#the way his whole face just lights up with love

[girl-lostconnection]

Acceleration AU (part 3) 4.5k

Warnings: Plus size!fem!Reader, Soap x Simon, Simon x Reader, Reader x Soap, Reader is mad as fuck, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unhealthy attachment, possessive behaviour, suggestive themes, insecurities, Reader slutshames herself a little, touchy Simon

You don’t know what the fuck are you doing out in this bloody pub, nursing your fruity cocktail and trying to pull your skirt lower.

It’s dim-lighted here, entirely too warm and crowded for your comfort. But the stubborn pride, the aching pit in your stomach don’t let you get up and leave like you usually would.

No, you aren’t leaving until you get what you came for.

Simon’s words are still ringing in your ears, Simon’s voice digs a hole inside of you the size of a fucking coffin. You feel like lying down in this hole and burying yourself down there.

But it’s not fair. It isn’t fucking fair and you refuse to wallow in your own misery just because you are getting your heart broken. Just because the man you spent your whole life with found himself a relationship.

(Doesn’t matter if you weren’t exactly in a relationship with him. Doesn’t matter that you never talked who you are to each other. Doesn’t fucking matter)

There is a scratch on the inside of your skull and the scratch suspiciously feels the same way worried eyes of Johnny “Soap” MacTavish feel when you almost throw a bloody mug of tea in Simon’s face.

When you got so mad you felt like screaming and raging, like moving away and changing your name and never saying another bloody thing in your entire life. Joining a covenant maybe.

[ “You could’ve said that you want me here for Christmas.”, - Simon is one heavy silence in a trenchcoat, arms crossed over the chest, lips thin line of a frown.

You know he hates this conversation. You know he hates fighting.

You need to do it anyway.

“You could’ve asked. You know it’s important. You know what it means and how much it matters.”, you are upset beyond anything, Soap’s tense shoulders just adding to the heat of the moment.

Because it’s not his bloody fault, because Simon is a grown man who should’ve known better than to throw a bone your way.

Not when he knows you snarl at things like that.

“I’m a grown man, luv. I don’t need your bloody permission to go somewhere, you are not my mum”, Simon snaps, eyes heavy. You know he’s becoming defensive now, that Soap looking uncomfortable as hell just agitates him further. That you being this upset drives him up the wall.

“Thank fuck”, you spit out and leave, ignoring his heavy steps right behind you, ignoring the way he tries to stop you, ignoring the “luv, please, it’s getting dark already”.

Because Simon cares, of course he fucking cares, you know that and you know him.

But the ugly roaring in your head chants “hate you-hate you-hate you” and you slam the door on your way out.

Doesn’t make you feel any better.]

There is a hole inside of you the size of a coffin and you intend to fill it today.

Because you are not a bloody placeholder. You deserve love. You deserve attention.

You deserve consideration and care.

But you’ve also been so lonely and god knows you want to feel wanted. Even if just for tonight. Even if it’s a little bit and not exactly what you crave.

Can’t get everything you want, right?

So you let the stranger kiss you, his smile grazing your skin, his hands on the small of your back and he’s very bloody respectful all things considered.

And in any other circumstances you would appreciate it.

But you are not looking for a date. You are looking for…what are you even looking for? Absolution? An answer? Warm body next to yours?

You don’t know so you just press yourself tighter into the man, soft sound escaping your throat when he murmurs something — your head swimming from heat and taste of sugar on his lips. It’s intoxicating.

It numbs the ache in your chest, it warms up the ugly slick parts of you that throb for entirely different hands and eyes.

Stranger’s name is nice but simple, something along the lines of Gary or maybe Harry (you didn’t listen and now are forced to just call him “hon”), his eyes are impossibly green, his smiles wide enough to remind you Soap.

You don’t know why he reminds you Soap. Because John MacTavish is broader, shoulders wider and arms meatier — honed bulk of muscles stretching his fatigues taut.

John MacTavish has tiniest freckles in the world, has small white strip of scar crossing his right eyebrow and has absolutely sinful lips.

You get why Simon is mad about him.

You take a breath, sound a little shakier than intended, but your newfound date takes it as the compliment, rumbling in your collarbones that you are “so gorgeous. Prettiest bird I saw”.

You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the man closer, hands wrapping around his shoulders, your back pressed into the wall behind you.

Why do you even think of Soap in this situation?

The guy presses kisses to your neck, nips at the soft skin, groans “right beauty, doll, can’t get enough of ya” and you decide that if you can’t think of anything other than bloody Soap, you aren’t gonna think at all.

You are gonna let the bloke, whose bloody name you can’t remember for the life of you, touch you more, you are gonna lead his palm between your thighs, you are gonna let him rub the wet heat of you.

Hungry gnawing creature in you getting greedier with each touch, gripping on stranger’s wrist, throwing her head back, doing things she shouldn’t.

But you’ve been doing everything you should all this time and it had been getting you absolutely nowhere.

So you let the guy get you off, his teeth grazing your throat, his fingers sending shivers down your spine, your core molten hot and in the moment you feel so good.

You feel on top of the world, smiling like that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Smiling like you know how pretty you are.

The guy (god, now you will remember him as “The guy” only, there’s no way you are gonna remember his name. No matter how good his fingers are) kisses your neck and jaw, murmurs sweet nothings.

And for a few blissful moments you are high on pleasure, pliant from his warmth and soft in your satisfaction.

For a few moments you feel whole.

Then it all comes crashing down.

Because the high never lasts long enough, because there’s not a bloke in this pub that can sate the creature in your chest.

You feel so sick you want to crawl out of your own skin, you want to run, you want to hide and scratch your make up off and scratch this fucking dress off.

The guy (god bless the bloke) carefully tucks you in a cab, kisses your forehead and murmurs “don’t need to cry, doll, it’s okay. Call me tomorrow if you’d like, yeah? I’d love to take ya out” and leaves his number in the pocket of your coat.

He pays for your cab and doesn’t try to leave with you.

For some reason his kindness makes you feel even worse.

Because it’s not fair. Not to him, nor to you. Because you were out to be stupid and to have fun and to get yourself off. And you did it, crossed out all bulletpoints off your bucket list.

Why doesn’t it get much better?

You get home at the wee hours of the morning, floorboards creaking under your weight as you kick your heels off and then the light switch clicks on.

You freeze like a deer in the headlights, looking at Simon who looks less than impressed.

Simon in sweatpants and a sweater you were wearing this morning.

Simon with heavy tension in his shoulders that you know will ache like hell in the morning, tension pain climbing up to his neck.

But he used up all your patience and you are not in the mood for reprimand, you are a grown woman, you can deal with your own shit.

You can do it without him.

Simon’s eyes linger on your neck, muscle in his jaw twitching. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, something swelling in his eyes with the force of incoming tsunami. Tectonic plates shifting, oceans boiling, something big roaring to the surface.

But fuck him. Fuck him and his moods and his blond lashes and his pretty fucking boyfriend.

Fuck them both.

“Don’t.”, you spit out with such rage it surprises both of you, hiss so wounded it’s a miracle you aren’t crying.

It makes Simon snap out of whatever he’s been conjuring in his head, mouth opening again but this time his lips twist into a frown.

“Luv, wha’- did someone hurt ya?”, there is a shift in his demeanour, his whole body tilting closer to you. There is a familiar twitch to his fingers, a heavy tension rolling under his skin, squaring his shoulders — his whole body curling to wrap around you. “Luv, look at me. Come o’, sweet’eart.”

But no. No, you can’t do this today. Not right now.

Too much kindness and you will crack open like faulty glass with cracks all over it, everything pouring out of you.

“I said — don’t”, you snap, hanging your coat, your eyes stinging, the heavy hover of your brows (same one you subconsciously mimicked off Simon’s).

Simon opens his mouth to say something but you send him a glare so scalding he does a rare thing.

He closes it back and steps aside, letting you through. He doesn’t say anything anymore but there is a heavy weight of his gaze between your shoulder blades. It follows you when you pad into the bedroom to get your pyjamas and then into the bathroom.

Bathtub fills with hot water slowly but it gives you time to think. Shame finally flooding your system, your mind catching up to pleasures your body partook in and Jesus fucking Christ, what were you thinking?

Letting a stranger just touch you like that? Letting someone who’s not Simon be this close to you, this intimate with you, this soft with you.

Letting someone see you as this vulnerable wreck of a social butterfly — spreading your wings one moment and sobbing the next one. Fucking hell, the Guy must be thinking you a right nutcase right now.

There is embarrassment and strange kind of guilt curdling in your throat, your fingers twitching to finally wash the night away, to slide under the water surface and lie in the bathtub until you feel like a person again. Until you don’t feel this ashamed about something not shameful at all.

A quick glance in the mirror does absolutely nothing to soothe the restless creature in your chest because holy fuck. That’s why Simon was staring.

You look like a bloody mess!

Your neck is littered with hickeys all the way down to your cleavage, purplish marks covering your skin. It does look like someone tried to either devour you or kill you. Maybe both.

Fucking hell. Fucking fucking hell.

You wash for what feels like forever, angrily scratching off the make up, too rough and too quick, your eyes stinging, your skin too tight and too hot, your chest gurgling with wet shuddering breaths.

You don’t feel better. If anything you feel worse.

There’s a small dread-filled expectation that Simon is standing his guard right outside the bathroom door, that you will need to speak to him in a sorry state you are in.

But he isn’t there.

Soap is.

Not even right behind the door — he is in the living room, right across from you, his head snapping up when you finally emerge.

He’s wearing Simon’s T-shirt and you don’t want to let it get to you but it’s been a long night and fuck, do you feel like crying right now.

But it’s a different thing that gets you.

Johnny is standing with a handful of blankets, right next to couch that has been properly made to sleep on it, pillows and stuffed toy laying on there.

There’s a steaming mug on the coffee table. There’s a chocolate bar and a plate of pills. If you had to guess, probably painkillers.

