever makes 'ya feel safe, and I'll handle everything else. Just a nice, slow ride into town for some hot chocolate."

"Just get in already." You plead, but it's a pity to lose contact where his hand stops squeezing your thigh, "The longer you wait, the more time I have to run back inside and hide under the bed."

The truck rocks as Tyler gets in, shutting the door firmly and gripping the steering wheel more gently than when he's tornado wrangling, "It's alright, baby. You're safe with me. And I'll get you whipped cream and marshmallows on yours for bein' so brave."

"Even though they're extra?" You glance up at him with what Tyler's pretty sure are better puppy eyes than he's seen on any dog before.

"I'd pay for you to get gold flakes on top'uh yours, darlin'," He smiles, not a grin but a real, warm smile, and he leans in to nudge his nose beside yours, "No amount of money I wouldn't spend on you."

#tyler owens x reader #tyler owens fanfiction #tyler owens x you #tyler owens imagine #tyler owens blurb #tyler owens drabble #glen powell x reader #twisters fanfiction

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heich0e · 1 year ago

Text

"can i call you later?"

the wind bites at your cheeks, but the sting you feel is as much from the smile on your face as it is from the chill.

"dunno," you muse, pursing your lips as though you're contemplating the question deeply. "can you?"

rintarou groans, but the sound isn't half as plaintive as it ought to be. you watch as his head hangs down defeatedly where his frame is folded over the railing that lines the front of the train station, his body pitched forward over the barrier like he's trying to reach you on the other side.

you've been saying goodbye for the past twenty minutes—or, you've been trying to. sort of. maybe. the train you'd planned to catch has already come and gone, and the next is set to soon arrive. one more and it will be the last of the night, but not even knowing that fact seems to be moving you closer towards the door to the station—content to stay here, like this, as the wind of the late fall night nips at your cheeks and the two of you muddle through your goodbye with the inelegance of two people who couldn't be less committed to it if they tried.

rintarou lifts his head to meet your gaze.

"i mean it, though." he says. "can i call you tonight?"

your stomach flips when he looks at you this way. when he keeps looking at you this way.

"we just spent hours together," you remind him, but your words are too breathy to make impact. too elated to be reproachful.

you've been on three dates with rintarou now. you think they're dates anyway, though it's never explicitly been stated. his invitations are always casual, sandwiched in between all the other texts he sends to you these days, so you might be reading into things too closely for your own good. but dinner doesn't just feel like dinner when rintarou has this way of looking at you like you're the only person he's ever laid his eyes on.

"i know," he answers. it's not an explanation, or an excuse, or even an apology. it's plain acceptance. a shamelessness you find wretchedly endearing.

you glance back at the station behind you, biting the inside of your cheek to temper your delight.

"my train is coming," you say.

he looks a bit crestfallen. laughably glum, considering the circumstances.

you drag the heel of your shoe back ever so slightly, not quite a step—at least not in any meaningful way—but inching in the direction of the doors at a glacial pace. continental drift seems positively hasty in comparison to your retreat.

"bye," he calls, his tone dejected. you watch as he lifts his hand weakly, still slumped over the railing, and waves at you with only a few fingers raised.

you want to laugh, but your chest is so full of something else—something syrupy and fluttering and good—that it's like there's no space for it underneath your ribs.

you call back to him just before you step into the station.

"rintarou—"

there are other people around, stepping between and around you both—rushing into the station to escape the cold, or moving briskly as they brace themselves and step out into it—but you hardly notice them when your eyes meet.

you smile.

"—call me later."

he calls you almost every night after that.

even as the cool autumn winds change with the seasons; carrying flakes of snow as winter blankets nagano, warming with the spring, turning heavy with humidity in summer, and then repeating the cycle anew.

even as your reluctant goodbyes turn from late nights outside of train stations to early morning words whispered under blankets as rintarou leaves for practice or away games.

even as the uncertainty of whether or not you're getting your hopes up—of whether those meetings were even really dates at all—melts away into nothing more than a memory.

you're not even sure what the two of you manage to spend so much time talking about on the phone. nothing, really. everything in its own right. rintarou's phone calls are something you come to look forward to at the end of a long day. something you anticipate when you have exciting news to share. a comfort when you're missing him and a relief when you need him most.

"is that the last one?" you ask, turning just in time to see your boyfriend—your live-in boyfriend now, officially—flop back on the sofa after he drops the last moving box atop the stack piled near the balcony door.

"yeah," he wheezes, evidently winded from the exertion—from the exhaustion—of moving house. you laugh a bit to yourself as you shuffle over to the sofa, leaning over the back so you can peer down at him where he lays sprawled against the cushions.

"aren't you a professional athlete?" you tease him. "shouldn't you have better stamina?"

rintarou cocks a brow, something sly swimming behind his gaze.

"i need better stamina?" he drawls. "you're usually complaining about the opposite."

you roll your eyes in the wake of his remark, grabbing a throw pillow from beneath his head and yanking it from under him unceremoniously, only to press it lightly against his face.

you shuffle back towards the kitchen where you'd left the box you were unpacking abandoned. you grab a plate from inside the cardboard and turn to place it on the shelf you'd decided would house your dinnerware.

"it's late," you tell him, reaching for the next plate in the box. "you should go wash up first."

you don't get a reply, and that surprises you. you creep over to the sofa again, only to find rintarou staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"hey," you laugh a little, leaning on your elbows against the back of the couch. "where'd you go?"

rintarou's gaze snaps back to yours. he still looks at you like he did on your first date. like he did outside the train station on your third. he smiles, bit it's a bit sheepish.

"sorry, was just thinking," he answers quietly. he reaches up from where he's lying on his back, brushing his thumb against your cheek. his smile turns a little bit giddy, then. boyishly charming. "can't believe we finally got a place together."

you lean into his touch, huffing a little breath through your nose—halfway to a laugh.

"guess you won't have to call me anymore," you joke, and rintarou's expression changes—falls slightly—but only for a moment. you realize what you've said, or at least think about the implications more, and you sort of understand the shift.

you fell in love through those phone calls.

you'll miss them—the ritual, the familiarity, the comfort—even though you know they've been replaced by something better.

you turn your face, pressing a fleeting kiss to rintarou's palm. "go wash up," you tell him again, heading back towards the kitchen and your (now twice abandoned) box of plates.

he seems to heed your advice this time, peeling himself up off the sofa and shuffling off in the direction of the washroom.

"don't use all the hot water!" you call after his retreating frame, and you hear him reply noncommittally under his breath before the door clicks closed behind him.

you've only got three dishes left to unpack before your box is emptied, but the shelf you'd been organizing doesn't seem to want to accommodate all of your bowls in the way you wanted, so you're left arranging and rearranging them as you try to find a way to get them to fit.

in the back pocket of your jeans, your phone begins to ring. with three plates balanced in one hand, you reach for it with the other—the movement muscle memory now, instinct more than volition, after all this time. you answer the call without even looking at the screen, holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you continue juggling the dishes in front of you.

"oop—hello?"

you pause after you answer the call, realizing for the first time that you shouldn't be getting a call at all. not at this time of night. not in this apartment.

the line is quiet, just the sound of breathing that you could recognize anywhere to be heard from the other end of the call.

"why are you calling me?" you ask rintarou, but the words are light. too fond to be reproachful.

you hear rintarou laugh—from the other end of the call and from the other side of the bathroom door.

"just wanted to hear your voice," he answers you (the same way he has a thousand nights before when you've asked him that same question.)

"you're ridiculous," you tell him, completely enamoured.

"i know," he replies.

it's quiet for a moment as the two of you stand on opposite sides of your apartment. on opposite ends of your call.

you shift a stack of bowls a little to the left. it all fits now. just the way you wanted it to.

"y'know, the hot water won't run out as fast if we shower together—"

you hear the bathroom door open, and when you look over your shoulder, rintarou is peeking at you from around the edge of the door—his phone held to his ear, a smile on his face you know is mirrored on your own, and a look in his eye that's never once wavered.

he tilts his head.

"—wanna join me?"

#do not. look at me #suna x reader #suna rintarou x reader #hq drabble #hq writing #writing

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records-of-a-slacker · 4 months ago

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so you know how WS mentions not being able to taste stuff or something along those lines? Like that is miserable but what does that mean for Cale? Aside from starving for so much of his life he literally can't even properly enjoy the taste of food to the fullest. Sure maybe the curse is like watered down a little on his end compared to WS but like it's still there. So I HC that as KRS he liked really flavorful food, esp. spicy food since they're the only ones that actually kinda stand out to him in terms of taste you know. So now you have this guy who eats everything with a giant bucket of gochujang piled on top and chili flakes like it's normal while even his fellow countrymen question him.

Idk I just thought of how happy he was about eating good food when he woke up as Cale and really praising Beacrox and like. what if aside from how its fancy food compared to what he usually eats it's literally the first time he's ever PROPERLY tasted food. Thinking about how satisfied he was with his food that his family noticed and how he's finally enjoying food and akjbkdkadbakdjkw

#maybe because of that his dislike for lemon tea is also emphasized #because can you imagine having your tastebuds watered down your whole life #and then your butler serves you lemon tea and its like BLEGH #WHAT IS THIS??? ITS SO STRONG??? SOUR???#lmao is this why he's scared of Ron #I wonder if he thought he was being poisoned the first time or something #kim roksoo #for as long as this blog exists he will either suffer or use his powers to be a menace to society #tcf #cale henituse #trash of the count's family #lcf #this will not be the last krs post

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colebabey888 · 10 months ago

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A few DIY beauty secrets I began doing to elevate my "natural" look | IT GIRL DIARIES

something that I noticed over the years, when looking to enhance your natural beauty, there are 4 main points that build the first impression, hair, eyes, brows and lips..

I have naturally bushy brows that I used to manage with eyebrow gel, but it would start flaking during the day, which gave me the ickk. So, I began laminating them with a kid-friendly relaxer every two weeks (my eyebrows grow pretty fast, which is why I do it so often and i don't get them professionally done because i don't trust people with my brows lol).

I always tweeze my eyebrows instead of waxing them; they seem to grow back slower that way + it's easier to do, just grab a tweezer along with a pocket mirror and you can do it anywhere if you see a hair out of place. ( don't over do it though, i made this mistake and it went horribly, just keep them neat )

Get your lashes laminated !!! Natural lashes are so classy and I don't have to worry about putting on mascara or falsies. This I'd get done professionally though lmao, I would do this myself but I'm way to scared to be messing with anything chemically so close to my eyes, so it isn't necessarily a diy but still, get it done!

ALWAYS make sure your hair, eyes (lashes) and eyebrows are done! You don't have to have a silk press, falsies and freshly waxed brows 24/7 but make sure they're neat. These are the key features that attracts people's attention when youre speaking to them

I have tight 4b type hair, and I used to have to lay my edges with gel or edge control because of how fluffy they'd get when I wore my curls out, but it was super damaging from constantly pulling on them and having them laid down. So, I started relaxing my edges every 3-6 months. Now, all I use is a bit of hairspray to keep them tamed, and now it doesn't puff up even during workouts and it lasts my whole silk press. Yes, my curls are still thriving.

I do weekly deep conditioning, monthly hot oil treatments, routine trims, and always use a heat protectant and frizz control when doing silk presses to stretch them out and minimize heat application. ( my hair has grown so much, leave your hair alone and only feed it when it's hungry! )

you'll hear everyone talking about silk bonnets, but as someone who hates the feeling of having anything on their head or in their face, I always took it off unknowingly throughout the night and it defeated the purpose, so i got silk pillow cases instead, game changer! i don't wrap my hair as often anymore and i don't experience frizz anymore.

I apply a face mask every week depending on what my skin is lacking, whether it’s moisture or something else. It just keeps my face looking fresh and plump in between professional monthly facials.

I use a lip tint every third day. It makes makeup application easier, and it doesn’t wear off throughout the day so i don't have to re-apply lipstick continuously. It also gives my lips a bit more colour so now I just leave the house with a pretty gloss or plain lip balm.

I take zinc supplements religiously!

Vitamin C everyday, all day. Lemon wedge in my greentea for breakfast, orange for a lunchtime snack and a naartjie for a late night movie. My skin is glowinggg!

hair removal cream! this is so slept on, i no longer shave or wax, both of them have caused ingrowns for me and accentuate my strawberry legs. i use hair removal cream now and i don't think I'll ever go back! i use it probably every week or so depending on how much growth i have, it's so easy and mess free. apply it before you get in the shower and use an exfoliating glove to slide it off gently and continue with your normal wash routine. always apply tissue oil and moisturizer after! baby soft skin all day, everyday!

It's not much, but these small changes have completely transformed my overall look. i do them specifically for those actual no makeup days where i want to give my skin a break from makeup or where im working out but still want to look prettyyy and done up..it's like a wash and go except it's for your face lmao, anyways

mwah! xoxo, colebabey8.88

www.investingforbeginners/gumroad.com

---

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feveredvisions · 3 months ago

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Kiss Me Thru The Phone

(Harry Da Souza x you!!)

Here's the Epilogue btw and my Masterlist if you want some more filth or some fluff xx

Synopsis: Harry Da Souza flakes on yet another date with his girlfriend. Tonight, she reaches her breaking point when she waited at Charlie's for nothing. Taking offence at the pity look the hostess gave her at the lounge. Even more of a loser when she lied about being "Missus Da Souza" just to lock in their reservation as they prioritise married couples than fickle boyfriends and girlfriends. Harry twists her searing hot anger into something even hotter and wetter. Keeping his double-life as a fixer for a ruthless crime family and as a boyfriend who's an on-call clinician for the elite, he races back home to fix the only real thing that matters most to him.