It makes your chest clench and if this bloody Scotsman says a single fucking thing you will throw something in his head.

You don’t need his pity. You don’t want his kindness.

But Johnny just steps aside letting you plop yourself on the couch and drapes a blanket over your shoulders. Johnny passes you the mug and sits next to you.

For some reason you let him.

For some reason you press your cheek into his shoulder and cry — ugly fat tears streaming down your face, his hand coming up to slowly carefully rub your hand. It’s strange.

It’s not like Simon’s engulfing embrace, it’s not the way guy from the pub hummed his sweet nothings. But it’s good. It’s comforting. It doesn’t make you feel like a total wreck.

Johnny sits with you, letting you cry it out, not making a sound. Like he knows that you need this moment for yourself. Like he knows that this is not about him. This is about you.

You sit like that long enough for your eyelids to start dropping lower involuntarily, your body getting heavier — tired from shame and aching, wrung with the events of the day.

That’s when Soap finally starts talking, calloused fingers rubbing small circles on your forearm.

“I’m sorry.”, he murmurs quietly before finally looking at you, face a little softer, eyes a little warmer. Like he gets it finally. “I didnae ken you had plans with Simon. For Christmas. I wouldnae asked him if he said something”

You give him a silent shrug of your shoulders which feels more of a twitch rather than conscious expression of your “it is what it is”.

You close your eyes, tucking your legs under the covers and letting Soap wrap you in a blankets.

His eyes linger on your neck for a moment before he looks at you again.

“Was everything…consensual?”, there is a worried heavy crease between his brows and it’s not funny but you still smile at him earning yourself an eye roll.

“Don’t laugh at me, lassie, I’m serious. Simon is driving himself up the foockin wall.”, he shakes his head and fond exasperation in his face makes something in your chest clench painfully. God it would have been better if he was mean to you.

“I’m out here because I reckoned you woulnae mind some company.”, he murmurs, cocooning you in your blanket like you are some kind of helpless creature and you have to smack his palm away to stop him from wrapping you any tighter.

“ ‘m fine. I’ll talk to Simon tomorrow”, you breath out, curling around the stuffed toy, too tired to smack Soap’s hand away when he strokes your head, warmth of his palm soothing dull throbbing pain under your skin.

This is nice. You shouldn’t get used to it.

“I’m sorry too”, you finally say, words slurring out, your eyelids getting heavier when you look up at Johnny and you aren’t sure what it is there in his face but he looks at you like he gets it. Like it’s okay to be a wreck. “I…yeah, it was consensual. Just- I’m not like that usually”, you don’t know why you try to justify yourself to him. You owe him no explanation.

But his eyes still soften when he hums, nodding, his thumb carefully massaging your temple.

“Ah ken. It’s okay. Sometimes we do things for ourselves. Sometimes it doesn’t work out. Ahm just glad ye’r safe”, he chews on his lip before adding, laughter glimmering in his eyes. “And responsible. Even got yerself home in one piece. Ah was right bloody mess in similar circumstances, completely off my foockin’ trolley”

The notion does in fact make you feel a little less like shit and you chuckle, closing your eyes, slipping into dark welcoming nothing.

“Can’t imagine someone not wanting you. You are a beauty”, is the last thing that stumbles out of your mouth, before slumber swallows you.

Soap sits there for some time, palm still covering the side of your hand, eyes soft when you nuzzle into the pillow. You are the one to say that, hen.

He uncurls himself off the couch, finally pads back in the bedroom and crawls in bed — Simon’s hands coming up to pull him close immediately.

“Yer a bastard”, Soap murmurs, nose nuzzling in Ghost’s neck, eyes closing as he melts into warm embrace.

He doesn’t like the clench in his chest, he doesn’t like feeling out of place, he doesn’t like taking someone else’s place.

He doesn’t like making someone feel the way he was feeling. Not when he knows the desire to fill the emptiness inside with whatever works best.

“I know”, Simon’s voice is a low rumble, hands wrapping tighter around Soap’s body, keeping him closer. “Feelin’ like one too, sergeant”

“Good”, Soap hums and curls into Simon further. The bed under him smelling like you, the bed bearing your every trace, the bed a live reminder that somewhere along the way things got more complicated that they should have.

It’s only in the morning that Simon crawls out of the bed, hands wrapping Johnny tighter in the blanket — it’s cold in winter and the last thing he needs is for his sergeant to catch cold. He will probably need to crank up the heat higher, it’s freezing outside the warmth of covers.

It’s still early enough for all of you to sleep but you are very much awake when Simon pads out, awkwardly stilling in the doorway when his eyes meet yours. Look who’s now looking like a deer in the headlights.

“Mornin’.”, he rasps out, voice rough after sleep, hair a mess that curls at the ends. Like he has been tossing and turning all night.

You two haven’t talked save for the yesterday’s fight which had less than ideal results.

God, he hates fighting with you. Hates the tension, hates feeling out of place, hates not being able to melt into you like usually.

“Can I?”, he nods to the couch you are still plastered over and moves your legs out of the way when you give him a slow nod, your blanket-covered ankles now in his lap.

Sitting like that, on the edge of a bloody couch Simon looks like a sleep paralysis demon (a really attractive one, but you are sure you are biased).

The same way he’d sit on the edge of your bed after dumb teenage fights, after breaking your mug, after announcing he has enlisted — his palms massaging your feet absentmindedly.

Just to feel that you are still here.

Tangible, warm, real. His.

“How’d ya feel?”, there is no more fight in him, no more tomb-plate pressure on your shoulders to cave in and speak to him. No more restless energy — all of it drained out yesterday, was bitten out on his nails, splintering one in the process.

When you cut him off, sounding like you weren’t just mad at him. Like you were in pain. Like you were hurting.

Like he hurt you.

“It wasn’t fair”, he says, brown eyes meeting yours, thumb rubbing the roundness of your malleolus.

Simon doesn’t know how to just say that he’s sorry. That he shouldn’t have snapped like that. That he was wrong and he hurt you and he felt like absolute failure yesterday when you stumbled home.

Pretty as sin, glitter on your cheeks, somebody’s marks all over your neck.

Simon doesn’t know how to say that he almost lost it then and there, that he has never felt this mad, that he wanted to get out of the house and hunt down whoever dared to leave hickeys on you.

His fault, should have never let you out of sight, should have never let you leave upset, should have called and told you everything proper, should have been better. His fault, his fuck-up, his mistake.

And then you were misty-eyed and upset beyond anything he ever saw and his heart sank in his stomach, squeezing out white hot “minemineminemine”.

Because he won’t just hunt down if whoever kissed you all over took advantage of you. He’d kill them. He’d tear them limb from limb, he’d choke the life out of them.

Simon doesn’t know how to admit how scared he was that he pushed you away and you might have needed him and he wasn’t there.

Simon doesn’t know how to describe the sheer relief he felt, straining his ears to eavesdrop on your conversation with Johnny.

Simon doesn’t know how to say that he was wrong.

So he says the closest thing he can muster.

“You were right. To be upset with me”, he murmurs quietly, fingers curling around your ankles, palms warming you up. “I should’a waned you proper way. Should’a asked instead if Soap can come to celebrate with us”, he sighs, tilting his head from side to side — bones cracking and granting temporary relief from throbbing in his nape.

You sigh as well, the feel of his fingers on your legs so familiar it’s almost painful. The touch so tender you feel like snatching your legs back.

But god knows you are a weak weak woman.

You don’t. You let him touch you more, bolt of molten heat shooting up the underside of your knee when his knuckle presses on the centre of the sole of your foot.

“John is pretty”, you say suddenly, blurting it out to fill the silence. Because you know that Simon isn’t good with saying he’s sorry. And as much as you appreciate this sad attempt at apology, after everything that happened you aren’t entirely sure whether he’s sorry or just feeling guilty.

“He is very pretty.”, Simon nods stone-faced, softly squeezing your legs one last time before he moves you aside to work his way beside you. “You are very pretty too. Both of you are bloody beauties.”, he hums and you feel his faint grin pressing into your shoulder when he kisses it. “ ‘m surrounded by real dolls ‘round here.”

“You’re laughing at me”, you roll your eyes, smacking his hand when he repositions you to tuck under his side. Closer. So he can drape an arm over your stomach, pressing your back in his chest. “And don’t weasel your way on my couch, you big brute.”

“I’m laughing with ya, sweet’eart”, Simon murmurs finally stretching out behind you, grunting in satisfaction when your body slots into his like a well-oiled piece of puzzle. “Never at ya.”

Simon is a heavy warm presence, scarred fingers on your skin, callouses scraping ever so slightly.

Simon is a four-finger grip, stump of absent trigger finger a living reminder that he always comes back. No matter the cost.

He hums something in your hair, rocking you both in his embrace, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. Simon is warmth and safety, heavy silences and heavier gazes. Simon is everything.

And right now this big everything is purposefully lulling you back to sleep, realisation dawning on you only when he hums again — low vibration in his chest melting you into nothing.

“ ‘m not sleepy”, is a weak protest at best because he can feel with his whole body the way you melt when he tuts and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Yes, you are, luv”, it’s not even a question, his hands wrapped around you securely, holding close to his chest. Close to him.

Sometimes Simon thinks that it would be nice to have six hands. Or at least four. Would’ve be enough to hold this tightly both you and Soap and never let go.

But he only has two hands and two of you and a challenge of getting you both safe and warm.

Soap pads out of the bedroom half an hour later, nothing on him but Simon’s T-shirt and boxers, one of your blankets draped over his shoulders when he sits down across from the couch.

Johnny has a calculating, sharp look in his eyes, has the heavy appraisal in his gaze, his voice low enough not to wake you up.

“What am I to you, sir?”, is a weird question maybe, considering he sleeps in Simon’s bed and wears Simon’s clothes and gets Simon’s kisses. But so do you. And he saw you yesterday when Simon decided he’s going to add someone to the equation you didn’t know you were even part of.

“Mine.”, Simon is calm, with you tucked under his side and his hand draped over you to keep you there and you close. There’s a heavy weight to his words, a heat that sends a shiver through Soap’s body because baby, it’s cold outside and god, does he want in.

Does he want to be needed and loved and cared for. Does he want the same attention you are getting, does he want the same focus you inwoke in Simon.

“Then what is she to you, L.T.?”, the question is carefully worded because Johnny needs to know for sure. Because he needs to know whether to pack his bags or stay by the door.

“Also mine.”, Simon hums, pad of his thumb grazing someone’s bite on your neck. His eyes are so dark Johnny feels heat climb up his face. Like he’s witnessing something he isn’t supposed to. “You both are mine. Not gonna change”

So it’s a final decision.

Johnny wonders how long ago lieutenant decided it. How long ago he saw Soap and decided to bring him home to the only other person he’s still considering family.

How long ago he looked at his bird and decided to introduce her to the only other person that makes him feel alive. That makes him feel warm. That makes him feel home.

Soap hums and crouches down in front of the couch, testing the waters but Ghost lets him, moving a little bit to uncurl himself from covering you. Letting Johnny get close. Trusting Johnny not to wake you up. Trusting Johnny with you.

Ghost is letting Johnny in.

Soap stays silent for a few very long moment, before nodding more to himself that to anyone else and presses a kiss to Simon’s lips. He nips hard enough to draw blood, licking it off before he stands up.

“Ahm gonna put the kettle on”, he rolls his shoulders and softly swipes away the remains of glitter you didn’t wash off yesterday from your cheek. Pretty girl, you have no idea what a man is lying beside you.

You have no idea that he’s never letting go.

You have no idea there are two of them now.

Ghost hums, satisfaction rolling off him in waves, satisfaction etched in him, satisfaction dripping out of every line of his face.

Maybe he won’t need four hands. Maybe Johnny can lend him his.

Maybe with time you will lend yours as well.

Taglist: @thestoriesiread @skeletonsucker @sirbonesly @blackhawkfanatic @rpgsandstuff @danielle143 @parasite--girl @un-aesthetic @vmaxis

[valyvinny]

╰┈➤ ❝ Love and deepspace boys *:･ﾟ✧*: Losing control ❞

PAIRING : Caleb x reader, Sylus x reader, Zayne x reader, Rafayel x reader and Xavier x reader GENRE : Soft smut WORD COUNT : 2.6k TAGS : MDNI 18+ NSFW, kissing, making out, grinding, dry humping, allusions to sex, rafayel is implied to be in heat, back scratching (only is sylus') A/N : PHEWW, I know I said that the next piece of writing may take a while but I also have no self control lol. Though this time I promise its gonna take a hot minute cause final year med school exams are kicking my asssss. Also, I didn't expect my previous piece to do as well as it did. Thank you all so so much for reading it and I hope you enjoy this one :)

The lads boys can't help but lose control around you

╭┈◦•◦❥•◦ Caleb

Caleb is addicted to your lips. It’s almost like he’s making up for the years he’s spent abstaining from you, littering fleeting pecks throughout the day. 

Caleb just can’t seem to help himself. He’d always kiss you hello and goodbye. He’d kiss you good morning and good night. 

He was always so gentle with it, tucking strands of your hair behind your ears before cupping your face in his palms, holding you like you’re made of glass. Afraid that with one wrong move, you’d break. 

He’d take his time to admire your features. Features that he’s cherished and adored his whole life, that he can probably draw out from memory. Your expressive eyes gazing at him in anticipation, the plush of your inviting lips, the dusty pink hue that’s settled on your cheeks.  

You were his entire world and he could only hope you’d be able to feel at least a fraction of what he felt for you and how much he treasured you in the way he kissed you. Soft and tender. Pouring all the passion he could as he moved his lips against yours. 

But perhaps most infuriatingly (not really, you secretly loved it), he’d often kiss you mid conversation. A light peck to stop you in your tracks. It was his trump card, especially when you were scolding him for something. And it worked every time, it always seemed to melt you into a puddle 

“You just look so adorable when you’re talking to me pip-squeak” he’d say, laughing at your display of annoyance. But the fact that you we’re fighting off a smile said you felt otherwise. 

But when he had the time to indulge himself in you, it was an entirely different experience. An entirely different Caleb. The duality of your childhood friend always gave you a whiplash. 

He’s pulling you close to him, savoring the feeling of your body against his. You’re caged against his imposing form and whatever surface he’s crowding you against this time. You’re pinned, completely at the mercy of the man that’s yearning for your touch. 

Caleb kisses you with the hunger of a thousand men. His kisses are feverish, demanding, ravishing every corner of your mouth like it’s the first time. He bites down on the plush of your bottom lip, taking you by surprise. 

“Sorry”, he breathes. But he isn’t really. Not when the sound of your wanton moans sends tingles down his spine. God, how did he get so fucking lucky. Having you here like this, so pliant and needy in his arms is his version of heaven. 

The feeling of you carding your fingers through the strands of his hair, tugging at the roots makes a filthy groan escape from his lips. You’re going to be the death of him. 

You’re impatiently pulling his lips towards you again, and it only spurs him on further, pressing one bruising kiss after another, leaving your lips swollen. All the while his hand is sneaking up your shirt to feel the intoxicating warmth of your body. 

You rarely ever stop him when he gets like this. You know he needs it, needs you. And you want him too. Desperately. So you take a hold of his hand and guide it lower, Caleb’s eyes darkening in response. It’s safe to say that neither of you are going anywhere anytime soon. 

╭┈◦•◦❥•◦ Sylus

Sylus is subtle with his affections, it reflects in his gentle and otherwise discrete mannerisms. 

The silver haired man has made a habit of kissing your hand in greeting.

“My lady”, he’s tease, smirking at the your cheeks tinged pink and your defiant pout. 

Occasionally, he’d press a kiss on the top of your head and interlace his fingers with yours. Other times, he’d wrap your hands around your waist, guiding you through noisy crowds. 

However, behind closed doors, your proximity was a drug to him. 

He’d rarely, if ever, be apart from you and your lips. Once he had you against him on his bed, perched on his lap, you’d be better off clearing your schedule. 

Sylus could spend hours savoring the touch of your lips against his. He’s a sensual kisser. Taking his time to draw out every moan, every whimper he can draw from you. 

He’s slow, concentrating first on your upper, then your lower lip, your mouth moving against his in tandem with a rhythm that comes with practiced ease. He’s thoroughly infatuated with the way you move against him, seeking more of his touch. 

He strokes your cheek with his thumb, before entangling his fingers in your hair, angling your face just right for him to kiss you deeper, while his other hand is wrapped against your waist leaning you against the headboard. 

It’s intoxicating. You’re drowning in the presence of this man, and with each kiss, you only want to sink deeper and deeper. 

His kisses are numbing. Your lips tingling with how much they’re being ravaged by his, but you don’t want it to stop. In fact, you want to break his resolve further. 

So you pull out his shirt that’s tucked neatly in his pants, your hand snaking up his back, feeling the muscles flex underneath your fingertips. 

You rake your nails across his back, the sting making the silver haired male shudder in response, satisfied at his break in composure. 

“You sly minx” he chides, black tendrils of his Evol emerging to bind your wrists over your head, freeing him to continue his offense. 

Each press of his lips steals your breath away, leaving you completely drunk with need, until the only thought consuming you was the man in front of you. 

As the minutes tick by, Sylus is emboldened with a new sense of ferocity and intensity as you find yourself grinding against his thigh, desperate to ease the growing warmth in between your thighs. 

And if you were willing to, he’d be very happy to indulge you, give you everything you want and more. 

╭┈◦•◦❥•◦ Zayne

Zayne is a sensible man. His logical reasoning and quick thinking, even in the most critical situations, is what makes him the most sought after Cardiothoracic Surgeon in Linkon. 

He’s very rarely swayed by his emotions. But that also means he comes off as cold and unfeeling to the people around him. 

Not to you though. Never to you. Zayne is the warmest presence in your life.

In the midst of all his responsibilities, you are his reprieve, a breath of fresh air. When he has you to himself, the doctor throws all sense and reason out the window. You are his ultimate weakness. 

You are his to worship. The need he feels for you is indescribable. It consumes him, swallows him whole, until he starts to let lose any remaining restraint that holds him back from you. 

The way Zayne kisses you can only be described as reverent. He takes his time with you. Worshipping you. 

Kissing featherlight kisses up your jaw, his lips just barely brushing your skin, trailing them to just beneath your ear, before tugging at your earlobe with his teeth. 

You shiver in response, angling yourself towards him, trying to press more of yourself to him in hopes that he will relent. 

But Zayne is in no hurry. Not at all. He wants to watch you unravel under him. Bit my bit until you’re completely pliant. 

He wants to be selfish with you. So he continues his ministrations, peppering kisses down your throat, feeling the vibrations of your hums and huffs with his lips. 

You’re struggling to keep your eyes open now, Zayne’s gentle but lethal movements sending a flush of warmth down your body. You need his lips on yours, you need it like you need air. 

“Please Zayne…kiss me” 

How could he deny you when you begged him so sweetly? 

The sight of you so debauched with just a few simple touches sends Zayne into a frenzy. It pleases him, knowing you want him as much as he wants you. 

So he relents, giving you what you want and kissing your lips, while you sigh in relief. Finally. 

Zayne kisses you with intent. His hands are at your hips, squeezing slightly as he devours the moans that leave your lips.

He moves his hand to touch your face, earning a surprised gasp from you, your eyes shooting open. His fingertips are icy cold. Only then do you notice, there’s frost creeping up his neck and hands. His Evol is responding to you. 

But Zayne pays it no mind, he’d die before ever causing you harm. So he grazes your bottom lip with the tip of his thumb, gazing into your eyes while nodding reassuringly. 