Author's note: So after I finished watching the first episode of MobLand, "Kiss Me Thru The Phone" by Soulja Boy kept playing in my mind. I hope this does not spoil too much. To those who have seen it, I got inspired by the part where Harry promises to try one therapy session with his wife, Jan, and leaving the scheduling to her as he guarantees her that he'll be there. Swear. And just like Jan, I am quite skepctical but yeah, sure, Harry. So that's how this story was conceived. Originally, this was dramatic and painful as shit, but then the wind changed. I made it smutty as shit because it works just like their dynamic as a dysfunct couple. Tysm @cafekitsune for the cute dividers!!

Roses are red. I'm a twat. A hundred ain't shit 'cause you're worth more than that. Wish I was there to kiss you proper, But I'm stuck playing hero... Call you later, my love P.s. Don't burn the flowers and the note yeah? They're extremely flammable - H. XXX

"A fucking joke." You bitterly spat out as you crumpled the note and threw it in the fireplace to burn into ashy oblivion like how Harry had been to you.

Tonight was supposed to be your dinner date with him at Charlie's restaurant in Mayfair that you booked two months prior. It was a serious warzone to even secure a reservation there as there were other richer posher cunts who were adamant to buy out a spot, but surprisingly all it took was lying to the reservationist that you were a Missus Da Souza instead of your maiden name to lock in a table. You scoffed at the memory of it. Of course, married couples would be prioritised. Less drama and they're more stable. Unlike you and Harry... That was probably the closest you'll ever get to ever being truly his.

Tonight, you showed up at Charlie’s in your long off-shoulder red silk dress and a pashmina shawl to match. You had your tell-tale signs that Harry was not at all going to make it tonight. He’s always fashionably on time but never late. But you waited for him at the waiting lounge and only ended up being a fool. He was too much of a hero to his VIP patients and to the world to spare a minute being your lover. You had nothing against his job as an on-call clinician for high-profile posh families but it was getting ridiculous lately how often he was always out. How often were these people terribly ill? You never questioned it nor nagged him about it as you respected his profession and the secrecy it demanded, but tonight, it just about killed you.

Defeated, you took a cab home and when you reached home, the florist truck was unloading a delivery of ten dozens of red roses. All pathetic sorry red roses and no sign of Harry. It was stupid, really. Another empty gesture. A currency of materialistic emotional bribe. It really pissed you off. Burnt off whatever patience and grace you've got left.

The safe phone which was a wee keypad phone that Harry provided you was pressed against your ear. It was an emergency phone in case he needs to be contacted directly for whatever reason. Another bullshit. He doesn't always answer unless he's the one calling it. Your emotions were in an uncontainable chaotic storm. The stench of the subtle sweet fragrance of the roses in the living room were starting to make your head throb. Heady. Borderline nauseous if you think more of it.

Harry called you after he just finished a bloody clean-up for the Harrigans family. Burning off all the evidences, scrubbing off and rinsing any DNA off the earth after dumping the body in the river Thames in the dead of night. Something you'll never know. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he got inside the driver’s seat of his car, the engine on. His heart pounding. For a moment, he closed his eyes. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears too followed by a brief sharp ringing. The vein in his neck throbbing.

His life and everything in it always held at a gunpoint no matter how much he tries to keep certain things away from his fixer business. Now that the family mess had been dealt with for the night, this was a bigger one with his girl he had to fix. The blood splatters on his jacket he can explain. A bloody emergency surgery he had to assist to. More like a hands-on surgery to keep a war from erupting.

You were walking around the house, pushing all the windows open to let fresh air in whilst the cellphone was pressed on your ear. "Honestly, Harry. What were you thinking sending me all these roses? You want me to make a salad out of the petals? Have a mouthful of your sorry flowers?"

"Babe, no, don't even—"

"I don't even have the vase to fit all of them in…” You murmur, trying to distract yourself from lashing out at him through the phone by focusing on the mundane. But then you reached your breaking point and unable to stop your tears when you caught a reflection of yourself in the mirror by the staircase. Your mouth quivering into a pout, stifling a whimper as your throat tightened up from the tears. You looked absolutely ravishing in your dress. Spent hours getting ready for tonight's special dinner, only for all of it to go down the drain. It was beyond frustrating.

“And I’m wearing this really gorgeous red Isabel Marant dress that I look really good in and you’re not even here to see it. Didn’t even get to wear it for a happy occasion.” You spoke through your tears.

“Babe, listen—” Harry's voice cracked through the burner phone. In the background, you could hear the hum of his BMW engine along with the occasional horn blaring.

“No, you listen.” You snapped, swiping at your wet cheeks with the back of your hand. Kicking your high heels off and storming back to the living room where the stupid boxes of the the red roses were. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it was? Sitting in the lobby like some loser, watching every other couple get seated while the host kept giving me that pity look? And then…and then I come home to this!” you kicked at one of the bouquet boxes. Some loose petals fell down the floor. “You think flowers fix anything?” you kicked another box of roses harder.

“Oi!” His voice sharp and dangerous. “The fuck you kickin’ my gift for, huh?”

“So now you care about them getting wrecked?!” you hissed.

He just chuckled darkly. Sadistic fucker.

And pretty sure it was the unmistakeable sound of the metallic clang of the undoing of his belt buckle and him unzipping his jeans. You frown as you tried to make sense of what you were hearing through the phone. Surely, he wouldn't do what you initially thought he's doing right?

Then—ptui— spitting on his palm followed by…a slick, creamy sound of a flesh, followed by a sigh of relief. It automatically made your thighs press together that you had to sit on the couch, kicking off and stepping on some of the stupid roses in the process. Breathing hitched in your throat.

“... Harry?”

“You wanna act like a brat?” The sound of his fist dragging over his angrily throbbing weeping erect cock obscenely loud in your ear. “Then listen to what you're missin’, babe.”

You bit your lip and swallowed a moan. The rhythmic wet stroking of his cock sent a bolt of heat directly to your cunt. “You fucking dick—”

“Mmm yeah. Thick too. Just how you like it.” He taunted with a groan. Then his voice shifted to menacing. “Bet your pretty pussy’s drippin’ right now, pissed off as you are.”

“Fuck you.” Your lips turned into a helpless pout as you lightly bit the tip of your pointer finger like a guilty nun quietly indulging in the Song of Solomons. Rucking your dress up to your hips as you leaned back and propped your legs up, spreading your thighs open. Biting your lip as you took your panties off and flung it on the floor, landing amongst the roses.

“Nah, fuck you, darlin’. Got me hard as shit hearing you get mad at me. And even lyin’ to that posh twat at Charlie's. Bloody Mrs. Da Souza. Cheeky thing.” another schlick, louder this time.

You arched your back as your fingers circled on your hard sensitive clit. “Had to. They only prioritise wives.” A moan slipped out. “Not that you'd know. Too busy playing doctor for every rich slag in London.”

“Tell you what,” he sped up. Breath hitching. “I’ll put a proper ring on it. Marry me. I'll spike your anti baby pills, knock you up so deep, you'll waddle down the aisle.”

You whimpered as you slipped two fingers inside you, walls hungrily squeezing around it, whining for his actual cock. Hitting the spot that immediately brought in the impending sensation of your orgasm. “Romantic. You'd ruin marriage.”

“Hell yeah, we would.” A groan. “Fuck tradition. I'd bend you over the altar, eat your cunt in front of the priest—”

“Ah! Harry!” You cried out as you came. Hips bucking. Your orgasm coming in a flashflood of squirt. Showering the roses as your body convulsed, followed by a loud shameless bubbly wet queef.

Harry growled. “Christ. That mouthy cunt talkin’ back to me now?” he mocked. His voice thick and angry. For a moment, his car swerves as he punches the gas to hell.

You weakly laughed as you fell limp into the couch, still having slight twitching. Your fingers still fucking your turned on and ravenous pussy. “Says you're shit at apologies.”

“Mmmm I'll eat that fucking cunt.” A slorch of a wet, open-mouthed kiss came out the receiver. Your clit hardening and your pussy walls growing slicker and warmer like molten honey again. “She’s creaming again ain't she?”

You breathe quietly as your fingers scissor and fuck your slobbery pussy. Filling the room with the obscene sounds of your wet and creamy queefs. Each puff like a taunt like it was sassing him, to which harry growls at.

“That’s right. Argue with me you filthy cunt,” he snarls. “Best fuckin’ pussy I've ever had. Queefin’, creamin’, squirtin’ all over my bastard roses.”

Your whimper turned into a cry as you reached another squirting peak, which lingered so you kept fucking yourself wetly with your fingers. The pleasure of your second orgasm spasming through your walls and your womb. Your body twitching and trembling.

Harry hissed over the phone, keeping himself from busting out his load. His fist still working his hard cock in brutal slick strokes as his pre-cum dripped down from the tip of his slit down to his shaft. Punishing himself as much as he's punished you.

“Fuckin’ hell, babe. Listen to that. Greedy little slag creamin’ for me, yeah?”

Another wet pfft came outta your pussy walls clenched around nothing. Pissed off and empty. “You’re a fucking tease.”

“Tease?” he darkly chuckles. The car engine letting out a mean snarl as he shifts his gear, tires screeching. “You're the one spread out on our couch, ruining my roses with your creamy squirt, babe. Bet they smell like you now—fuck.” He hissed as he achingly forces his sensitive hard cock back in his pants with one hand and zipping his jeans back up. “Wish I could bottle that scent. Wear it like cologne. Let every bastard in London know of the lady who owns me.”

“Harry—” You whine as your thighs begin to tremble. Eyes tearing up from frustration as your pleasure won't die down.

“Nah, nah, keep goin’,” he orders. “Make her squirt again, babe. I wanna hear it.”

You obey, curling your fingers whilst you grind your clit on the heel of your palm. Eyeballs rolling back as another wave of pleasure coils tightly in your belly. Helpless whimpers escaping your mouth.

“That's it, love,” he snarls. “Come all over yourself. Make a proper mess. When I get home, I'm lickin' every drop off ya. Then fuckin’ you so deep, I'll get your pretty cunny queefin' ‘round me cock, yeah?”

A high pitched scream tears from your throat as your third orgasm hits you like a freight train. The roses spread in front of the couch were thoroughly soaked. The petals and stems glistening from your depravity. Your own personal crime scene.

Harry's breathing was ragged through the phone. His voice is as rough as sandpaper as he murmurs to himself. “Fuckin’ hell.”

A debauched mess in your red Isabel Marant dress that's still tucked up to your waist and partly drenched in your own fluids too. The air reeked of the evening breeze, the woody aroma from the fireplace, and the stench of sex mixed with a heady rosy scent.

A wanton thing you were as you sank down the couch. Post-coital electric humming in your warm damp skin. “Fuck you, Da Souza.”

“Promise, I will.” He was sincere this time. The engine of his BMW roars as he accelerates. “Soon as I walk through the door.”

You scoff. “You're barely even here yet.”

“But I am.” he taunts. “Already got my hands on you, didn't I? Made you cum ‘n squirt three times without even touchin’ you.”

“Cheater.”

“Nah, just good at my job.” He pauses. His voice soft when he speaks again. “Actually, quick change of plans. Get dressed, babe. We're goin’ out.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Charlie's. That table’s still ours.”

“Harry, it's past midnight.”

“Not for us. Let me fix this.”

For a moment, your heart stutters. Letting him put in the effort this time.

“Want that dress back on. Leave the knickers off. I wanna feel how fuckin’ wet you are under the table.”

You sat up, the post-coital rush of headache almost knocking you back down. “You're insane…”

“Insanely, madly in love with you, darling.” He shifts gears. “Twenty minutes, babe. Be ready.”

Epilogue at Charlie's maybe?

Thanks so much for reading, your comments, and your likes and reblogs!! MWAH xx

#harry da souza #mobland #harry da souza x you #harry da souza x reader #feveredvisions ovulation fic #ovulation fic #harry da souza imagine #harry da souza imagines #harry da souza smut #harry da souza fanfic #tom hardy #mobland fanfic #mobland fanfiction

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honeydazai · 1 year ago

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୨୧·࣭࣪̇˖ taking care of you when you're sick

feat.: Dazai, Chūya, Ranpo, Fyodor, Nikolai, Sigma

warnings: none!

join my tag list here! 🪻

The moment you fall sick, DAZAI gets all the more annoying, obnoxious to the core as he whines about how unfair it is that you're sick and he's not — translating to “that you don't have to go to work and he does”. He might just use your sickness as an excuse to stay at home himself; after all, when you're in this critical of a condition, he has to be by your side at all times, right? Just in case of an emergency. Surely Kunikida and the President agree.

Taking care of others or even of himself isn't what he's particularly good at, though he will pretend to be absolutely certain about cuddling being a certain cure for any illness. If you threaten to give him the cold shoulder otherwise, he'll also go to the pharmacy and buy you medication, though he will either complain about it, or he'll play it up to be his God-given mission to save his stunning girlfriend's life.

“Hm? What do you mean, bella? Of course I've got the President's 'okay' for staying at home. Taking care of you is most important, after all, don't you agree? .. Don't be mean, I am taking care of you. I made you tea just now, didn't I?"

CHŪYA really doesn't like it whenever you're sick. While he's faced a handful of way more threatening situations before, he can't help but worry when you whine about your head hurting and your throat aching, about your stomach acting up or your vision blurring. It's not his fault that you're on his mind all day — he just wants you to be well. Is that too much to ask for?