“I’m okay” he’d confirm before he captures your lips again, this time with renewed vigor, determined to finish what he started. 

He’s everywhere all at once, and you find comfort in each other’s kisses, touches and presence. Allowing yourselves to get lost in each other further into the night. 

╭┈◦•◦❥•◦ Xavier

Xavier is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. His unsuspecting and otherwise modest appearance only serves as a facade, concealing his genuine desires. 

While he comes off as quiet and unassuming, the truth is far from it. 

He can’t help himself. You’re his. The hunter wants you next to him at all times, kissing him, touching him, loving him. He wants your undivided attention on him, selfishly so. 

It always starts out so innocent. He’s pulling you into his embrace, kissing the tip of your nose in greeting. 

“Hello my star” he says, as you giggle under his affection. And God his heart clenches at the sound. It’s music to his ears. 

He repeats the action, then tenderly peppering kisses all over your face. Your forehead, the apple of your cheeks, the dip of your chin and the corner of your lips. Over and over again until you’re reduced into a fit of laughter. 

“Xavier, it tickles” you whine, with no real complaint in your tone. 

He ceases his playful gesture, only to wrap his hands around your waist, picking you up and placing you on the dining table with practiced ease. 

You often find yourself in this position. Perched on a surface with Xavier spreading your thighs, finding his rightful place between them. 

He’s burying his face in your neck, brushing his lips against your thrumming pulse. The sound of your breath hitching in response makes Xavier smile against your skin. He’s got you exactly where he wants you. 

“My light, can I please?” He asks, pleading for your permission to spoil you.  

You find it very hard to deny the hunter, especially when you know what usually comes next. And you want it so bad. Want him to come undone and take you for himself. You’ve never stopped him before and you’re most definitely not going to stop him now. 

The breathy ‘please’ that leaves your lips is all the confirmation he needs as he dives to nip at the nape of your neck. Your skin is soft and warm as he swipes his tongue along the line of your pulse. You throw your head back in response, inviting him to take more of you. 

Xavier worries the skin in between his teeth, sucking and tonguing at the spot until he’s satisfied with the dark splotch that blooms in its place. 

He continues a similar onslaught across your collarbone and throat, leaving you hissing at the delicious sting. 

The hunter trails his lips up your throat, finally connecting his lips with yours. He kisses you like a man starved, encouraged by the sight of the dark purple marks he’s left decorating your skin. 

It satisfies a primal part of him, knowing in a way, he’s claimed you for himself. 

He’s greedy for you, and isn’t ashamed to show it. Pressing chaste kisses one after the other, barely giving you a second to catch your breath, swallowing the lustful moans that threaten that leave your lips. 

And as his hand squeezes the fat of your thighs, edging his fingertips higher to the warmth that sits between your legs, you know that you’re not leaving his apartment until you’re absolutely ruined. 

╭┈◦•◦❥•◦ Rafayel

There’s only two things that Rafayel needs to survive in this world. One is his art, the second is you. The merman is needy and he isn’t ashamed to show it. 

Sometimes, it’s difficult to get anything done when the Lemurian is around. He’s practically glued to your side, sneaking kisses to your cheek, wrapping his hand around your waist and nuzzling into the nape of your neck.  

You aren’t complaining though, you find it endearing when he’s all pouty and clingy.

And then there’s Rafayel when there’s an insatiable need growing under his skin that he just can’t seem to itch.   

When he gets like this, you’ve learned to surrender to his mercy. That’s how you find yourself currently perched on his lap. 

His gaze is intense, half lidded eyes staring you down like you’re his prey. He’s breathing heavier than usual, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. 

“Raf, are you okay?” You question worryingly. He’s burning up, you can practically feel the heat emanating from his skin. 

Wordlessly, Rafayel takes a hold of your hand, placing it on his cheek, nuzzling into your palm. It’s not enough though, he’s growing more restless. He needs more of you touching him. 

On instinct, the merman turn his face to bite at the fat of your palm, laving his tongue over the skin. When he hears your breath hitch, he breaks. 

With all semblance of reason now completely disregarded, Rafayel grasps at your neck, pressing your body into his eliminating any space between the two of you. 

His lips are on yours in an instant, and your hands are in his hair, tugging at his waves as he nips and sucks at your lips, bruising them. 

“Y/n…” he groans. His voice dripping with lust, brows knitted as he struggles to catch his breath. 

You look up at the merman. He looks positively ruined. His shirt is in disarray, hair standing up in a hundred different directions, lips swollen. And his eyes, there’s a storm brewing behind them, having darkened considerably. 

You’ve never seen him like this. Rafayel’s always been playful, using his humor as a front to his true feelings, always keeping you at arms length. 

But right now, he feels so raw. Trusting you with his deepest desires as they erupt to the surface. 

Seeing him like this, so open, so vulnerable makes heat pool between your legs. You want him, God no you need him. So you crash your lips onto his with fervor, matching his frenzy with new determination. 

Rafayel is loud. He doesn’t hold back, reacting to every press of lips, every pull of hair, grinding himself against you to relieve at least some of the tension built up in his pants. 

His tongue is swiping at your bottom lip, begging for permission which you grant without hesitation. It’s wet and messy, one hand kneading your thigh, the other playing with the button of your jeans. 

It’s all a well choreographed dance then, motions you’ve been through many times. But somehow this moment feels different, a tangible electricity in the air. You have a feeling the Lemurian isn’t going to let you go until he’s had his fill of you. 

© valyvinny. All right reserved. Do not steal, copy, translate, repost or reupload any of my works. Do not use my work for AI

[vrystalius]

IN-HO // THE FRONTMAN AS YOUR YANDERE.

What will happen if the Frontman falls completely and chronically painful in love with you?

Pairing: In-ho x fem!reader (x Gi-hun)

Warnings: non-con themes, a lot of touching, stalker-ish behaviour, obsession, manipulation, gaslighting

Summary: Introduction, yandere profile (sfw), his jealousy of Gi-hun

Note: I kind of struggled with writing NSFW so I didn’t do it, I’ll write a personal piece for him someday that will live up to my usual quality!

Introduction.

The Frontman was watching the first of the games comfortably from his study, a glas of whiskey in his hand as he watched the first few players getting eliminated and their deaths creating a massive wave of panic on the large screen in front of him, absentmindedly swishing the alcohol in the glas around. His mask was put aside for comfort and a better view on the player his eyes were glued to the whole time: Gi-hun, player 456.

In-ho watched as the man shouted instructions desperately, trying to guide as much people as he can to safety. He huffed and was about to take a sip from the glas but his eyes got ripped back to the screen when he heard the lack of Gi-huns instructions. His eyes searched across the screen for the man until he found him, holding another player tightly to his side.

His interest in his drink quickly wavered as he put is aside, watching the man guide a shaking girl across the safety line. You were shaken up, close to tears, on your knees for Gi-hun. A frown grew on the Frontman’s face.

Gi-hun cheated the game, saved more players than In-ho expected and now has a pretty thing like you on your knees for him in thanks? It was all contributing to the man’s desire to join the games himself just to personally contribute to his suffering.

In-ho pushed himself out of his leather chair and activated his handheld radio.

“Prepare for code blue light.”

Yandere profile (SFW part).

- Physical touch -

After becoming completely and utterly in love with you, In-ho will begin to have his hand(s) on your body in some way or form, all day every day. At first it was pleasant and reassuring to have his hand rest on your shoulder, firmly holding you close to his body to keep you safe, or have his fingers brush some annoying strands of hair out of your face, but as you continued to allow these simple touches, In-ho got more and more daring.

His hand began to rest on your thigh almost casually, giving you a squeeze here and there, his eyes watching in fascination as the softness of your thighs almost spilled out of his grip, or his hand travelling lower and lower as it rested on your back, testing how much of his touch you tolerate and allow.

His touch is his way of testing your limits without completely scaring you off. In-ho wants to know if you are a timid and shy person, allowing his touch no matter how inappropriate it seemed, or are you fiery and defiant, wiggling out of his grasp or giving him a piece of your mind. In-ho likes it either way.

“Ah, sorry. I thought you’d feel better if I held you. My mistake.”

In-ho almost guilt-trips you into liking his touch, hanging his head and giving you an apologetic smile after you told him that his touch is making you a little uncomfortable. Maybe he is just as scared as you are, you thought.

Besides, in your oblivious mind you still believed that his poor, pregnant wife is in the hospital while he is trying to win the money for his future family. Perhaps the man that is old enough to be your father needs to be held as well, so how about you tolerate his touch a little while more.

His touches are always very secret, intimate almost. Barely anyone ever noticed his hands travelling to places they shouldn’t or rest on areas that might imply that you two are closer than just allies in a death game.

In-ho is calculated and careful, thinking about his every move hours in advance before acting on them, checking if anyone is watching or if you will speak out to him.

Sometimes, in the back of his love-hazed mind, In-ho wants Gi-hun to notice the way he is treating you, touching you and showcasing how intimate you two can be, how you are only his to touch. He wants the other man to know that you are off-limits despite you not even really consenting to all of this.

If someone else were to touch you, even just accidentally brush against you or push you out of the way of danger, In-ho makes sure that exact area gets “cleaned” by their touch, replaced by his.

Dae-ho grabs your wrist and drags you to safety during mingle? In-ho will make sure his grip on your wrist afterwards will leave blue marks. Jun-hee reassuringly grabs your shoulder while comforting you after an especially brutal game? In-ho’s grip on your bone will rival that of a predatory animal while keeping his soft smile on your face, acting oblivious to your wincing and squirming.

- Compulsive thoughts -

In-ho will replay every single interaction he had with you in his mind over and over like a broken record. Your gestures, subtle facial expression, movement and the way you hold yourself; he is overthinking about everything and anything. It makes him want to kick his legs a little and smile at himself while obsessing over your whole body and how perfect you always managed to look.

Covered in blood makes you look sexier, even if you cringe and cry at the feeling. Your sweat sticks to your shirt, exposing your curves in the best way possible for his staring eyes and the image of you being dwarfed by his jacket being draped over your shoulders makes his nether regions tingle in delight.

Scenarios about you and only you makes In-ho feel utter bliss, especially when you’re isolated from everyone and everything else, only for him to look at and admire.

His favourite scenario his depraved mind came up with so far is you being utterly devoted to him and him only. You depend fully on In-ho while he provides you with clothes he regards as appropriate and perfect for you, personally feeds you foods he believes are good for your health and happiness, bathes you in a large tub with all the most luxurious products that make your skin just a little softer.

He of course doesn’t want you to loose your personality with him pampering you 24/7 and controlling your every move, he still wants you to be your usual self. In-ho just wants you to love him as much as he loves you.

The need for utter control over your whole being is actually rooted in separation anxiety. In-ho cannot physically stand being away from you for more than one hour. He gets physically sick with stomach aches and migraines, thinking of all the possible ways you could either be getting hurt or having a pleasant time with someone else other than him.

In-ho’s face may look unchanging and casual as always, but his mind is spiralling when you are out of his sight. He curses himself for becoming a player just to monitor Gi-hun more closely and not being up in the control center where he has so much more control.

At least he can instruct the stationed guards to give you extra portions of food during meal time and to never harm you in any way possible. Sadly he cannot instruct them to shoot players like Thanos in their face for trying to charm you. Or at least In-ho thinks that that man’s weird raps and name-calling is an attempt to flatter you. It didn’t work anyway.

Right?

- Playing the perfect protector and saviour. -

You think of In-ho as your saviour, an older, more experiences and stronger man you can rely on and talk about all the things you are scared of and bad thoughts that plague that pretty mind of yours. You feel safe around him and he always has that reassuring smile of his that could make you cry. Not only does In-ho radiate a comfortable aura, he is also somewhat of an heaven sent angel. A touchy and demanding one but one nonetheless.

In-ho managed to save your life at least once in every game, both by physically grabbing you and dragging you out of harms way but also by his scarily accurate talents. Even if he struggled with the spinning top game, without his quick reaction to pull his and Gi-hun’s leg forward to kick the ball one last time, your whole team probably would’ve died.

During the mingle game, he accurately predicted how many players are going to be needed in the rooms every round with no fail.

⁎⁺˳ — A mini scenario starts here. — (In-ho will be refered as Young-il!)

“The next round will be two players in each room.” His low voice pulled you out of your thoughts while you tried to concentrate on not feeling dizzy on the spinning carousel. “How do you know?” Gi-hun, standing to your left, glanced at his friend in disbelief. You could’ve sworn that Young-il threw a glare at his direction for even talking. “It’s easy. There are 50 rooms. If two players go in each one, one hundred will still be left. Enough to go on with the games.” You felt some awkward tension as the two men beside you stared at each other and then moved their gazes to you. Nausea was building up in your stomach, and it was not thanks to the spinning platform or the sweet smell of death around you.

As the lady announced 2 Players through the speakers, Young-il grabbed your arm harshly without a second thought, practically forcefully dragging you alongside him. He harshly pulled you close against his torso as he pushed and shoved players aside. As another player attempted to get into a presumably empty room, Young-il kicked him in the shin forcefully and threw you into the safe room, closing the heavy door behind himself. As you two turned around, a third player stood inside the room.

“We were here before you guys—” he mumbled, clearly terrified to death. The other player attempted to break into the room and without another thought, you pushed your whole body against the metal door with all your might. Young-il death glared at the man in the room. “Out.” He grumbled before tackling him against the wall and swiftly moving behind him to cut the air circulation from his neck. Hearing the desperate choking from behind you, you whipped your head around to watch Young-il snap the neck of the man. Silence. A breath of relief escaped his lips as the shots fired behind the door.

You knew that he just saved your life, saved both of your lives if he hadn’t snapped his neck in time. Yet you couldn’t stop the feeling of utter horror and terror wash over your whole body. Your knees threatened to give in as you pressed your whole body against the heavy metal door, wanting to create more distance between you two, to get away from him and the corpse, to get away from him and to safety.

Young-il quickly dropped the dead man and slowly approached you. His stride was careful and his hand was slightly outstretched as if trying to pacify or soothe a wounded animal. You couldn’t move away or run as he cornered you, his arm gently wrapping around your shoulder and pulling you into his arms while shushing your whimpers. “I’m sorry, I had to. I had to.” His hand pressed your head by the back of your head and into his warm chest. You felt disgusted, angry, scared. You wanted out and away. When is the damn metal door going to open up again?!

“Shhh. It’s okay.” His voice was hoarser, his lips finding your forehead over and over, gently placing kisses all over your skin, thinking it would soothe you. “I had to or else we would’ve died. I did it for you, for us. I kept you safe.”

Slowly, you felt your body calm down at his almost hypnotic voice. Your whimpers slowly subsided but your grip didn’t. You held onto his warm body for dear life. “I-I’m sorry.” You didn’t even know what you apologised for. Maybe because you doubted him?

He nuzzled into your hair and hummed in approval, his chest rumbling beneath your ear. “It’s okay, I forgive you. You were scared and still are.” His hand slowly shifted from your shoulders to your waist, holding you against his body in an intimate hold.

“Always stick to me, I can keep you safe. Understood?”

⁎⁺˳ — The mini scenario ends here. —

His jealousy of Gi-hun and their rivalry.

In-ho is the type to be quietly but extremely jealous when it comes to anyone being in your vicinity, especially that parasite Gi-hun. His jealousy doesn’t manifest by sudden outbursts or very obvious displays, but rather calculated, subtle gestures and manners.

He’d likely watch from the shadows, picking on loose skin around his nail while overanalysing and interpreting your interactions with Gi-hun. If that parasite makes you even crack the smallest of smiles, his expression wouldn’t betray much jealousy, but his jaw would clench ever so slightly and the skin he previously picked is now bleeding and stinging terribly.

Firstly, In-ho would ensure Gi-hun knows exactly who is in charge, has the upper hand. He’d “accidentally” place a hand on your lower back as he approaches your conversation from behind or lean closer to you lips, acting like he can’t hear you properly just to get a little closer to your face and block your view of Gi-hun so your eyes could focus solely on him.

In private, In-ho would question you about your little small talk, subtly hinting at how he dislikes you talking to him. “You seem to enjoy his company. What about him interests you so much?” His tone was calm, comforting even if not for the deadly glare he gave you on accident.

His jealousy gnaws on him too much. In-ho tries to make Gi-hun take more risks in order to get him killed. Pushing him to provoke other players, advising him to do the stupid things during the death games… anything really to make him disappear without arising suspicion on his part.

In-ho’s jealousy is a slow burning fire that threatens to spread like a wildfire. He can barely contain it, with your help of course. Subconsciously you soothe his anger and clean his mind of all worries a man in love could have. You make him safer for other people.

Everyone but Gi-hun.

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading <3

Aghsgshdnf I always feel so much better when writing tooth rotting fluff, this is totally not my comfort zone! In fact, it’s my war zone 😭 I hope you enjoyed it anyway and it was the way you guys hoped/imagined everything. Again I am pretty nervous about posting this, soo… I hope this is alright 😀

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Stay safe and take care of yourselves <3

[eclecticbirdmoon]

Blue for Maverick (Main OC), Green for Sage (OCs Bff), Orange for Tate (OCs Bf)

1. - He’s very likeable from the get go! Most people think he’s really nice, funny and charismatic, which he is

- She’s usually viewed as very straightforward and focused, perhaps even quiet but thats not her at all, most feel neutral to her at first

- Most people think he’s annoyed or angry all the time but he just has resting bitch face and his punk aesthetic usually drives peoples most opinions. It takes time for him to grow on most.

2. - Not a whole lot different! Tho if he gets angry, it’s when he’s alone, never in front of people.

- She acts way more out of pocket when she’s alone and usually lets her impulsive thoughts win

- He’s more quiet when he’s alone, definitely prefers being around people, way more

3. - Angry

- Guilt

- Sadness

4. - He’s very affectionate all round and changes depending on what the persons like

- She’s definitely more of a emotionally affectionate person, it super affectionate but prioritises quality time

- He struggles with showing affection but when he does it’s physical (Mavericks face lights up like a beam every time lol)

5. - Maverick is great at it! Well keeping them, he’s a terrible liar, he struggles not to tell but then he remembers why

- Yes, purely because she does not give a shit but she tell if you annoy her

- Don’t tell him a anything you want to keep secret, he doesn’t mean it I swear 😔

6.

9. - Physical touch is his love language! Well also acts of service… and quality time… and words of affirmation…

OC questions

60 questions that can be made into an OC ask game, or you can just fill everything out yourself to get to know your character a little better :)

___

[1] What first impression do they typically make? Are they likeable from the get go, or take time to grow on people?

[2] How does their social personality differ from how they act when they’re alone?

[3] What emotion is the hardest for them to deal with?

[4] How physically and emotionally affectionate they are?

[5] Are they good at keeping secrets?

[6] How direct are they in conversations, do they speak in hints and riddles or bluntly say what they think?

[7] Are they a good liar, and what would they probably lie about?

[8] How open they are about their true feelings, both positive and negative?

[9] What is their love language?

[10] How quickly do they fall for someone?

[11] What are small things that make them happy?

[12] How high is their self-esteem?

[13] What kind of sense of humor do they have, if any?

[14] What does it take to make them laugh, and what does their laugh sound like?

[15] How do they act around people they don't like?

[16] Do they easily rely on others to help them out, or prefer doing everything themselves?

___

[17] What is their biggest struggle that no one around them is able to understand or believe?

[18] Do they ever have to hide their identity and for what reason?

[19] If they could change one thing about their past, what would they change?