Naturally, that translates to him being awfully good when it comes to him nursing you back to health. He wouldn't describe himself as a natural caretaker, but he is, in a way; he's protective and caring by nature, and he makes sure you're relatively well before he leaves for work every day. You don't just get the best medication on the market, but also energising meals made by him with the help of authentic recipes from elderly women he found online. To not fully lose his image, he half-heartedly complains occasionally, though his words are immediately redeemed by his beaming smile when he notices you're faring better.

“Jeez, that's one annoying cold you've got. It's been, what, like two weeks now and it's still not gone. Whatever. I've found this new soup recipe, though. It looks promising enough, doesn't it? I'll try to make it for dinner.”

RANPO admittedly is rather bad at taking care of you. To be blunt, he much prefers it when you coddle and spoil him, not the other way around, though he tries in his own ways — which mostly include sharing his snacks with you and being near you despite the risk of getting infected himself.

Unfortunately, you're not spared from his usual honesty; when you look downright awful, dark circles underneath your eyes, he will tell you just that. If you flake out on any dates the two of you had planned previously, he will whine, but at least he won't hold a grudge. While he's not particularly committed to being a caretaker, he at least stays by your side and brings you medicine and painkillers.

“You should eat more, y'know. Yes, I know you're nauseous. You've said so about twenty times already. You won't feel any better until you eat and drink enough, though. That's common sense.”

Naturally, FYODOR is more than simply good at taking care of you whenever you fall ill. With his age, it's no wonder that he has quite some experience and knows of many ways to heal you, though some of them might include disgusting homebrewed potions. You're best of just not asking what they're made of if you want to have any chance in downing them.

Unfortunately, his approach to helping you regain your health is more clinical than loving. He takes wonderful care of you, but he's not the type to cuddle with you and whisper sweet nothings in your ear while you're sneezing and coughing. If you ask sweetly enough, however, he might just read you a bedtime story or two.

“What is it, dear? I was just going to get you a new glass of water. .. Ah, I see. Do you really want me to stay that badly? Alright, then. Though me remaining by your side won't give you an excuse to skip taking your medication.”

It's no surprise whatsoever that NIKOLAI is not the most caring guy, simply put, and he might just tease you about being sick throughout the whole ordeal. He can't help it; you glaring at him, exhausted and sneezing, makes him giggle. Still, he's not all bad — he revels all the more in your surprised expression when he presents you with homemade soup, a family recipe, or so he tells you, and he smiles, content, when you admit that it tastes rather lovely.

With his ability, it's easy for him to get whatever you might need, whether that's food or a cup of tea or a bucket to throw up in, from the kitchen without moving from your bedside, so be prepared to spend quite a lot of time with him in the next few days — or weeks. Though, luckily, he's there to entertain you, not the other way around; when you say you want to curl up and just sleep the sickness off, he'll just keep watch next to you, silent and calm. After all, he does want you to feel better.

“Hmm, what did you say? You like my cooking? I'm honoured, doll! You're too kind! How about a quiz about what I put in there — poison, carrots, red beet, or all three? Ah, not feeling up for it, are you? What a shame. It's all three, if you're curious. I'm just kidding, of course. Don't you worry your pretty little head.”

SIGMA is the best choice for who to go to when ill. Not only is he kind and caring, he's also responsible and organised and, if you follow every step he tells you — eat his home-cooked soup, drink this medicine, sleep for as much as possible, take hot or cold compresses, inhale water with herbal essences —, you'll be at full health again in no time.

Even though he unfortunately can't stay at home all day to be by your side — duties at the casino call, even though he'd much rather not go —, he tries to spend as much time as possible with you, telling you about what has happened that day and how much he looked forward to being home with you again while your eyes flutter closed. When you've almost fallen asleep, his lips gently press against your forehead, even if that means he risks getting sick himself.

“Are you feeling better yet? No? Well, that's to be expected. It's only been a day, after all. I've brought you some more medicine, as well as some soup. Here, give it a taste, will you?”

@chxrry-doll @irethepotato @beandaifuku, @the-foreigner , @ranpobb, @arixsux, @dei-lilxc , @atsyushi @satoruislove @pastelsbaby @marina-and-the-memes @texchou @shiggysredhead @savagemickey03 @rosepxtlz @nikolaiswife @okura-s @ladykatakuri @lunerenzo @berywritesstuff @xelia25 @yuuotosaka3 @double-black-dazai @alice0blog @fyodorstolenushanka @ttaiyaki @itsnovariella @C4xcocoa

@black-rose-29 @fyodorscumsock @ayshaashaya @qxxstuff @serenareiss @atsvsh1 @dilucshandholder @reiikonee @1-800-mocha @xvocadooo @hexiisexii @cupxfcxffee @jodidann @Happymoon16 @yumidepain @nchuuyahq @janeinerz @Aaronthegreatestsimp @fanfiction-waifu @KimxKiba @Morigumy @villainouspotential @ashthemadwriter-uwu @mrsdostoevsky @nikolaisgoofyahhhat

@yeonwoomyheartbelongstoyou @hellgirlwhore @c4xcocoa @lyrstybsd @angelsrunes @wuaoqu @disa-ster @aspookyscaryghost @nikolaisboner @urgodmoon @polish-anon @arisu-chan4646nsfw @eroscastle @somnobun @birbysaur @senpaible @hyunlixie143 @dababyurmom @4nthonyyliving @brokeniced @nikolaisdove @dxwnstxr @scinclaitnoir @snips18 @flowzel @satohruu @squigglewigglewoo @rainy-dazie @itzashlyn123 @rheeeeeeeesiees @eggcoreloser @mariaace @mello0cat @warriordemigosworld @thescrunkly @ainegueneres @maroj23 @dazaiserectnips @little-miss-chaoss @saeandscaralover @munch3025 @maidenkikyo

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cometblaster2070 · 7 months ago

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so i'm going to go fucking insane because for a while this aspect of malenia's character design has been bothering me and making me think I'm seeing things and going fucking crazy.

the aspect in question is malenia's left arm:

when i first saw malenia's arm my first thought was oh okay they're probably just bandages or some sort of wraps.

but then you look a bit closer and like

idk about you (because i might be losing it) but it seems like the mesh of whatever the fuck that is very clearly melded with her skin in a way/it looks like it's going into and then emerging out of her skin (which is HORRIFYING to think of I won't lie).

and once again i thought i was going crazy and seeing things because surely these were just meant to be wraps or bandages like the ones we see in the scene of her fighting radahn right?

and then the thought of the needle came to my mind. along with something malenia says in her cutscene before we fight her.

"my flesh was dull gold"

huh. now isn't that interesting.

this would imply that in order to stall the rot from consuming his sister, miquella made a plan to sew unalloyed gold into malenia's skin using his needle in a last-ditch attempt to save her arm.

(granted it's funnier to imagine he just sticks it in her arm and goes okay great all done! and that's probably the canon way it went but)

the thought of the sheer pain malenia must've gone through during this process, to be honest, and the thought of the guilt miquella must've felt at having to force his sister to endure even more agony just to help her is just sad.

and all of it is done just in an attempt to salvage what they can of her and hope that more can't be taken.

edit: btw when looking at malenia pre-bloom and pre-losing her needle it looks like there's a proper layer/cover/whatever it is around her arm up till her knuckles making it seem like an actual covering or layer on top of her skin and what not, but when we fight her post-bloom and post-losing needle it appears like some of the layers have either flaked or fallen away and that reveals that it's actually meshed with/into her skin.

#elden ring #im going to sleep now #i think i will be losing it #if i stay awake any longer #because what the fuck is this #what am i supposed to do with this #it's not even canon and im losing my mind over possible implications #because can you imagine #miquella having to literally stitch his sister's rotting skin back together using unalloyed gold #he is scared and desperate and he doesn't know what else to do or how else to possibly help #and malenia is in so much PAIN #but she loves her brother and trusts in what he's doing and so she endures #god i love all their character designs but hers is just INSANE #malenia blade of miquella #miquella the unalloyed #miquella #malenia #okay BUT #the comedy of miquella being like “hey malenia look over there!”#and just sticking the needle into her arm when she's not looking is great #also miquella using his sister as his home ec project #like wow he's practicing sewing using his sister good for him #i'm sorry don't take this seriously i'm losing my mind

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forsaken-headcanons · 1 month ago

Note

Im guessin AUs are on the table, so I made a very silly one that probably takes place in the same universe as Forsaken:

DESERTED - An AU similar to the main Forsaken where CERTAIN SKINS are the ones playing the game, more specifically skins that seem to be/are entirely different people. These skins correspond to who they're skins FOR in Forsaken, but in DESERTED are their own people.

SURVIVALISTS:

Noob - GASA 4 Protagonist, nicknamed Snackbar

> Considering the amount of endings in that game, Snackbar probably somehow ended up in Forsaken through one of them.

> Perhaps an alternate ending to the Toothpaste and Orange Juice ending.

> Snackbar massively regrets his decision.

007n7 - 007e7

> Just 007n7's cousin. Has a way better relationship with his gang of misfits than 7n7.

> Possibly got here from tinkering with c00lgui and teleporting to the very, VERY wrong location.

SUPPORTS:

Elliot - Alien Skin, named Xalloit

> Crashlanded onto Roblox Earth a while ago and was knocked unconscious. Crashlanded in the worst place imaginable.

> Pizzas look unappetizing at first, but are the best ones you'll ever taste.

> Is trying to get the hang of normal Robloxian pizzas and, contrary to Elliot, finds putting pineapple on them a fine dish indeed.

Builderman - Dragondudes3

> The goat from one of the best Roblox ARGs running right now.

> Dragondudes3 ended up here from an Eclipse incident, possibly the one where he saw Ace in the fog, and got taken there instead of how the normal ARG progresses which is he DOESN'T get taken.

> Copes with the rounds with Youtube commentary, is lowkey a competitive, toxic gamer at times and irritates the killers (I mean bro plays TF2, he's gotta have a little spunk in him.)

Dusekkar - LOVESHOT

> LOVESHOT is probably a singer to reference the song she's based off of, who probably got Forsaken in the middle of a performance gone wrong where the structural supports of the spotlights flaked out and one, assumedly, crushed her.

> To all Robloxians, she is MISSING.

> She has a really good relationship with most survivors and finds them all lovely. She sings for them to pass the time and to boost morale.

Taph - Warhead

> Might have to do more research of Warhead's base game, but I can see him being the assigned leader of the group in terms of strategizing their survival for the rounds.

SENTINELS

Guest 1337 - Matt

> An obvious choice. Matt probably got teleported here upon passing out after being shot in the middle of war. Right now, in the hospital, his body is in a comatose state while his soul is in Forsaken!

> The ACTUAL leader of the group and makes sure that everyone is still sane after everything, even when he himself is falling apart.

Shedletsky - Brighteyes

> WOOHOO The Spectre got Shedletsky's wife!!

> Ended up here trying to look for Shedletsky herself and the Spectre said "oh you'll find him. You'll see where he's rotting in for yourself." And she woke up here.

> Another assigned leader of the group and almost never misses her sword slashes. Protective over the younger members of the group, but is skeptical of 007e7 due to his relation to 007n7.

Two Time - Blossom

> Insane Japanese cultist obsessed with the Kami surrounding them. Just Two Time but Japanese probably.

> Their version of Azure is named Sakura.

> Obsessed with Kami relating to nature, life, death, and rebirth, just like Two Time, and sacrificed Sakura on their own wits to appease the gods of their culture.

> A lot calmer than Two Time, but not any less sane.

Chance - Dog Skin, named Kouun [WARNING: implications of animal abuse or neglect]

> A Shiba Inu hailing from Japan who somehow fucking ended up here on a whim. His name means "good luck" or "good fortune" in Japanese.

> NOT Chance. Is an entirely different person-dog thing.

> A morpher, or a Robloxian that is able to change forms (to reference morph pads). His true form is a dog, and hence he cannot speak normally. He has learned JSL (Japanese Sign Language) to cope but unfortunately most of his newest companions are NOT Japanese.

> Appeared in Forsaken in a box labeled "want home." Looked beaten and bruised for a dog so beautiful. The other survivors hate what this implies.

> Prefers to stay a dog, but the Spectre forces him to appear human.

> Actually just a dog, somehow smart enough to gamble and shoot a gun (Kouun baby thats dangerous put it down no NO-). He sounds like KyloTheDoge. Yes the survivors play fetch with him.

oough. killers will be in a separate post

[DESOLATE AU CAST: 1/2]

- 🌟

oh these are so freaking good oml. first of all LOVE the name for the au holy shit?? Desolate... ougsiuhdfi sorry we love words,. that's so sick

L for 7e7 dude 💔 imagine getting desolated when you're just trying to fix ur teleporter bru that is an insane fail. yes we are also talking about GASA4Protag :sob:

aha also RECALLAHOLLOWHEART MENTIONED!! WE STAY WINNING /SILLY

LOVE THESERAGH IT'S PEAK !!

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thewertsearch · 6 months ago

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GG: Gosh! So formal today. UU: yes. u_u; UU: i'm afraid i am gUilty of rehearsing this pep talk well in advance. UU: i thoUght yoU deserved a proper sendoff.

Umbra has been talking to Jane for a while, then, supporting her from the sidelines.

Are the other Players aware of UU's existence, or is Jane the only one who's heard from them? Each of the original humans was initially harassed by a different troll, so maybe Bro, Jake and Roxy are being 'cheered' by their own respective cheerleaders.

UU: have yoU corresponded with yoUr first designated co-player yet? GG: No, I haven't seen her online yet today. GG: I'm really hoping Lalonde won't flake out on me this time. Have you heard from her?

I've got to say, I'm pretty relieved that the Derse kids have the same last names as before. I was fully prepared for Roxy to be a Noir, or something.