[20] When they’re sad or upset, do they need company or some time alone?

[21] When they’re sick, would they want others to visit and take care of them, or they would rather prefer not to be seen at not their best?

[22] Do they have nightmares, and if yes, when did they start and what are they usually about?

[23] What was the worst, the darkest period of their life that they have been through?

[24] How hard it is for them to not allow their emotions to cloud their judgement?

[25] Do they have fears and phobias, and if they do, do they usually keep it to themselves or talk about it openly?

[26] Do they have any physical or mental ilness, how do they handle it and how open they are about it?

[27] Do they have any scars, how did they get them and how do they feel about them?

[28] What is something that they will never be able to forgive?

[29] How do they deal with loss, stress and anger?

[30] What are their most healthy and most unhealthy coping mechanisms?

[31] How hard it is for them to own up to their mistakes and wrongdoings?

[32] Is there something they've done in the past that they deeply regret till this day?

[33] What are one of their fondest and most treasured memories?

___

[34] Do they have vices they don't want others to know about?

[35] Do they like their own appearance, and what do they do, if anything, to alter it in any way?

[36] Do they own items that have sentimental value?

[37] How would they spend a lazy day when they have nothing specific to do?

[38] What do they usually do or where do they go when they need to feel comfortable and safe?

[39] What is their sleeping habits and favorite sleeping position, either alone and with someone?

[40] How picky they are with food, do they have specific dietary requirements based on their health or culture?

[41] What’s their usual morning routine?

[42] What is their idea of a perfect friendly hangout and/or romantic date?

[43] Do they enjoy flirting or being flirted with?

[44] On a party, where would you find them?

[45] For an event, would they dress like they typically do, or go all out?

[46] Would they rather dress to look attractive or to feel comfortable, and what would they never wear?

[47] Do they drink alcohol, and if they do, how much and how often?

[48] Are they, or were they at some point in their life, a part of any subculture?

___

[49] Do they possess any unexpected skill or knowledge that surprises others, and otherwise, what is something anyone would assume they know or can do, but in fact they don’t?

[50] What are they really good and really bad at?

[51] How good are they with money?

[52] Do they speak any other languages aside from their own?

[53] Do they like to sing and how confident they are with their singing?

[54] Do they like giving gifts, and how good are they at picking good gifts?

[55] How long does it take for them to make a new place feel like home, and what do they need for it?

[56] How would they react to hearing a dirty joke?

[57] What was the most stupid or dangerous thing they have ever done?

[58] In the situation where they had to choose, would they rather stay loyal to their morals or to people they love?

[59] What would they want to be remembered for?

[60] If they were to commit a crime, what kind of crime would it most likely be?

---

some of these question were written myself, some are the courtesy of my friend, and some were brought from my questionnaires in my old fandom. if you use them, please reblog or link back to this post

[isaadore]

SLEEP CAN WAIT CONNOR BEDARD

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ pairing connor bedard x reader

SUMMARY connor wakes you up at two in the morning, completely serious about proving the moon landing was fake. it’s ridiculous, but it has you laughing and falling for him all over again. word count 0.6k

warnings pure fluff, established relationship, light teasing

note requested by @cyberhughes 😋

CB98 MASTERLIST MAIN MASTERLIST

YOU WERE TEETERING on the edge of sleep, the warmth of Connor’s arm draped around your waist, his slow and steady breaths lulling you into relaxation. The glow of your bedside lamp illuminated the room in soft golds, casting gentle shadows on the walls. You sighed contentedly, eyes fluttering shut, ready to drift off.

And then Connor spoke.

“You know the moon landing was fake, right?”

Your eyes blinked open, confusion cutting through your drowsiness. You turned your head slowly, catching sight of Connor’s face, illuminated by the soft light. His expression was serious—almost too serious for what he had just said.

“Come again?” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

He rolled onto his back, his brows furrowed like he’d been thinking about this for hours. “I mean, think about it,” he began, his voice low but carrying that familiar matter-of-fact tone. “It was 1969. There’s no way they had the technology for that. And the shadows? They don’t even match up.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, staring at him in disbelief. “Connor, are you seriously telling me you think the moon landing was fake?”

“I don’t think it was fake,” he replied, turning his head to look at you. His blue eyes were filled with an intensity that was both endearing and mildly ridiculous. “I know it was. Have you ever seen the flag in the videos? It’s moving. There’s no wind on the moon.”

Biting back a laugh, you squinted at him. “So you’re saying NASA faked the whole thing? Just for kicks?”

“No, not for kicks,” he said, clearly offended by the idea. “Probably for the Cold War. Or to beat the Soviets. I don’t know.” He shrugged as if the finer details weren’t as important as the truth he was unveiling. “But it’s obvious if you really look into it.”

It was too much. A laugh bubbled out of you, and you quickly covered your mouth with your hand, trying not to wake your neighbours. “Connor, it’s two in the morning,” you managed between giggles.

He turned on his side to face you fully, an almost exasperated look on his face. “You’re laughing, but I’m serious. This stuff matters. What if someone asks you about it one day?”

“Oh, of course,” you teased, grinning at him. “Because moon landing conspiracies are such a hot topic in 2025.”

“It could happen!” he insisted, his voice serious. “And when it does, you’ll thank me.”

Shaking your head, you reached out to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the soft flush that had spread there. “You’re a nerd, you know that?”

He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in that shy, boyish way that you loved. “Maybe,” he said softly. “But you love me.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” you admitted with a mock sigh, leaning in to kiss him gently.

Connor sighed as you pulled back, collapsing against the pillows. “Fine. I’ll let you sleep,” he mumbled, almost like he was doing you a favour. “But tomorrow, I’m showing you a video about the shadows. You’ll see I’m right.”

You rolled your eyes and settled back into your spot, the weight of his arm finding its way around your waist again. “Whatever you say, moon boy.”

Even as you closed your eyes, you could feel the energy radiating off him, his mind still racing through facts and theories. And despite how absurd it all was, it made you smile.

Because even when Connor Bedard woke you up in the middle of the night to talk about conspiracy theories, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ CB98 MASTERLIST ✷ MAIN MASTERLIST

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Saving What Was Lost Part 8: Keep Me From Drowning✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: This fic just keeps getting softer, and I love writing in Joel’s POV 🥹 I hope you enjoy this one, lovelies. I put my whole heart into this one 🩷

Chapter Summary: Joel helps you brave the bath.

Rating: 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 5.2k

Tag list: Soft! Joel, angst, yearning, dual POV, age gap (reader late 20’s, Joel late 40’s), mentions of violence and kidnapping, Joel helps reader take a bath, words of affirmation, slow burn

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

 The end of December comes to a rapid halt as white snowflakes fall from the sky. The ground is blanketed in a thin layer of snow, Christmas lights still strewn around the house. It’s that weird middle ground where it’s not quite the new year, but just about there. It’s quiet, still—just how he likes it. 

   Christmas was a little more bright this year, a little more merry now that you were here. Your smile was so wide when you helped make Christmas cookies with Sarah. Tommy and Maria were sprawled on the couch in a thick blanket, drinking eggnog. And Joel was just happily watching his little girl bond with the woman he saved. The woman he fell for.

   Oh, and the way your eyes went extremely wide when he brought you out front and showed you the brand new sparkling white Nissan Rogue he bought just for you? The look on your pretty face was priceless. You were speechless, dumbstruck, and he accidentally made you cry when he handed you the shiny keys. 

   “But I’m not… I’m not ready,” you had said, doe eyes glossy and bright. “And you… Joel. You didn’t. That’s not my car.”

   He just nodded his head up and down and smiled brightly at you, placing the keys in your palm and closing your fingers over them. “You’ll be ready. One day. And yes, it’s yours. Brand new, jus’ for you.”

   “But I…”

   “None of that, sweetheart. It’s a gift, so please, take it. I want you to have it. I want you to...” His speech was cut off by tears running down your face. He carefully, gently brushed one away with the pad of his thumb just as a tiny snowflake kissed your cheek. 

   Beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful with snowflakes gathering on your eyelashes. Like a sparkling star in the night sky.

   Your eyes melted, and the look of pure wonder and awe made you shine that much brighter. You were glowing as bright as the twinkling red and green lights on the roof. You were shining all shades of the rainbow which made him smile just a little wider. Just for you. 

   It’s funny—that fuzzy feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach each time you smile. It seems to light him up, seems to make him feel weightless when that lilty laugh slips from your lips. He didn’t ask for much for Christmas. All he wanted was for you to have the best Christmas ever, and he thinks you did. 

   You seemed to fill the void in his heavy heart this season. The perfect Christmas gift, he thinks. 

   Nightfall slips across the dark skies outside, painting shadows across the white walls. The crackle of the living room fire pops every few seconds, embers flaring deep reds across the wood. He’s got his feet kicked up on the coffee table—one leg crossed over his knee, his phone lit up in the palm of his hand. It’s quiet tonight, a little peaceful. No calls to take, no runs to make. He can just kick back, relax, and watch the full moon light up the starry sky outside his floor to ceiling windows. 

   Just when he starts to ease into the leather of the couch, he hears your soft footsteps pattering down the stairs, squeaking with every step you take. When he looks up, his face drops when he sees you standing in front of him—your bottom lip pouting out, fresh tears in your eyes, a half-open bottle of lavender soap in your hand, a folded towel in the other. 

   “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks softly, afraid to scare you away. 

   You blink up at him and whimper out quietly, “I tried. I just… I can’t do it. I can’t…” 

   Before you shed another tear, he leans forward and sets his phone on the coffee table, eyes straight on you. “You need some help?” Your watering eyes and tiny sniffles make him weak. If it were up to him, he’d scoop you up in his arms right this very second so he could hug away all your fears. 

   The bottle of soap trembles in your tight grip, your pink lips just as shaky. “Please.” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s a plea, nonetheless. 

   “Alright, sweetheart. C’mon.” He pushes off the leather couch, throwing you an easy smile. And when he makes his way up the stairs, you follow right on his heels, your little whimpers filling the space between the two of you.

   Looking behind himself, he keeps glancing back to make sure you’re still there. But you are and every time he does, you’re looking up at him with big puppy eyes, so beautiful even through the shades of blues that try to swallow you whole. Even through all the trauma and affliction, the shadows can’t take your beauty. It can’t stop the potential he sees swimming in your eyes. 

   You’re gonna fly, just like he said. And he means it. You’re gonna soar like the invisible fairy wings you have spread across your back. You don’t see them, but he does—sparkling like the December snow, glistening with sprinkled glitter and gold. You’re gonna fly so high, sweetheart, he thinks to himself. 

   When he enters your bathroom, the fluorescent lights shine down on the evidence of your distress—the shampoo bottle knocked to the tile floor, the shower head dangling from the coiled cord, the clear shower curtain pulled halfway off the rod, another towel strewn across the sink. You certainly had a hell of a time trying to make it into the tub, but his face softens when he glances back and sees your trembling form from the open doorway. 

   “I’m sorry for the mess,” you murmur out lowly, your voice barely above a whisper, eyes cast downward like a dog getting scolded. 

   He takes a step forward and barely grazes his calloused fingers under your chin, till you lift your eyes to his. He sucks in a breath from how your eyes seem to be glowing against the fluorescents of the lights shining above the sink. You’re such a vision, even through the tears. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.” Your bottom lip quivers as you stare in wonder at him, a soft glow casting his way. 

   You’re such a fucking angel. 

   “Here, let me.” He reaches out to grab the bottle of lavender soap from your hand and slowly starts to put the bathroom back in order—fixing the shower curtain, placing the shampoo and soap bottles on the edge of the porcelain tub, setting your towel in a neat pile by the tub, adjusting the shower head back where it belongs. 

   He feels you watching him like a hawk, your eyes fixed on every careful movement he makes like he’s an artist crafting a sculpture. When he gazes back after he’s got the bathroom in order again, his chest tightens when you look at him with that longing mirrored in your glossy irises. It’s like you’re reaching out for him, even though you’re standing still. Your eyes tell stories; he can almost grasp the edge of the first page, can almost smell the crisp paper turning, beckoning him to listen. 

   Taking his eyes off you for just a few seconds, he turns the clear faucet until hot water comes running out. Mixing in the lavender soap, he lets it fill to almost the top of the tub, the steam billowing out like winter fog over a glassy lake. When he cuts the water off, he turns back to you and nods toward the tub. “It’s all yours, sweetheart.”

   Your throat bobs, and there’s that look in your eyes again. The tears brimming to the surface, your lips twitching out a response. “Thank you, Joel.”

   With one more nod of his head, he takes his exit, but he stops at the doorway and turns, just inches from your shoulder. “I’ll be right outside, okay?”

   You gulp down on nothing and whisper, “Okay.” When he walks through the threshold and shuts the door, he leans against the frame of it, his head flush against the solid oak as he blows out a breath of relief. He believes in you, believes you can face the fears of your haunted past. One day at a time, he knows you’ll make it just fine one of these days. Whether he’s here or not. His chest stings thinking about you leaving, not being here one day. 

   Please, don’t leave. Stay. Just stay.

   He hears the hesitant splash of water as you slip into the tub from the other side of the door. It doesn’t take long to hear your shaky cries. Closing his eyes, he exhales slowly, tries to block out the waves of hurt you’re feeling. 

   It’s one of those bad nights. You don’t always have them. You’ve been doing so good lately. Not as many nightmares that tear him from his bed, not many meltdowns that send him running your way. You’ve made so much progress, but tonight’s one of those setbacks that keep you frozen in time. 

   Placing his palm on the door, he lets out a breath and prays you can feel his touch through the closed door. Just one calming, gentle touch that he desperately wants to give you. He’ll let it slip through the cracks, permeate through the billowing steam of the tub until it makes its way to your cheek. Just one caress. The back of his knuckles brushing against you. Would that be enough to let you know you’ll be just fine, that you’re safe with him?

   That’s the tricky part, the boulder that’s blocking the way in. He can’t touch you when that’s all he wants to do. Not in a sexual way, but in that gentle, loving way he so desperately wants you to feel. 

   You deserve to feel that. Deserve to feel wanted, important, beautiful, safe. And goddamn it, you’ll have those one day. If that’s the last thing he does. He’ll take all that pain and turn it into something beautiful—like the glitter of your invisible wings. Wings he sees. 

   Just as he takes a step forward, he stops dead in his tracks when he hears the faint trace of his name through the crack under the door. And then he hears it—your tears raining down into the bubbles, crashing like thunder through his entire system. With one hand braced on the doorknob, he waits for just a second. Just to make sure what he heard wasn’t ghosts whispering lies through his eardrums. But there it is again—the call of his name, a desperate plea to make the pain stop. 

   Without another thought, he’s ripping open the door to find you curled up like a ball in the tub—your head between your legs, back hunched, droplets of water dripping down your delicate skin. He tiptoes over, careful not to scare you, cautious not to spiral that fear that’s ingrained like a tattoo deep under your skin. 

   Dropping to his knees at the edge of the tub, he lets his elbows scrap against the porcelain, reaching out just enough to let you know he’s right there where you need him. “Sweetheart?”

   You curl in on yourself a bit more, letting tiny whimpers slip from your pretty lips. You don’t respond with words because you’re too lost in the fog of a distant nightmare, stuck under the roaring waves as your fears drag you under the dark depths where he can’t quite reach you. 

   He reaches out again, desperate to pull you free. “Sweetheart, hey. Look up. Please.” But nothing. No response, no movement. You’re just there. Trapped. 

   And so, he reaches once more, but to no avail. You’re too far gone. “I can’t reach you from there. Can you jus’ try for me? Can you move jus’ a bit closer so I can help you?”

   Still nothing. You’re there but really, you’re in a far away place. Trapped in hell, reliving those horrible images over that you had to endure all alone. 

   He shuts his eyes for just a second, breathes in the lavender scent that’s permeating around him. When he opens his eyes, he steadies himself and locks his jaw. His eyes flick to the bubble-filled tub and back to the door—like he’s tossing between one choice and the other. Another scan of his eyes, another deep breath. 

   Flip. Flip. He somersaults between what he should and shouldn’t do. Leave you in here all alone to sulk or save you from yourself. One more flick of his eyes to your curled-up body, and he’s making a conscious decision. He chooses to save you. He’ll always choose you. 

   Unbuttoning his blue flannel, he drapes it over the clear rack next to the tub, right beside your olive-shaded towel. His leather boots come next and then his socks. He’s left in only the white t-shirt that strains against his flexed muscles and a pair of old denim jeans. But he won’t take those off. No. That’d be sending a message—one he doesn’t want sent. So he’ll drown with you in the bathtub, soggy jeans and all. But this time, he’ll keep you floating at the top. 

   Slowly, carefully, he slips into the back of the tub, immersing himself under the bubbles while his jeans soak through. Far enough away from alarming you, yet close enough to reach you now. 

   You flinch at the splash of him, but you’re still so far gone that you barely register he’s there in the bathtub with you. 

   Let me help, sweetheart, he thinks to himself. Let me cover you in my wings and drown out the noise. Let me keep you safe. 

   “Sweetheart?” he murmurs lowly, barely reaching an arm out so he can catch your attention. When you turn your head and look up through your tear-stained eyelashes, your eyes widen a bit, like you never realized he slipped right in. 

   “Joel?” It’s barely a whisper, barely a scratch of a noise over your sniffling, but there’s something swimming in your glassy irises. A plea for help, like you want him to pull you in and hug away the nightmares of your past. 

   “It’s me,” he says gently. Another splash of a tear reaches the surface of the water, creating a ripple effect across the top. 

   You don’t move; you just stare into the void, roaming your eyes over his drenched clothes. “Your clothes. They’re soaked…”

   He gives you a soft smile and leans against the tiled wall. “S’okay. Nothing the washer can’t fix.” You just stare at him wide-eyed, your lips trembling as you take in his words—like you can’t believe he’d be so considerate because he’s almost positive no one has ever considered your feelings but him. 

   “Why would you do that…” And then the tears swim in your eyes like a whirlpool—uncontrollable where he can’t stop them. He knows. He knows no other man has done the same as he has with you. Instead they tore you apart, took advantage of your frail body while they could sink their teeth into you. 

   He reaches out to brush his thumb against your cheek, swiping a tear away as he gazes at you with sad eyes. “‘Cause I need to make you feel safe, sweetheart. I’d never…” He stops to clear his throat, to get ahold of himself before he breaks down too. “I’d never hurt you. Ever. I heard you call my name outside the door. Heard the plea in your voice and I jus’ knew you needed me. So here I am.”

   You blink back tears, registering his words as they slip through your mind. And when you finally come to terms with them, you give him a sad smile and hand him the purple washcloth. 

   Taking the damp material, he coaxes you closer, just so he can reach you. “C’mere, sweetheart. Slide back for me jus’ a little. There ya go,” he says quietly, letting you situate yourself between his open legs. Still far enough away not to have your back flush to his chest, just close enough to where you’re comfortable. He’s always been so careful about that—your boundaries. Always quick to put bright orange cones up when he needs to, but never willing to cross the lines. 

   The first brush of the washcloth across your back makes you flinch, makes tears well in your eyes, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. “Hey, s’okay. You’re okay,” he coaxes as he eases up and slowly draws the washcloth back for a second, long enough for you to nod that you’re okay. 

   Carefully, he strokes the soapy washcloth across your arms, gently gliding over old, faded scars across your back. But when he hits the crevice of a faint scar on the top of your right shoulder, you shudder. 

   “Hey, did I hurt you?” he asks carefully, like he’s walking on broken glass. 