UU: not the today that is local to yoU. UU: thoUgh i do have a wee bit more troUble monitoring her than the rest of yoU. cUrioUs dark patches in transmission, hUmph.

...well, she may not be a Noir, but she is going Grimdark.

My hopes for Roxy to be the only non-corrupted human have quickly been dashed. We've got a full house of Dark Players; four ticking time bombs, ready to be set off at any moment.

This is going to be fun.

GG: I wanted to tell you, I had an amazing dream last night! […] GG: I was in a bright gold city. Above was a brilliant blue sky, but the horizon was dark as night.

Right, so Jane's a Prospit dreamer - and Jake must be the same, since she saw him there earlier. No surprises there.

UU: the place yoU visited was called prospit. it is where i have woken Up every time i have gone to sleep for most of my life.

But this is a big surprise.

UranianUmbra is a Player, and I can't figure out what session they could possibly fit into. Their grey text initially made me wonder if they were the pre-Scratch Signless - but Kid Signless wouldn't need to type in grey, would he? On a peaceful Alternia, he'd have no reason to fear culling, and could happily type in red.

What other sessions are available, then? Jane's, maybe? A fifth interloper to this reset session would certainly be an interesting twist - but it doesn't gel with the rules of the Scratch as they've been presented, and I don't think it fits the narrative.

I guess the only other possibility is that UU is in a fifth session, completely distinct from the four we're aware of.

UU: my prospit is an alternate version from yoUrs, in a completely different session qUite far afield of yoUr reality. UU: if we are ever to meet in person, it is Unlikely to be while playing oUr respective games!

And yes, that does appear to be the case.

...well, I suppose UU could just be bullshitting us, but I don't think that's the case. Bringing a fifth session into the mix is just too juicy to be a mere cover story. I'm pretty sure I believe it - and I have three main theories about what kind of session they're a part of.

Namely:

UU is part of the session which created Alternia’s universe.

UU is starting a session inside the kids' new universe.

UU's session is both of those things at once.

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 6 #s179 #4144 #broke: uu is signless #woke: uu is in an original session.#BESPOKE: UU IS IN FEDORAFREAK'S SESSION

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teaboot · 1 year ago

Note

how do you find/buy sex stuff? I'm sure there are websites, but I don't even know where to start. What would be safe and reputable? Do you have any suggestions, or advice on picking something "good"? Also thank you for opening your asks for stuff like this.

okay, so here's the shake:

I personally believe that you can buy decent sex toys anywhere, providing that:

The listing is honest about the product's materials

You know what to look for

Silicone, glass, and metal are the safest materials you can use. They're the least reactive with natural bodily chemicals and are the least likely to give you problems.

SILICONE: Not 'silicon'- silicon is NOT SILICONE. Slicone solids are never 100% transparent and might, MIGHT appear translucent and foggy at the clearest. Silicon might be shiny OR matte, but if it's matte please know that velvet or soft-touch coatings are most often non-silicone materials added after the toy itself is molded. This is usually fine, but if you know your body is sensitive to that, one brand I know has the texture built into the mold is Fun Factory. It's pricy, but it's high quality and comes with a warranty.

NEVER ASSUME AN ITEM IS SILICONE UNLESS THE ITEM IS DESCRIBED AS SILICONE.

GLASS: Tempered glass is usually fine. If you notice chips, cracks, or hairline fractures in it, bag it up and throw it out.

Metal: Same story. Chipping, flaking, cracks, oxidization, toss it. Acrylic toys with metallic coatings will degrade in contact with oils, unlike actual metal, so be sure to check materials.

People shit on sites like Adam & Eve and Pinkcherry, and yeah those are cheap stores that dont sell the best stuff, but they still have LOADS of good quality product and do frequent sales and clearouts if you're nervous and not looking to drop a lot of cash right off.

If you can afford it, brands I absolutely recommend are Womanizer, Fun Factory, Hitachi (now owned by Vibratex), Tom of Finland, Sinvention, and We Vibe. They're all high-quality and most have warranties for damage or malfunction.

On the cheaper end, Calexotics, Doc Johnson, Evolved, and Ouch!.

Websites like Bad Dragon, Extreme Restraints, and Sinvention are known to have good customer service and high-quality products.

Websites like Adam and Eve, Pinkcherry, and Lovehoney I've heard good reviews for, you just need to be careful about what you buy.

I've yet to encounter a legit site that isn't discrete, btw. Everything is usually sent out in boxes.

Please avoid AliExpress. You CAN buy there, but I don't trust that shit

#Body health #Reproductive health

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gullemec · 3 months ago

Text

Embers

Bitten - Part VIII

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Saved from the brink of death and stolen away, have you found salvation? Or is this a fate worse than death, worse than the cursed existence you've already found yourself in?

Warnings: canon-typical gore & violence, description of injuries, kidnapping, reader is held hostage

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 13.3k

A/N: did something happen last night??? bc I have no idea about that. abby? idk her. golfing? never heard of it!

You’re running through the forest, branches lashing your cheeks like whips. The wind grabs at you, tugging your hair in wild, frantic directions, trying to hold you back. Every breath burns, the frigid air like daggers in your lungs, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

The snow beneath you is dense and deep, dragging at your legs with every step. Your muscles scream in protest, each step heavier than the last. You’re both predator and prey, fox and rabbit, driven by fear and yet spurred on by the undying instinct to survive.

Above, the snow falls in opaque sheets, blanketing you in thick, clinging flakes. It blinds you, muffles sound, swallows the forest whole.

Behind you a shadow is in pursuit, growing, looming, hunting.

Your legs betray you, the snow like quicksand pulling you down, burying you in its frozen embrace. You’re sinking, wading, drowning in the cold. The shadow is upon you now, its snarls mingling with your desperate gasps. Just as you’re pulled beneath the surface, the world turns to a blinding, breathless collapse, and the shadow reaches you. Covers you in itself.

And it’s warm.

It’s just soft at first, a flicker. You cling to it, desperate, and it grows to a flame in the unfeeling void. The suffocating pressure is gone, replaced by something else. Arms. Strong, steady arms.

You’re lifted, weightless, like a leaf caught on the wind. The shift startles you. No snow. No pain. Only warmth.

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, barely audible even to yourself. You don’t even know for sure if you said it out loud.

The steady arms pull you in closer. You try to lift your head, to see his face, but your neck fails, your head lolling backward.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, the words breaking apart in your throat. “I’m so sorry, Joel.”

Wind slices across your face, a million tiny cuts, but it’s distant now, muted by the heat radiating from the chest you’re pressed against. The rhythmic crunch of boots in the snow fills your ears, and you think of all the times Joel carried you, protected you, kept you safe.

You feel the sway of movement, the press of his body as he pushes forward. It’s him. It has to be him. You let yourself believe it, clinging to the fragile hope like a lifeline.

But something’s wrong.

Even in your fevered haze, a voice whispers in the back of your mind, faint but insistent. This isn’t right. This isn’t Joel.

The warmth shifts. The wind dies down. You’re indoors now, the chill replaced by an almost stifling heat. You feel yourself being lowered gently onto something soft. A bed. The antiseptic stench hits you next, eye watering, wrong against the earthy memories of pine and snow.

“Joel?” you croak, louder this time, the word scraping painfully out of your throat.

There’s no reply. Only silence.

You force your eyes open, the effort monumental. The world tilts and spins, shapes bleeding into one another. A figure stands over you, nothing more than an indistinct shape. They're warm and steady, but it feels wrong. Their hands move over you, pressing fingers over tender flesh, wrapping you in bandages, but they’re too careful, too clinical.

You feel hands prodding at your side, and you use every last vestige of strength in you to curl on your side, protecting your vulnerability.

“Joel,” you croak, louder this time, almost pleading.

The figure freezes for a moment, their head tilting as if they’re studying you.

Your heart stutters. It’s not him.

Even through the fog of fever and exhaustion, you feel the weight of that realization settle over you. The figure moves again, their hands lingering for a moment on your wrist before pulling away.

You close your eyes, unable to hold them open any longer. The darkness rushes in once more, but this time it’s different. Colder. Lonelier.

The dream comes for you again. The forest. The snow. The shadow. But Joel is gone. The warmth of his arms, his voice, his steady presence, all vanished. You’re left alone, running, stumbling through the endless white as the shadow closes in. Distant clicking grows louder, relentless, echoing in your ears until it drowns out everything else.

And when you fall, there’s no one to catch you.

…

When you wake, it’s to the dim glow of candlelight filtering through your eyelids. The world comes into focus in fragments.

A faint creak of floorboards, the unmistakable tang of antiseptic in the air, the muffled sound of distant voices.

You shift, groggy and disoriented, and the first thing you notice is that your wrist is bound in something rigid. A makeshift cast, strips of plaster binding your arm to a splint. Your hands, too, are wrapped in clean, sterile bandages, their ache dull but not gone. Someone has tended to you.

The second thing you notice is the restraints.

A leather strap binds your uninjured wrist to the tall wooden poster of the bed. It’s loose enough not to hurt, but tight enough to keep you tethered. The sight sends a jolt of panic through you, your heart hammering as you tug against it.

The room is small and sparsely furnished, with peeling, water stained wallpaper and warped floorboards. An old dresser leans against one wall, its surface cluttered with medical supplies. Bandages, syringes, bottles of antibiotics. More medical supplies you’ve seen in one place since you were in a QZ hospital. The smell of alcohol and iodine lingers heavily in the air, almost nauseating.

Where the hell are you?

You tug at the restraint again, harder this time, but it holds fast and you are still so weak. Your throat is parched, tongue sitting uncomfortably in your mouth, each breath rasping painfully in your lungs.

Your gaze drifts to a pile of bags shoved into the corner of the room. Most are nondescript, just tattered duffel bags and patched backpacks. But one catches your eye. It’s black, with a painted emblem on the side.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s the same symbol you saw graffitied in the town, back near the pharmacy.

The memory flashes back like a lightbulb flickering on. The pharmacy.

With the clicker and all the medical supplies.

You thought it was Joel that saved you, killing the clicker and getting you out of there. If not him, then who? Who would save you like that, waste their medical supplies on you, a stranger?

Whoever these people are, they’re organized. They have supplies, good supplies, and enough resources to have left their mark behind. But why would they bother to save you?

The muffled voices grow louder, and a shadow passes across the crack beneath the door. You freeze, your body going rigid as the door creaks open.

A woman steps inside, her movements deliberate and confident. She’s tall, with cutting eyes that scan the room before settling on you. Her face is unreadable, her expression somewhere between curiosity and disdain. And there, resting on a chain against her collarbones, is a small pendant carrying that same symbol from the bags and the graffiti.

She closes the door behind her with a soft click, leaning against it with crossed arms. The candlelight flickers across her face, casting shadows that make her seem both familiar and foreign at once.

“You’re awake,” she says, her voice cool and measured.

You don’t respond. Your eyes dart to the restraint on your wrist, then back to her, your unease plain on your face.

“I wouldn’t pull on that too much,” she says, nodding toward the strap. “It’s just a precaution.”

“Precaution?” you rasp, your own voice sounding foreign to you.

The woman tilts her head, studying you. “You were half-dead when we found you. Fever, infected wounds… We’re just being careful here.”

Your jaw tightens. “You could’ve left me.”

“Could’ve,” she agrees, her tone casual. “But we didn’t.”

There’s something about the way she says it that sets your teeth on edge, something that suggests that the act of saving you was less than altruistic.

You’re not stupid, despite whatever this woman may think. No one just saves another person, not in this world, not anymore. Not unless they have some other, underlying motive.

“What do you want?” you ask, your voice gaining strength despite the dryness in your throat.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she steps closer, her boots scuffing against the floorboards. She stops at the dresser, her fingers grazing the edge of a bottle of antibiotics.

“Right now?” she says finally, glancing back at you. “I want you to stay put and rest. We’ve gone through a lot of trouble to keep you alive.”

The words are matter-of-fact, but the way she looks at you, all calculations and assessments, makes your skin crawl.

Her gaze flickers to the pile of bags in the corner, then back to you, and something in her expression shifts. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.

You swallow hard, your mind racing. These people, whoever they are, don’t seem like random scavengers. Nothing about the relatively clean and well-fed woman standing in front of you says raider. They have too much, know too much. And the symbol on that bag… it feels like a clue, a breadcrumb leading to something bigger.

“I don’t even know your name,” you say, your voice steady despite the anxiety curling inside you like a plume of smoke.

The woman smirks, though there’s no warmth in it. “Marlene.”

She doesn’t offer anything else, just turns and strides toward the door.

“Wait! ” you call after her, but she’s already opening it, her silhouette framed in the dim light.

“Someone will check on you soon,” she says without looking back. And with that, she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

You’re left in the dim, infuriating quiet, your thoughts racing.

Who are these people? What do they want? And why does it feel like you’ve just stepped into something far more dangerous than you can even begin to comprehend?

…

You’re still staring at the ceiling when the door creaks open again, shattering the silence. Your body tenses instinctively, your eyes snapping to the figures stepping into the room.

Marlene leads the way, her expression calm but unreadable, the same air of quiet authority radiating off her. Behind her, two others follow.

The first is a man, practically a mountain, tall and broad-shouldered, with a scruffy beard and a perpetual scowl etched into his face. His presence commands the room in a way that makes you shrink back against the headboard. As soon as you see him, a realization hits you like a gut punch. This must be the man who carried you.

The phantom sensation of strong arms lifting you off the pharmacy floor flashes through your mind. For a fleeting, fevered moment, you had thought it was Joel, his face a blur in the cold and chaos. But now you know better. This man is a stranger, too soft and too round to be Joel, His scowl doesn’t betray any softness or kindness.

The second figure, a wiry woman with beady eyes and a frenetic energy, lingers closer to the door, her gaze flicking between you and Marlene.

You can feel your pulse quickening, your restraint biting into your wrist as your body tightens with unease.

“How’re you feeling?” Marlene asks, stepping further into the room. Her voice is cool and conversational, as though this is some routine check-in and not an interrogation waiting to happen.

“Let me go,” you say, your voice low but firm. You tug against the strap on your wrist for emphasis, your jaw tight.

Marlene sighs, exchanging a glance with the big man before crouching slightly to meet your eye level. “I know this isn’t ideal,” she says, her tone softening like she’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. “But you need to understand, this is for everyone’s safety. Yours included.”

You glare at her. “Safety from what? I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“None of us did,” she replies smoothly, folding her arms. “But we found you, delirious with a broken wrist and a clicker not even five feet away from you. We patched you up. If we’d left you out there, you wouldn’t have made it through the night, even if you did manage to get away from the clicker.”

Her words don’t comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse, the weight of your vulnerability pressing down on you like a crushing force.

“Okay, but why bother? You don’t know me, why not just leave me to die?” you demand, your voice almost shrill now. “Who are you people?!”

Marlene glances again at the man, who remains silent but watchful, hands clasped in front of him like he’s ready to step in if things get messy. She exhales slowly before speaking.

“We’re... survivors, just like you,” she says carefully, her tone deliberate. “We’ve been trying to make things better. To rebuild, in our own way.”

“Rebuild?” you repeat, your suspicion mounting. “What does that even mean? Who are you really?”

Marlene straightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “We’re the Fireflies.”

Fireflies.

The name lands heavily in the room. It’s… Oddly familiar. You’re taken back to the QZ, to whispers carried on the tongues of smugglers and guards alike.

You try desperately to recall any information about them, any times that Tess or Joel might have offered you an insight into them. But your brain is tired and scrambled and trying to focus like that has a stabbing pain forming at your temple.

“And that’s supposed to make me trust you?” you snap.

“We’re not asking for your trust,” she replies, her voice cooling again. “But I think you’d prefer to be here with us than out there on your own.”

You don’t answer. Your mind flashes to the sensation of cold burrowing deep into your bones, the exhaustion that took root in your very being. The indeterminate days you spent in a fever-induced delirium, closer to death than you had realized.

Yes, they’d saved you. Yes, you probably would’ve died in that pharmacy if they hadn’t come along.

But for the second time in your life, you wonder if being saved was a mercy or a condemnation.

Marlene steps closer, reaching for the blanket draped over you. “Look, let’s get you up and moving. I’m sure you need to use the bathroom.”

But as she pulls the blanket back, you see it. The clothes you’re wearing are not your own. An unfamiliar, loose, worn sweater, and baggy sweatpants.

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you whisper, panic rising in your throat. “No, no, no.”

The realization hits you like a physical blow. They changed your clothes. They saw your bite.

Your breathing quickens as you jerk against the restraint, ignoring the pain it sends shooting up your arm. “You saw it,” you choke out, your voice trembling. “You— you saw— ”

The wiry woman near the door takes a step forward, her hand instinctively resting on the butt of a pistol at her hip. The big man stiffens, his eyes narrowing as he watches your every move.

Marlene raises a hand, motioning for them to stand down. She kneels beside the bed, her expression shifting into something almost gentle.

“Hey,” she says softly, her voice steady and calm. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

“It’s not okay!” you snap, your voice breaking. “You saw it! You’re going to —”

“Stop,” Marlene interrupts, her voice cutting through your panic like a blade. “From where I’m at, you seem pretty alive to me. Pretty human. I think we can take that as a good sign.”

You freeze, her words echoing in your mind.

They know… And you’re still here, still alive. For the second time since you got bitten, you’ve avoided being put down. You can’t tell if it’s dumb luck, or if this really is some sick, twisted curse.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” she continues, her tone soothing but firm. “If we wanted to, we would’ve left you to die back in that pharmacy. But we didn’t. We brought you here, treated your wounds, gave you medicine. That’s not what people do if they want to kill someone, is it?”

Her logic lodges itself uncomfortably in your mind, but your fear doesn’t dissipate entirely.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You don’t… you don’t know what I’ve done.”

Marlene’s gaze hardens, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I know more than you think,” she says. “And I know you’re not a monster. You’re just a scared girl who’s been through hell. So let me help you.”

You swallow hard, your body trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion. There’s something unsettlingly convincing about her tone, the way she looks at you like she’s already figured you out.

Her hand hovers near your wrist, and she pauses, waiting for you to relax. When you don’t resist, she carefully undoes the strap, freeing you.

“There,” she says softly. “See? No one’s hurting anyone.”

But even as she steps back, giving you space, you can’t shake the unease crawling under your skin.

You allow Marlene to guide you off the bed, your legs embarrassingly shaky beneath you as you rise. The world tilts for a moment, and her arms shoot out, hooking under yours to steady you. The contact sends a shiver through your already trembling frame, the unexpected warmth of human touch jarring after so much solitude.

It only reminds you of the last time someone touched you.

Joel.

His rough hands were painfully gentle as he bandaged yours in that cramped bathroom. His voice was soft, steady, grounding, even as the unspoken weight of everything hung thick in the air between you. And then you left him, disappearing into the night like a ghost, dragging your shame behind you like a chain.

Marlene adjusts her hold on you, her touch clinical but firm, and your thoughts circle back to the present. Joel would know who these people are. You’re certain of it. You’ve heard the name before, haven’t you? Falling from his lips in some long-forgotten conversation. But your mind, too foggy and fried from infection, starvation, and exhaustion, refuses to piece it together.

Would Joel stumble upon the same town you did? Would he see the emblems painted on the walls and follow? Or would they deter him? Would he recognize the symbol for what it truly is and turn away, knowing something about the Fireflies that you don’t?

And if he did come, what then? Would you want to see him? To confront the shame burning in your bones, to fumble through excuses for why you abandoned him without so much as a goodbye?

Marlene’s voice cuts through the haze. “Come on. Let’s get you outside.”

You nod, your throat too dry to answer. She helps you shuffle through the house, your steps uneven and awkward, every movement feeling foreign in your weakened state. As you approach the door, the stale air of the house is replaced by a crisp winter chill, smarting at your cheeks.

She guides you to a copse of trees just beyond the backyard to relieve yourself. The moment you step outside, your gaze sweeps wide, taking in your surroundings with tempered curiosity.

The house is situated on a small cul-de-sac, the kind of suburban Fourth of July, apple pie, and fireworks slice of America that probably once hosted summer block parties and kids’ bike races. The circular layout is surrounded by a dense treeline, obscuring your view beyond..

But whatever charm this neighborhood once had is long gone. The houses are weathered and battered, their windows either shattered or boarded up. What catches your attention most is how this place has been transformed, repurposed for survival.

The mouth of the cul-de-sac is barricaded with a haphazard wall made of rusted cars, stacked furniture, and jagged metal fencing. Behind it, you catch glimpses of armed guards pacing back and forth, their breath visible in the cold air as they exchange quiet words.

The houses themselves have been turned into something between a fortress and a field hospital. Tarps and camouflage netting stretch between rooftops, providing makeshift cover. The hum of a portable generator reaches your ears, its sound faint but unmistakable. You catch glimpses of people moving through the area, men and women armed with rifles slung over their shoulders, their faces hard and determined.

It dawns on you that they all seem to wear shades of yellow and green.

Your eyes land on a cluster of bags piled near the side of the nearest house, their contents spilling out slightly. Weapons. The faint scents of gunpowder and metal reach your nose, mixing with earthier smells of dirt and mildew. Guns, machetes, ammo. More than you’ve ever seen in one place.

Your gaze lingers on the bags, and your stomach knots as you spot a familiar symbol stenciled on the fabric in faded white paint. A firefly.

Marlene follows your gaze, her expression unreadable. “We have a few places set up like this across the country,” she says, her tone neutral, but there’s a weight behind her words. “It’s not much, but it’s enough.”

Enough for what? you wonder.

You force your attention back to her as she helps you steady yourself against the tree. The cold wind stings your cheeks, but it’s not enough to shake the unease settling deeper into your body.

“Go ahead,” Marlene says, stepping back to give you space but keeping her watchful eyes on you.

You glance back at the cul-de-sac, at the barricades, the guards, the makeshift fortifications. This isn’t just a camp or a hideout. It’s something bigger. Something more organized.

Something dangerous.

…

When Marlene guides you back inside the house, she doesn’t take you back to the room with the bed. Instead, she leads you to a staircase, gesturing for you to ascend. Her presence lingers close behind, her arms raised slightly, ready to catch you if you falter.

You hate this, being this vulnerable, this dependent. It churns in your stomach, an unpleasant reminder of every time you’ve had to rely on someone else to survive. You hated it even when it was Joel, despite him giving you no reason to doubt his intentions.

With Joel, it was different, though. You’d push yourself, stubbornly trying to prove you could handle things on your own. And when you couldn’t, when your legs gave out or your hands shook too much to light the fire, he would step in. Sure, he’d grumble under his breath or make one of his dry, sarcastic remarks, but the edge wasn’t there. It never was. You could tease him about it later, make him feel bad for being so grumpy, and his lips would twitch into something almost resembling a smile.

But this is different. You don’t know Marlene. You don’t know the Fireflies. And every instinct in your body is screaming at you that something is wrong.

At the top of the stairs, Marlene stops in front of a closed door. Her hand rests on the doorknob, her fingers tightening slightly as if she’s bracing herself. For a moment, she doesn’t move.

Then she turns to look at you. Her gaze is piercing, calculating, even as her voice comes out light. “Who stitched you up?”

The question catches you off guard. For a moment, all you can do is blink at her.

“I…” You hesitate. “I was traveling with someone.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth, either.

Marlene tilts her head, her expression unreadable. She nods, though it’s slow and deliberate, her skepticism bleeding through despite her casual tone. “Someone very skilled in first aid.”

You don’t respond. You just stare at her, your throat tightening.

Her lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close. “When we first found you, you were calling for someone. Someone named Joel.”

Your stomach drops.

What does she know? Does she know him? Did he ever cross paths with the Fireflies? The questions crowd your mind, each one more urgent than the last. You wonder, for a moment, if you should say his name, if it might grant you some favor here.

But you don’t.

Something holds you back, something protective and wary. You don’t want to drag him into this, whatever this is. This place, with its cold edges and militaristic air, reminds you too much of the QZ. You can’t shake the feeling that admitting you know him might endanger him, or yourself.

So you say nothing.

The silence between you stretches out, a taut rope. Marlene doesn’t push, but her eyes stay locked on yours, as though she’s searching for something hidden just beneath the surface.

Finally, she turns the knob and pushes the door open.

You freeze the moment you step inside the room.

In the far corner, a small, hunched form catches your eye. It takes a second to register what you’re looking at.

A girl. She can’t be more than thirteen, with a mess of dark hair tied back into a haphazard ponytail. Her face is pale, and her wide eyes dart toward you, suspicious. She doesn’t move much, only her head turning slightly as she sizes you up. Her gaze flickers between you and Marlene, and there’s a wariness in her expression that puts you even more on edge.

You’re about to speak, to ask who she is, what she’s doing here, when Marlene steps closer. She’s holding something in her hand, something metallic and clinking softly as it dangles.

A chain.

She moves toward you with purpose, her hand reaching for your good wrist.

Your body reacts instinctively. You yank your arm back, your heels digging into the floor as though sheer will alone will keep her from coming any closer.

“What the hell are you doing?” Your voice comes out firmer than you expect, but there’s a thread of panic laced through it.

Marlene sighs, her expression as calm and unbothered as if you’d asked her about the weather. “It’s just a precaution.”

“A precaution for what?” you demand, your voice rising as your pulse quickens.

She doesn’t answer right away, and your eyes are drawn back to the girl in the corner. For the first time, you notice the length of chain coiled at her feet, the way it disappears beneath the edge of the radiator.

She’s chained.

Your blood chills, a cold knot forming in your stomach. “No,” you say, taking a step back. “No, you’re not tying me up again.”

Your voice is loud now, cracking at the edges, and your eyes flit frantically around the room. There’s a window on the opposite wall, but it’s too far. Even if you could reach it, you’re on the second floor now. Any fall from this height would likely only leave you more injured than you are now. And even if you somehow managed to land safely, what then? You’d be trapped in the middle of their base, surrounded on all sides by armed Fireflies.

You’re truly, thoroughly fucked.

The realization crashes over you like a wave.

This isn’t just a precaution. This is a trap.

They saved you, sure. They pulled you out of that pharmacy, carried you through the freezing night, brought you somewhere warm and safe. They cleaned your wounds, gave you antibiotics, and tended to your broken wrist. They wasted valuable resources on you, resources that are scarce in this world. It was almost too kind of them.

And now you understand why.

They didn’t save you out of the goodness of their hearts. They did it because they needed something from you.

The walls of the room seem to close in, the air like a thick blanket thrown over your face. You feel your knees weaken, but you refuse to let them buckle. You refuse to give Marlene, or anyone here, the satisfaction of seeing how terrified you are.

She steps toward you again, and this time you don’t move. You just glare at her, your hands rising in front of you as if they could be trusted to defend you.

“This isn’t up for debate,” she says quietly, and her calmness is infuriating.

Her hand reaches for you again, and this time she catches your wrist. You thrash instinctively, but you’re still too weak to fight her off. The chain is cold and heavy as she fastens it around your wrist, the metallic click sealing your fate.

You look back at the girl in the corner. She hasn’t said a word, but her wide-eyed gaze hasn’t left you. You meet her stare, your mind racing with questions you’re too afraid to ask.

Why is she here? Why is she chained?

Why are you?

You glance at Marlene as she straightens, her expression unreadable as she steps back. You realize then just how badly you’ve underestimated her, how easily she’s outmaneuvered you.

The knot in your stomach tightens.

You’re not just trapped. You’re a prisoner.

…

When the door closes behind Marlene, the silence is immediate and oppressive, pressing down on you like a weight. You can feel the girl’s eyes on you, but you don’t look at her. Instead, you stare at the cracked, dusty floorboards beneath you, your fingers absentmindedly curling into your palms.

You shift, inching as far away from her as your chain will allow, pulling your knees to your chin. You’re not afraid of her, not in the slightest. If anything, you’re more worried that she’s afraid of you.

You don’t know her story, don’t know how long she’s been here or what she’s endured to end up chained to the same radiator as you. The last thing you want to do is make her feel uncomfortable, so you give her as much space as the cramped room allows.

For a while, neither of you says a word. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint sounds of movement elsewhere in the house.

Then, to your surprise, she speaks first.

“What happened to you?”

Her voice is small, almost hesitant. There’s a tinge of youthfulness to it that catches you off guard, and it twists something in your belly.

You finally turn your head to look at her, taking her in more closely. She’s still huddled in the corner, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her face is pale, her eyes wary but curious.

What happened to you? The question feels too big, too overwhelming to answer. Where would you even start?

“I was sick,” you say slowly, trying to piece together your words. “Hurt. I found a pharmacy and went inside to look for supplies. Thought maybe I’d get lucky.”

You pause, hesitant to say more. Her eyes stay on you, wide and unblinking, and something about her expression feels almost disarming.

“Then... I passed out,” you continue, keeping your voice low. No need to bring up your encounter with the clicker. “And when I woke up, I was here. Chained to a damn bed.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, and then, to your utter bewilderment, she snorts.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” she says, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Just... sucks to be you, I guess.”

You huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah, no kidding.”

The tension between you softens slightly, and for a moment, neither of you speaks again. You glance at the chain around your wrist, absently tugging at it as your mind races.

“What about you?” you ask after a while, your voice quieter now. “How’d you end up here?”

She hesitates, her expression darkening. “Marlene brought me here. Said it was... safer.”

“Safer than what?”

She shrugs, but you notice the way her jaw tightens. “I was in the Boston QZ before this. She smuggled me out.”

Boston. The word rings in your ears, tugging at distant memories of the place. Flashes of cracked pavement, guarded checkpoints, the ever-present smell of rot and desperation.

Your brain conjures up images of Joel, too, but you push them back down where they came from.

“You’re from Boston?” you ask, unable to hide your surprise.

She nods, pulling her knees closer to her chin. “Yeah. Born and raised. Not that it’s anything to brag about.”

“No kidding,” you murmur, thinking back to your own fleeting time in the Boston QZ. Had you ever crossed paths with the girl? You doubted it, given how separated the FEDRA schools were. Still, what were the odds?

“What about you?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. “Where’re you from?”

You hesitate again, the question pulling at wounds that haven’t fully healed. “Nowhere, really,” you say eventually. “I’ve just... been moving around a lot.”

She studies you for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. You can tell she doesn’t fully believe you, but she doesn’t press.

“So... what’s Marlene’s deal?” you ask, shifting the conversation away from yourself. “She didn’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon for me.”

The girl snorts again, a dry, humorless sound. “Yeah, she’s like that. Acts all tough, like she’s got everything under control, but... I don’t know. She’s got her reasons, I guess.”

“Her reasons for chaining us up, you mean?”

The girl shrugs again, though there’s a flicker of discomfort in her expression. “She said it’s for our safety. Or theirs. Or something.”

Your eyes meet hers, and for a brief moment, you see a glimmer of something familiar in her gaze. Fear, maybe. Or distrust.

“I don’t trust her,” you admit quietly.

The girl nods, her expression grim. “Yeah. Me neither.”

A strange, tentative understanding passes between you, and the silence that follows feels a little less suffocating than before.

“I’m Ellie, by the way,” she says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, caught off guard by the introduction. Her name feels strangely significant, like it holds more weight than you can understand in this moment.

“Nice to meet you, Ellie,” you say, offering her a small, cautious smile, and your own name in return.

And for the first time, she smiles back.

…

The door creaks open, and both you and Ellie instinctively straighten up, pretending you weren’t slouched against your respective corners of the room. You’ve been chained to the radiator for a good eighteen hours now, if you had to guess.

You watch as Marlene enters, flanked by two other Fireflies, the same broad and wiry ones you saw earlier. They carry weapons nestled in their arms like extensions of their own bodies.

Marlene’s perceptive gaze darts between you and Ellie, as if taking inventory. Her tone is clipped when she speaks.

“We’re heading out,” she says. “Me, Andrea, and John. We’ve got something to take care of a few towns over. We’ll be gone a couple of days.”

Your stomach twists at the announcement. You don’t know these people. You don’t trust these people. And now, the only one who seems even remotely in charge is leaving?

Marlene seems to sense your unease because she adds, “You’ll be fine. The others will keep an eye on you.”

Ellie, who had been silent until now, snorts. “Yeah, ‘cause they’re such a warm and welcoming bunch.”

Marlene shoots her a withering look, but Ellie doesn’t back down. Instead, she leans forward, her eyes narrowing. “Seriously, you’re just gonna leave us here? With them?”

“They’re Fireflies,” Marlene says, her voice laced with irritation. “You’re safe with them.”

Ellie mutters something under her breath, and Marlene doesn’t even bother responding. Instead, she turns her attention to you.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says, her tone pointed. You’re not sure if it’s meant as a warning or advice.

With that, she motions to Andrea and John, and the three of them leave. The door closes with a metallic click, and the sound of their boots fades into the distance.

The silence they leave behind is oppressive. You don’t trust Marlene, but at least she has a commanding presence that feels more predictable than the unknown intentions of the other Fireflies.

Ellie shifts against the radiator, her arms crossed tightly. Her earlier bravado is gone, replaced by a simmering frustration. “Great. Just fucking great,” she mutters.

You don’t say anything, not sure what to make of her mood.

“Y’know,” she says, her tone more forceful now, “you could’ve said something back there. Maybe asked why they’re leaving us chained up like animals.”

You bristle at her tone. “What would that have accomplished? It’s not like they’re going to listen to me.”

Ellie lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, you’re not even trying. You’re an adult, and you’re just sitting there, all quiet and pathetic, letting them walk all over you.”

Your blood boils at the insult, heat rising to your face. “Excuse me? I didn’t ask to be here, okay? I don’t even know who the hell these people are or why they care about keeping us alive. If you’ve got it all figured out, why don’t you enlighten me?”

Ellie snaps her head toward you, her expression incredulous. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m chained to a goddamn radiator?!” She yanks at her chain for emphasis, the metallic clinking reverberating through the room.

“So am I!” you fire back. “I don’t even know why I’m here. Or why they give a shit about either of us.”

“Maybe they don’t,” Ellie says, her voice quieter now but no less intense. “Maybe they’re just waiting until we’re useful to them.”

Her words echo in your mind, unsettling you.

The tension between you is palpable, and neither of you seems willing to back down. Ellie glares at you, her jaw tight, and you meet her gaze with equal intensity.

“What really happened to you?” she asks suddenly, her tone biting. “Why’d they even bother with you in the first place? You look like you can barely stand.”

Her words hit a nerve. “What happened to me? I was fighting for my life, okay? Against a clicker. You know what that is, right? Or are you too busy mouthing off to actually survive out there?”

Ellie’s eyes widen, and for a moment, she looks taken aback. Then, something shifts in her expression, her bravado cracking just slightly. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I know what a clicker is.”

The room falls silent again, the weight of your words lingering between you.

Ellie shifts uncomfortably, suddenly looking anywhere but at you. You can feel her hesitation, the way she’s holding something back.

“What?” you press, your voice softer now.

She hesitates, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “Nothing,” she mutters, but the evasiveness in her tone is unmistakable.

You lean back against the wall, exhaustion creeping over you again. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Not like I care anyway.”

Ellie snorts, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, you seem real chill about everything.”

You glare at her, but there’s less heat in it this time. Instead, a reluctant curiosity starts to bubble up. Despite her sharp tongue and prickly demeanor, there’s something about her that feels… familiar. Like she’s just as scared and out of place as you are but refuses to show it.

It occurs to you that your little spat with Ellie is painfully reminiscent of those you had with your parents when you were her age. She sounds exactly like you did, all full of vinegar and unbridled emotion, ready to set the world on fire. You reflect on your own words, and with a realization that is incredibly bittersweet, you realize you could hear your mother in your voice. No wonder she always complained about raising a teenager.

The silence between you and Ellie stretches for a while, only interrupted by the faint sounds of movement somewhere downstairs, the Fireflies, you assume doing whatever it is they do. You’re curled against the radiator, resting your head against the cool wall behind you. Despite everything, exhaustion is threatening to pull you under again.

Then Ellie shifts beside you, rummaging through a small backpack.

“You hungry?” she asks, her tone softer now, almost hesitant.

You glance over at her, skeptical. “Depends. What are we talking? Mystery meat or expired canned goods?”

Ellie smirks faintly, though her expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Close. Jerky. It’s of mysterious origin, but it’s… edible.” She holds out a small, crinkled bag of dried meat, leaning toward you to offer a piece.

You eye it warily but reach out to take it. Your hand falters mid-reach, though, when something catches your attention, something on her arm.

As Ellie stretches toward you, the sleeve of her hoodie shifts, sliding up just enough to reveal the faint, circular scar on her forearm.

A bite mark.

Your breath catches in your throat. You freeze, your hand hovering mid-air, as your mind scrambles to make sense of what you’re seeing.

Ellie notices your change in expression almost instantly. She follows your gaze, her own eyes landing on her arm. She yanks her sleeve down so fast it’s almost frantic, her face flushing red.

“I-It’s not what you think,” she stammers, her voice rising in pitch. “I mean, it is, but —” She stops, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her palms into her knees like she’s bracing herself for impact. “Shit, I didn’t mean for you to see that. Please, just… don’t freak out, okay? Don’t scream or anything.”

Her voice is laced with panic, her words tumbling out in a rush. You can see the way her whole body has tensed, her expression openly pleading. She looks terrified, not of you, but of what you might do.

You hold up your hands, trying to calm her down. “Hey, hey, relax. I’m not gonna freak out.”

Ellie’s eyes flicker, narrowing at you. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, your voice steady despite the million thoughts racing through your head. “Just… give me a second, okay?”

Ellie nods slowly, her eyes never leaving your face.

You take a deep breath, shifting your weight slightly as you turn your body away from her. Your fingers find the hem of your shirt, and you hesitate for just a moment before pulling it up enough to reveal your own bite mark.

Ellie gasps. “Holy shit,” she breathes.

You glance at her over your shoulder, your heart like a bird in your ribcage. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You both just sit there, staring at each other like you’re seeing something impossible.

Then Ellie’s voice breaks the silence, shaky but curious. “How… how long ago?”

You lower your shirt and turn back to face her, meeting her wide-eyed gaze. “A few weeks? Maybe more. It’s hard to keep track.”

Ellie leans forward slightly, her brows furrowed in disbelief. “And you didn’t… you didn’t turn.”

You shake your head. “No. Not even a fever, nothing. I thought it was a fluke. Or maybe I’m just a ticking time bomb, and it hasn’t happened yet.”

Ellie swallows hard, her hand instinctively tugging at her sleeve again, as if to hide the scar that’s already burned into both of your memories. “Same for me,” she says quietly. “I got bit back in Boston. I thought I was done for, but… nothing. Marlene found me, and I’ve been with her ever since.”

The weight of her words settles between you like a physical thing. You both sit there, staring at each other, two strangers bound by something that neither of you fully understands.

Finally, Ellie speaks again, her voice softer now. “You’re not afraid of me.”

You let out a breathy laugh, though it’s tinged with nervousness. “Guess I don’t have much room to, do I?”

Ellie smiles faintly, and this time, it actually reaches her eyes. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there.

“I thought I was alone,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your throat tightening. “Yeah. Me too.”

The tension in the room shifts slightly, no longer as sour and weighted. You’re still strangers, still chained to the same radiator, still trapped in a house full of people you don’t trust.

But there’s something here, something that flickers like hope.

“So that’s why Marlene took me in and fixed me up,” you say, more to yourself than to Ellie.

Ellie nods, considering you. “They’re taking us to Utah, Or, at least that’s what Marlene says. Apparently there’s a hospital there where they’re working on a vaccine. So they’re taking anyone who’s immune up there to help.”

The breath is knocked from your lungs momentarily.

From where I’m at, you seem pretty alive to me. Pretty human. I think we can take that as a good sign.

Her voice echoes in your mind, steady and resolute. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t disgust. It was… belief.

It’s strange, the way those words landed. When Marlene said them, it was like she wasn’t just trying to convince you. It was like she believed them herself. Like she saw something in you that you hadn’t seen in a long time, something more than fear and failure. She wasn’t afraid of you, wasn’t repelled by the wicked scar on your side or the implications of what it meant.

I know you’re not a monster. You’re just a scared girl who’s been through hell.

You press your back against the wall, staring at the cracked ceiling above. It’s a dangerous kind of comfort, the idea that your bite mark, your immunity, isn’t some grotesque brand marking you as a freak. Maybe it’s not a curse. Maybe it’s something more.

Your gaze shifts to Ellie, who still sits curled in the corner of the room, her own scar now hidden beneath her sleeve again. She’s fidgeting with her shoelace, her expression hard to read, equal parts defiant and vulnerable. You wonder if she’s had the same thoughts, if she’s wondered whether her immunity is some kind of cosmic mistake or if it means she’s supposed to matter in some larger way.

What if Marlene’s right? What if this thing inside you, this immunity, isn’t just some cruel joke? What if it’s a promise, a chance to turn the tide on all of this, to end the infection once and for all? The thought is almost dizzying. In the aftermath of the bite all you ever felt was the pain of being a burden, like your mere existence was a threat to others. But here’s Marlene, looking at you like you’re special.

Not broken. Not wrong. Special.

It’s hard not to weigh that against the way Joel looked at you in the days that followed your attack. He never said it out loud, but you could see it in his eyes when you winced while he stitched you up or when he had to check on your wound for infection. There was a fear there, no matter how much he tried to bury it. Like he was bracing himself for the day you’d turn into something he’d have no other choice but to put down. He didn’t trust you, not entirely. Not the way Marlene seems to.

But then there’s the other side of it, the one you can’t shake. You don’t trust Marlene either. Sure, she’s kind in her own acerbic, matter-of-fact way, but there’s an edge to her kindness. A purpose behind it. She didn’t take care of you out of altruism or compassion. She did it because of your bite, because of what you represent. To her, you’re a symbol, maybe even a tool. Not quite a person.

Joel never made you feel like a symbol. He made you feel like a person, flawed and imperfect as you were. Even when he didn’t trust the scars and tendrils woven into your skin, he still cared for you. No ulterior motives.

And yet, looking at Ellie now, you can’t help but feel a pang of protectiveness. You’ve only known her for a short while, but the thought of anyone hurting her, Marlene, the Fireflies, anyone, makes your stomach twist. She’s just a kid. A kid who’s been through hell, just like you. You think of her biting sarcasm, her defiant little quips, and how much of it feels like armor, the kind of armor you’ve worn for years.

You wonder if she feels the same weight you do. The feeling that maybe, somehow, all of this suffering could mean something. That these scars aren’t afflictions, but something greater. And you wonder if she’s scared to believe it, the same way you are.

“Hey,” you say softly, surprising yourself. Ellie glances up, her wary eyes meeting yours. You don’t know what you’re going to say next, but something in you knows you need to say something. “You doing okay?”

Ellie’s lips twitch in something like a smirk, but it’s weak, half-hearted. “Yeah. Peachy.” She shrugs, pulling her knees closer to her chin. “Y’know. Just another day chained to a radiator.”

You can’t help the small, dry laugh that escapes you. It’s not funny, but it’s something.

“We’ll figure this out,” you say, though you’re not sure if you’re talking to Ellie or yourself.

Ellie raises an eyebrow, her skeptical expression almost comical. “Yeah? And what’s your big plan, huh?”

You sigh, leaning your head back against the wall and closing your eyes for a moment. The weight of her words settles uncomfortably on your shoulders. She’s right. Whether you like it or not, you’re the adult here. That means it’s on you to figure something out, to take charge. But the truth is, you don’t have a plan. Not yet.

When you open your eyes, the room feels smaller, more stifling. You push yourself to your feet, testing the slack in the chain. There’s just enough give to let you cross the room to the window. You grip the sill and peer out, the cold glass cool against your fingertips.

The view isn’t much. The cul-de-sac below is quiet, save for a few Fireflies patrolling with rifles slung over their shoulders. Their movements are stiff, their postures tense, like they’re expecting something, or someone. The sight of their unease sets your teeth on edge.

Even if Marlene doesn’t think you’re a monster, even if the talk of a hospital in Utah and a cure is true, there’s something about all of this that feels off. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re walking a tightrope, and at any moment, the safety net beneath you might disappear.

You glance over your shoulder at Ellie, who’s watching you with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

“You got a notebook in your bag?” you ask.

Ellie perks up, blinking at the sudden question. “Uh, yeah, I think so.” She digs through her bag, pulling out a small leather-bound journal. She holds it up for your inspection, her expression skeptical. “Why?”

You take the journal and flip it open, testing the pages. You’re surprised to find several pages worth of sketches, and damn good ones at that.

“Hey, these are really good,” you offer, fingers running over a pencil drawing of a fern. Ellie demurs, clearly embarrassed. You pick up on her cue and flip through the pages until you find a blank one.

“We’re gonna keep track of their patrols,” you say, your tone matter-of-fact. “Figure out who’s going where and when.”

Ellie cocks an eyebrow at you, leaning forward. “Uh, okay... And why exactly are we doing that?”

You hesitate, your eyes flicking back to the guards below. Their movements are cutting, deliberate, like they’re on edge. It sets your nerves alight, a prickling sensation that crawls up your spine.

“Because they’re keeping something from us,” you say finally. “And if there’s a chance for us to get out of here, I want to take it.”

Ellie’s expression shifts. The skepticism fades, replaced by something quieter, more serious. “You think Marlene’s lying about the cure?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “I think... I don’t know. Maybe not outright. But I think she’s not telling us everything. And if I’ve learned one thing in this world, it’s that you don’t put all your trust in someone who keeps secrets.”

Ellie doesn’t respond immediately. She just watches you, her lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, she nods, though there’s a shadow of unease in her eyes.

“So... what? We’re just gonna sit here and spy on them? Take notes until something magically falls into place?”

You can’t help but crack a faint smile. “Pretty much.”

Ellie rolls her eyes but smirks anyway, pulling a pen out of her bag and tossing it to you. “Fine. But if I’m gonna be stuck here, you’d better make this interesting. I want diagrams. And maybe a code name. Something cool, like, uh, I dunno. Shadowhawk.”

You snort, shaking your head as you turn back to the window. “Okay, I’ll work on it.”

But even as you let yourself get distracted by Ellie’s banter, the knot in your stomach doesn’t loosen. You can feel the tension crackling in the air like static electricity, and you know it’s only a matter of time before something breaks. You just hope you’re ready when it does.

…

You awake to the muffled sounds of voices, high-pitched and cutting. There’s a lilt to the tones, a frantic upward curl that sends a shiver through you.

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you lift your head from your makeshift pillow, your sweater tightly bundled beneath you, and glance around the room. The faint moonlight filtering through the cracked window barely illuminates the space, washing the room in eerie blue. Ellie is still curled up a few feet away, her back to you, sides rising and falling in rhythm with her soft snores.

The voices come again, louder this time, their tension undeniable. They’re emanating from a floor vent alongside the same wall as the radiator, carrying up from whatever room lies below.

You shift onto your belly, the chain at your wrist clinking softly as you move. Army crawling toward the vent, you are careful to distribute your weight evenly across the floorboards, lest they creak and betray your presence. Every inch feels like a mile, drops of sweat sprouting at your temples, but eventually, you reach the vent.

You ease yourself into position, peering down into the vent. The ceiling below has rotted, affording you a direct view to the room below. From here, you can see the shadowed outline of the downstairs, what might once have been a living room or dining room, judging by the overturned furniture scattered around. The remnants of a sofa sit in the corner, its stuffing spilling out like guts.

Three figures stand in the center of the room. Marlene’s head is unmistakable, her curly hair catching the dim light. She stands stiffly, her hands in tight fists at her side. Two others flank her, a lean man with a shaved head and a stout woman with short black hair.

She was supposed to be gone for two days. Why is she back so soon?

“I told you this was a bad idea,” the man growls, his voice low, angry. “You shouldn’t have gone out there. We lost John and Andrea for nothing.”

“For nothing?” Marlene’s voice cuts through the air, a honed weapon. “He fucking ambushed us. We didn’t lose them for nothing, we were lured out there. It was a setup.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you press your ear closer to the vent. Your mind races. A setup?

The woman speaks next, her voice quieter but no less tense. “We knew this wouldn’t be easy, Marlene, but Jesus. We’re supposed to keep things low profile, and now we’ve got someone out there targeting us. What if he’s already followed us back here?”

“He hasn’t,” Marlene snaps, but there’s an edge of uncertainty there. “I know what he wants, I-” She stops herself abruptly, and you hold your breath, straining to hear the rest. “I’ve got it handled, alright?”

Your stomach twists. What does he want?

“Okay, but what if he does follow us here?” the man presses. “You said it yourself, Marlene, he’s ruthless. If he gets wind of what we’ve got…”

Marlene exhales, her frustration palpable, like she’s annoyed anyone is even daring to question her. “That’s why we’re moving them. Sooner than planned.”

The woman frowns, stepping closer to Marlene. “You sure that’s a good idea? Moving them now, with things so tense?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Marlene says, her voice quiet but firm. “I won’t risk this. Not when we’re this close.” She pauses, then adds, almost to herself, “I’m not letting him jeopardize this. Not after everything.”

Your pulse quickens. You have no idea who they’re talking about-, Marlene never says his name, but something in the deep darkness inside of you sparks with hope. Could it be Joel? You feel foolish for even entertaining the possibility… But what if it's true?

Below, Marlene continues. “Start packing everything up. We’ll leave the day after tomorrow at first light. If he’s out there, we’ll lose him once we go into the mountains.”

The man grunts in reluctant agreement, and the three of them move out of your line of sight.

You exhale slowly, the knot in your stomach tightening. The words echo in your mind.

Lured us out there. He’s ruthless. Jeopardize this.

You don’t know for certain that they’re talking about Joel, but you can’t shake the stubborn flicker of hope blooming in you.

He’s come for me, you think, before immediately pushing the thought away. You don’t know that for sure. And even if he has... What if he’s too late?

Beside you, Ellie stirs in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent. You glance over at her, watching the way her brows furrow in her sleep like something is vexing her in her dreams, and the hope in your chest solidifies into something stronger. Determination.

If they’re planning to move you, this might be your only chance to escape. You just have to find a way to make it count.

Your focus snaps back to the vent as Marlene disappears from view. Moments later, the heavy clunk of boots echoes up the creaky staircase.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

You scramble back toward the radiator, rolling onto your side and tugging the sweater beneath your head. Curling into a ball, you do your best to appear like you’ve been sleeping this entire time, forcing your breaths to slow even as your heart pounds in your ears.

A beat of silence passes before the door swings open, spilling harsh yellow light into the room. You flinch, squinting against the sudden intrusion as Marlene’s shadow stretches across the floor.

She wastes no time.

Her boots thud across the floorboards, and before you can even fully register her presence, she grabs you by the front of your sweater and hauls you upright.

Your eyes fly open, blinking rapidly to adjust to the glare.

“What do you know?” she snaps, her voice low and biting, breath hot against your face.

“What?” you stammer, your mind racing. “I —”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she growls, shaking you for emphasis. Her grip is unrelenting, her eyes boring into yours like they could extract the answers by force. “You know who I’m talking about. How did he find you? What does he want?”

Fear and hope collide inside you, clouding your mind and filling your body with an anxious thrum. She has to be talking about Joel.

She knows you know him. She knows what he’s capable of. And now she knows he’s coming. For you.

But why is he attacking first? Why not try to work something out? Joel is smart, he’s resourceful. He’s survived on the fringes for years, cutting deals with smugglers and outmaneuvering anyone dumb enough to try and cross him. Negotiating is part of his DNA.

Unless... he knew it would be useless.

Your stomach churns as the pieces fall into place. Maybe Joel knew the Fireflies would kill him on sight if he approached the compound. Maybe he understood there was no point in bargaining for you, no chance of a peaceful resolution. So he went straight to luring and killing.

He’s coming. You can feel it in your bones. But you need to stay alive long enough to let him find you.

Marlene’s patience snaps, her voice slicing through your spiraling thoughts. “Answer me!”

“Where are you taking us?” you demand, surprising even yourself.

Marlene’s jaw tightens, her fingers digging into your sweater. “You’re not in a position to ask questions.”

“And yet I’m asking anyway,” you shoot back, the words spilling out before you can second-guess them. “If you think he’s coming for me, don’t you think I should know what the hell’s going on?”

Her lips press into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. For a moment, you think she might actually answer, but instead, she shoves you back against the radiator.

“We’re moving you,” she says curtly, stepping back. “Before he gets here. Be ready.”

Your chest heaves as you watch her retreat, her boots pounding against the floor as she disappears into the hallway. The door slams shut, leaving you in darkness once more.

Ellie stirs again beside you, her sleepy voice breaking the silence. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you whisper, your voice steadier than you feel. “Go back to sleep.”

But as you settle back against the radiator, your mind races.

Marlene is rattled, and that’s something you can use. Whatever Joel is planning, whatever chaos he’s bringing, you need to be ready.

You glance at Ellie, her peaceful face soft in the dim light. You’ll protect her, no matter what.

Because Joel is coming.

And you’ll do whatever it takes to survive until he gets here.

…

You spend the day posted at the small window like a sentinel, eyes scanning every movement outside. Ellie dutifully notes everything you point out, her scrawled observations adding to the growing list:

They always have three people at the barricade.

A patrol of four men left at midday.

Marlene checks the perimeter twice daily.

It feels pointless, knowing Marlene plans to move you in less than twenty-four hours. They could hand you a dossier filled with the Fireflies’ entire history, their intentions, and even a detailed blueprint for a cure, but none of it would matter if you were still chained to this damn radiator.

You spent most of last night after Marlene left inspecting the chain, fingers raw from testing every rusted link, searching for a weakness that didn’t exist. It’s old and cracked and abrasive, biting into your wrist with every futile tug, but no amount of twisting or pulling will free you.

This morning, the Fireflies seem more agitated than usual. They’re jumpy, their gazes darting at any and every sound. Their paranoia infects the air, the tension on the compound winding tighter with every hour.

You do your best to tune out the hurried noises of packing and preparations echoing through the house. The Fireflies are moving quickly now, securing their gear, muttering orders.

Salt Lake City.

The name doesn’t stir much in you aside from distant anxiety. You’ve never been there, never dreamed of it. It doesn’t hold the same allure Yellowstone once did. Wyoming feels like another lifetime now, a distant dream so close to coming true before all this. You’d practically smelled the sulfur from the geysers, felt the pure air fill your lungs and cleanse you from the inside out.

But now that dream seems laughable. If the Fireflies are right, if there really is a cure to be found, what’s a dream compared to that?

Could you hedge your bets with these people? Could you let them drag you across the country, if it meant your life could amount to something?

Your thoughts are shattered by shouting.

You snap to attention, peering out the window at the commotion in the street below. One of the men from the midday patrol stumbles into view, but he’s alone.

And he’s drenched in blood.

Your heart lurches. His clothes are blackened with it, streaks staining his face and hands. You watch as the barricade guards rush to him, forcing him to the ground to check for bites. He’s hysterical, shouting so loudly you can almost make out his words. Almost.

Marlene strides into view. There’s no pity in her movements as she shoves past the men, brutal in the way she commands the space around her. She crouches in front of the man, practically barking at him, though you can’t make out the words.

The man gestures wildly, his trembling hands pantomiming erratic shapes in the air. His voice carries through the air up to your window, broken, panicked fragments you can’t quite piece together.

But then you hear it, something about a man.

Your stomach knots.

You press your ear against the windowpane, straining to hear, heart thundering as the bloodied man stammers through his story. He’s shaking his head, tears aking fresh tracks through dried blood, and his voice cracks on the next words, just loud enough for you to catch them.

“…asked me… if she was here.”

She.

Your pulse quickens, your breath catching in your throat.

Marlene stiffens, gripping his arm hard enough that it makes him flinch, her voice dropping low. You can’t hear her response, but the tension in her body tells you enough.

Whoever this man is, if it really is Joel, he knows you’re here.

And he’s coming.

The soldier is shaking his head again, muttering something you can’t quite catch, and Marlene stands abruptly, her expression hard as stone. She looks to the others, issuing quick, clipped orders you barely catch.

“I want everyone out here. Double patrols, all night.”

The others hesitate, exchanging uneasy glances. One of them speaks, his words muffled but tinged with uncertainty. Marlene doesn’t waver.

“Get moving,” she snaps. “We’re not getting taken down by one fucking old man.”

Her words hang heavy in the air. Your stomach drops.

You pull back from the window, your thoughts spinning.

Whoever this man is, he’s dangerous enough to scare the Fireflies. Ruthless enough to kill multiple men and leave one broken.

You want to believe so badly that it's Joel.

You know he's powerful. He's a honed killing machine, a certifiable danger when he needs to be. He's capable of being more than outnumbered and still coming out on top.

It's not a matter of him being capable of attacking the Fireflies like this.

It's a matter of why.

Why would he even bother?

You'd made things so damn easy for him. You left as soon as you realized you were more of a burden than a companion. You spared him the loss of valuable survival tools. You left in the night, imparting upon him a clear signal that you'd left of your own volition, that there was no need to come after you.

So why all of this? Why risk it to rescue you?

Why wasn't he just fucking glad you were gone? That's what you wanted, wasn't it? For him to get to Wyoming and be able to rest for once in his goddamn life. That was a gift you gave him. That was what propelled you forward through sleet and hail and infected wounds and broken bones. Your sacrifice for his well being.

And here he was, defying you.

How completely, unequivocally Joel Miller.

…

The sudden shake of your shoulder drags you from another restless sleep on the hard wooden floor. You blink blearily, Ellie’s soft snores still filling the room. Marlene’s face is shadowed in the dim light, her voice low but urgent.

“Get up,” she commands. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Ellie stirs beside you, groaning softly, and Marlene wastes no time in snapping at her too. “Come on. Let’s move.”

You glance toward the window, where the night sky remains a deep, endless black. A sinking feeling coils in your stomach. You knew this was coming, but not like this, not so suddenly, not so... desperate.

She releases you from your shackle, and you wince as the cool metal falls from your wrist. The skin underneath is rubbed raw and sore. You’re free, finally. You’re still only half-awake, but you force your body to waken, knowing this is going to be your only chance, if you even get to take it.

Marlene hustles the two of you toward the door, her grip firm on your arm as she propels you forward. Outside the room, the house is alive with tension. The Fireflies are frantic, their voices hushed but cutting.

“He’s here,” one of them hisses as you pass by.

“How many?” another voice asks, tight with unease.

“Just one. But it’s him.”

The weight of those words lands like a punch to the gut. Joel.

You don’t have time to process it, don’t have time to hope or panic before Marlene shoves you toward the stairs. The three of you descend into the chaos below, where the rest of the Fireflies dart out the front door, their movements jittery, uncertain.

And then, the first gunshot cracks through the air.

It’s distant at first, but the second comes closer. Louder. A third follows, and then a fourth, each shot deliberate, measured. You feel Marlene’s nails dig into your skin as she curses under her breath.

By the time you step outside, the night is alive with gunfire. The impossibly loud booms echo off the surrounding buildings, and you watch in horror as guards fall one by one, their bodies crumpling to the ground in unnatural poses.

Across the cul-de-sac, you see him.

Joel moves through the night like a ghost, his figure barely visible in the flickering lamplight. Each shot he fires lands true, no wasted bullets, no wasted motion. He’s brutal, efficient, and terrifyingly calm.

You’ve seen him fight before, but not like this. Not with this kind of cold precision, this single-minded purpose. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter. The Fireflies don’t stand a chance. No one would.

“Get back inside!” Marlene snaps, dragging you and Ellie back toward the house as another guard drops in a spray of blood.

Ellie clings to your arm, her eyes wide with terror. “What’s happening?” she cries, her voice high and panicked. “Who is that? What’s going on?”

You can’t answer her. You’re too focused on staying upright, on keeping pace with Marlene as she pulls you into the house and slams the door shut behind you.

The gunfire outside grows closer, the shouts of dying Fireflies like a morbid chorus. The walls shake with the force of it, and Ellie is sobbing now, her hands clutching at your arm like a lifeline.

A cluster of gunfire crackles, then dies down. Silence. You strain to listen for shouting, for the triumphant shout of a Firefly, anything.

Then the door bursts open.

Joel stands in the doorway, his broad frame a silhouette made of tremulous rage. His body heaves with ragged breaths, his face smeared with blood, his shirt torn and spattered with gore. His eyes, crazed and frantic, sweep the room until they find you.

Relief floods his features for the briefest second before they harden again, his expression morphing into something you can’t quite place.

Fury, relief, desperation, and something darker, something primal. It’s enough to make your knees buckle.

“Joel?” You can hardly form your lips around his name, your voice so choked with relief, shame, gratitude, fear, all of the emotions you’ve stifled since you left him. It all tangles together, choking you and forcing tears to gather in the corners of your eyes.

But before you can move, before you can cry out, or reach for him, or take a single step, an arm snakes around your neck, yanking you backward. The cool barrel of a gun presses against your temple. Your breath catches, icy fear shooting down your spine.

“Not another step,” Marlene snarls, the danger in her voice every bit as chilling as the metal against your skin. Her arm tightens around your throat, her strength keeping you rooted in place.

Joel stops instantly, his body going rigid, hands twitching near his rifle but not lifting it. His jaw clenches, and his eyes narrow, his gaze locked on Marlene. “You don’t want to do that,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

“Oh, I think I do,” Marlene bites back, sneering. She adjusts her grip, pulling you tighter against her. You gasp, the pressure on your windpipe making it hard to breathe.

Joel’s eyes flicker to yours for a split second, just long enough for you to see the rage boiling beneath the surface, barely restrained.

“Tell me, Joel,” Marlene growls, her lips inches from your ear. “Who is she? What’s so goddamn special about her that you’d kill my men, good men, to get to her?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. His hands slowly rise in a show of good faith, but his gaze never leaves hers. “She and I... we left Boston together,” he says, his voice gravelly but steady. “Been through hell. She’s... she’s good, Marlene. Better than me. Better than you.”

Marlene barks a humorless laugh, the gun pressing harder against your temple. “Good? You killed a dozen of my men tonight in the name of good? Spare me the morality lecture, Joel.”

Joel’s hands tighten into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. “I ain’t proud of what I’ve done,” he says, his voice low, barely controlled. “But what you’re doin’? You’re no better than the people you claim to be fightin’ against.”

“No better?” Marlene snaps, her voice rising. “What I’m doing, what we’re doing, is for the greater good. It’s bigger than you, bigger than her, bigger than all of us. We’re trying to save the goddamn world, Joel. And you’re throwing it all away for one girl.”

“There ain’t no fuckin’ vaccine,” Joel growls, his voice like steel. “And you know it.”

“What do you know?” Marlene counters, her voice dripping with venom. “You don’t know anything. You’re just a desperate old man clinging to something you can’t save.”

Joel steps forward, cautious but deliberate, his eyes blazing with fury. “What I do know,” he says, his voice dangerously soft, “is you ain’t gonna shoot her. Not yet. You need her alive, don’t you? Need her so you can carve her up, rip her brain out for your so-called cure. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

The weight of his words slams into you like a freight train. Your knees wobble, and your vision blurs for a moment as your mind reels. Is that true? Is that why you were scooped up from the brink of death, convalesced, kept captive… Because they planned to kill you for the cure?

Before you can make sense of it, Joel moves.

He lunges forward with lightning speed, grabbing a nearby chair and hurling it at Marlene. The force of the impact knocks her off balance, and the gun goes off, the deafening crack of the shot ringing in your ears.

The bullet misses, embedding itself into the wall.

Joel doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance between them in an instant, slamming into Marlene with enough force to send her sprawling against the wall. The gun falls from her grip, clattering to the floor.

You stumble back, reaching to pull Ellie into your arms and pressing yourself against the nearest wall. Your heart pounds as you watch Joel wrestle with Marlene. His movements are savage, frantic, but somehow controlled. He drives his elbow into her jaw, disorienting her, then grabs the gun before she can recover.

Marlene spits blood, her glare full of venom. “I hope it’s worth it, Joel,” she hisses.

Joel’s expression doesn’t waver. He raises the gun, his hands steady, his eyes cold and unreadable.

“It is,” he says quietly. “I know it is.”

A deafening crack. Ringing in your ears.

Marlene crumples to the floor, lifeless.

The silence that follows is oppressive. Once the ringing in your ears fades, you’re aware of Ellie’s quiet sobbing against your chest. Joel lowers the gun, his shoulders heaving, and turns to you. His eyes soften slightly when they meet yours, though the rage still simmers just beneath the surface.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough but gentler than before.

You nod shakily, your throat too tight to speak.

Ellie clutches your arm, her small frame trembling. “Who is he? What’s happening?” she whispers, her voice thick with fear.

Joel’s brow furrows as he looks at her, clearly confused. “Who’s the kid?”

“She’s coming with us,” you say firmly, your voice steadier than you feel.

Joel hesitates, his gaze shifting between you and Ellie, then nods. “Fine. Let’s move.”

You take Ellie’s hand, squeezing it tightly as Joel leads the way out.

The street is still dark when you venture outside again. The few remaining Fireflies move, disorganized, darting between shadows. Joel moves through the aftermath, pistol in hand. One by one, the Fireflies fall, their resistance extinguished like the fading embers of a dying fire.

By the time the last body hits the ground, the night is eerily quiet, save for yours and Ellie’s staccato breathing. You stand amidst the wreckage of their clandestine headquarters, the weight of what just happened threatening to have your legs folding beneath you.

When Joel speaks again, you’re reminded of how he sounded when you’d go on runs back in the QZ. All cool detachment.. “Grab backpacks. Fill ’em with whatever you can carry.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, and you obey without hesitation. Your hands tremble as you sift through the remains of the compound. Medical supplies, ammo, weaponry, you shove it all into a canvas bag, your mind numb and your body weak from sickness and exhaustion. Every movement feels like wading through quicksand, but you push through, knowing that survival depends on it.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Joel watching you. His gaze is steady, assessing. Anxiety is written large across his face, but he doesn’t say a word. He just keeps scanning the area, his rifle always at the ready, like he’s expecting another wave of enemies to appear out of the shadows.

When he finally decides you’ve taken everything worth having, he gestures toward the treeline at the edge of the compound. “Over there. Stay put,” he orders, his voice curt.

You want to ask why. You want to argue, demand answers, or at least understand what he plans to do. But you don’t have the energy, and something in his tone tells you it’s better not to push. You just clutch Ellie’s hand and lead her to the designated spot, your legs shaking beneath you.

Joel disappears back into the compound, leaving you and Ellie in tense silence. She clings to you, her wide eyes darting nervously toward the darkened buildings.

“What’s he doing?” Ellie whispers, her voice barely audible.

You don’t have an answer.

Minutes drag on like hours before Joel returns, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light. His expression is grim, his features hard-set. “Start walking,” he says simply, his voice brooking no argument.

You fall into step behind him, Ellie’s small hand still clasped tightly in yours. The three of you make your way out of the cul-de-sac, the world around you bathed in the muted hues of predawn light.

As you glance back over your shoulder, you see it, the first tendrils of smoke curling into the sky, rising from each of the houses you’d just scavenged. The acrid scent of burning wood and chemicals reach your nose, and you hear the faint crackle of flames devouring the old, decrepit houses.

Joel doesn’t look back, his pace steady and unyielding. But you can’t tear your eyes away from the destruction. The rising smoke glows faintly, tinged orange by the embers flying upward, dancing against the backdrop of a slowly lightening sky.

Like fireflies.

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