   You shake your head back and forth, tears welling in your eyes. “No, no. Just…”

   He stops his movements, lets the washcloth drop into the sudsy bubbles, but he still hovers his fingers over where the scar is outlined with red. “Jus’ what?” He tries not to nudge, tries not to pry too far into the past, but he’s already standing with glass shards lodged into his skin. 

   With one more deep inhale, you let out a quiet sob. “The scars. They’re so… ugly. I can’t stand to look at them because they remind me…” you choke on your words but spit them out. “Remind me how worthless they made me feel. How unbeautiful they said I was each time they dragged glass and their nails through my skin…”

   His eyes widen in horror while you fall apart in front of him, hanging your head low while you tremble from the tears. He’s furious, enraged at every single man that ever laid a finger on you and made you feel like you were useless. You’re not just a body, not a woman who can be toyed with. You’re… amazing and so strong and so fucking beautiful. And he’ll spend every day trying to prove to you that you’re not any of those things they made you feel. 

   “Sweetheart…” He brushes the tip of his thumb against the faint scar, tracing it like he can just sweep it away. You flinch, but you don’t pull away. You just let his hand warm your chilled skin. “These scars may be deep, may fade with time, may always be there. But I want you to listen to me very carefully.” You tilt your head toward the right, enough to where your eyes meet his. You’re listening, so he continues on. “They do not mark you as worthless or anything else those useless pricks told you. The way I see it is, they show me just how strong and brave you are. How important and valuable you are. And jus’ how…”

   Your breath catches as you watch him dip his head down—so close to your scar on your shoulder, so close to knocking you off your center just once more. He hovers right over the jagged scar and ghosts his lips over the curve of your shoulder, just enough to scrape his lips over your skin. Enough to stay in a boundary, but close enough to whisper a kiss over the faded scar that tells you lies. 

   “How beautiful they make you,” he whispers out, breathing his promise over the dip of your shoulder, sealing it with the brush of his thumb until he leans back and drops his hand against the side of the tub. 

   The way your eyes stare back at him—tears swimming in your eyes—makes his chest clench. Those beautiful doe eyes that tug at his heart. You’re just silently watching him, drinking in his words, letting your own hand trace against the scar on your shoulder—the one Joel just brushed his lips over. And he meant it, every single word off his lips. You’re so beautiful, scars and all. Blooming flowers in a big green field, blossoms as bright as the sun. You’re sunshine—gold and angelic. That’s what he thinks of you. Pure sunlight. 

   After a few minutes of just looking at each other, you turn back around and let him continue stroking the washcloth over your skin. Letting his fingers lather shampoo through your hair, groaning as he works the suds through your scalp. He knows it must feel good, has to be nice to let someone else take care of you for once. 

   Take care of you. Is this the first time someone really did that for you? Is this…

   You interrupt his thoughts as he pours a bucket of water over your hair, washing away all the shampoo into the tub. “Joel?”

   “Hm?” he hums, repeating the motion once more with the bucket. 

   “How can I…” You struggle to find the right words to say. “The shower head. How do I… I still can’t take a shower. Still can’t stand to look at it. How do I break that cycle?”

   He pinches his brows together and drops the bucket over the side of the tub, his palm gliding over the smooth porcelain as he thinks. “Well, you jus’ take it one step at a time. And when you look at that metal shower head, you pull on a brave face and glare right back at it. And when the fear feels like it’s eating you alive, you growl right back and tell it you’re a force to be reckoned with. You’re brave and strong and powerful. It can’t touch you.”

   Slouching over, you tug your knees closer to your chest as the bubbles gather around you. “But I don’t feel brave right now. I mean, I couldn’t even start the bath by myself. Couldn’t even wash my own hair…” And then the tears start raining down like a thunderstorm, lightning wielding in the distance. The dark clouds are back with full force, but he won’t let them keep you covered.

   “Hey,” he nudges you, brushing the back of his knuckles over the middle of your back. “S’okay to have bad days. It’s okay to ask for help,” he murmurs as another teardrop leaks into the tub. 

   “I feel like I’m drowning,” you shakily whisper, letting the words run down the tile walls. 

   He closes his eyes for just a second, until his chest stops burning from the weight of your words. If you’re drowning then he’ll plunge under the cold waves and reach for you, until you’re safe on land. 

   Taking his calloused fingers, he gently brushes them across the scars on your back, carefully tracing each jagged line as he carves the word beautiful in place of those old scars. “You can stop treading water, sweetheart. I’ll keep you floating. You don’t have to fear drowning anymore. I’ve got you, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”

   And just like that, a few seconds later after his words have sunk into your skin, you’re slipping deeper into the tub but instead of letting your head submerge under water, you rest your head carefully on the top of his left thigh, giving up all your fears to the man that so graciously saved you from drowning. You relax into him, letting your wet hair hang over his denim-clad thigh, resting against the rock that’s kept you from sinking once again. 

   He lets out a long sigh, his lips tugging into a small smile as he gazes down to see you let your guard down just for a few minutes to fully trust him. It’s an intimate moment—a lapse in time where you’re able to fully take off your armor just for these few seconds. The world outside can wait. Because right here, in this tub, is like nothing you’ve experienced before. Your trust is so fragile, so very delicate like a piece of glass. But he’s proven his loyalty, proven he has no intention of hurting you. The only thing he’s done is made you truly believe there’s still good in the world. He’s good. Joel is. 

   He keeps still, afraid to move, afraid to ruin this delicate moment. But as the seconds tick by, he can’t help but to carefully let his right arm reach out, let his hand fall into your damp locks. And as slowly as he can, he cautiously starts to stroke the crown of your head, all the way to the back of your neck in repeated, fluid motions. 

   Intimacy is a scary thing, but this moment right now is sacred, so very affectionate. It could break at any moment, but you don’t move. You just close your eyes and revel in the feel of his palm tracing hearts across your scars, letting him stroke his fingers through your locks as you breathe in the woodsy scent that makes up Joel Miller. 

   His delicate strokes falter for just a second as he asks, “When’s the last time someone took care of you?”

   You open your eyes and blink a couple times, your mind blank when you whisper, “Never…”

   He gently brushes a falling tear off your cheek and nods. “Let me take care of you then, sweetheart. I want to take care of you.”

   Hugging your arms tightly around his calf, you curl your weight into him and close your eyes so no more tears fall. 

   Let me take care of you. Those words flood through your mind until all you can remotely think of are the softest brown eyes you ever did see. All you ever wanted was someone to care enough. You never thought it’d be a man like Joel Miller. But here he is—a giant teddy bear you never want to let go of. He’s exactly what you’ve always needed. 

   Soft. He’s so fucking soft for you, and you think you’re just as soft for him… 

   You stay like that for maybe half an hour, hugging your arms around his muscular calf and leaning your head against his strong thigh, enjoying the languid strokes of his calloused fingers against your scalp. Whatever cage that was holding you hostage minutes ago broke free whenever he ghosted his lips over your scar, calling you beautiful instead of the vile things those awful men called you. 

   Beautiful. Even through all the jagged scars and trauma, Joel sees right through them. He sees you. Not as a broken woman that can’t be fixed, but one that’s strong and fierce and full of potential. He sees you like no one else has before, and that’s more than you could’ve ever asked for. 

   “C’mon, sweetheart. Water’s gettin’ cold. Let’s get you up.” He unwinds your arms from his leg and reaches for the olive-colored towel, wrapping you in warmth while he helps you up from the now frigid water. You just gawk at him because his clothes are sopping wet, dripping down onto the bathtub mat, but he doesn’t even seem to mind. He only seems to be worried about you. 

   So you reach for another folded towel and place it in front of him. “Here, you’re soaked, Joel. Please, take it.”

   He glances down to your outstretched hand and slowly takes it, a warm smile reaching across his lips. “Thanks, sweetheart. You’re a doll.” You give him a half smile and hug the towel tighter against your body, trying your best to warm up. 

   When he notices you visibly shaking, he places another towel around your shoulders and rings out the water droplets that keep dripping down your back. “Better?” he asks after he’s taken the time to squeeze out the excess water in your hair. 

   You nod, throwing him another soft smile. “Better.” 

   His eyes fall to the blue flannel draped over the rack. He slowly reaches for it and stirs something over in his mind, until his eyes flick back to yours. “Here. You keep it, sweetheart. I know how much you like my flannels. Might keep you warm.”

   Your lips part in awe, your words lost as your fingers slide over the soft material. “Joel, no. I can’t. You’ve already—”

   He pushes it into your open hand and curls your fingers around it. “Keep it. You can give it back if you want, but tonight jus’ keep it. Okay?”

   As you tighten your hold on the blue flannel, you sniffle back a tear and nod, accepting the gift. “Okay.”

   A warm smile curls against his plush lips and then he’s sliding the back of his knuckles against your hand, an affectionate gesture that makes your heart clench. “Attagirl,” he smiles. “Well, I’m gonna go change into some dry clothes. I’ll come check on you in a few minutes, okay?”

   You nod and watch him walk off, leaving you alone with the sound of a draining tub and his soft flannel curled in your palm. Lifting the flannel to your nose, you inhale his woodsy scent, pretend you’re still wrapped around his leg while he strokes his fingers through your hair. You almost wish he was still in here with you—his hand gliding through your locks, words of affirmation leaving his lips. 

   He makes you feel so good—like someone who matters. Like you’re someone that’s worth loving…

   Love. Could he ever love you? Could you ever love him? You’re not really quite sure of anything nowadays, but you sure would like to try…

   After fussing with the tangles in your hair and raking the toothbrush across your teeth, you’re snug in Joel’s flannel with a pair of blue pajama bottoms to go with it. And when you slide back downstairs to see what Joel’s up to, you see he made you a cup of hot chocolate. But not just any hot chocolate. It’s Joel’s specialty topped with extra marshmallows and whipped cream—one of your new favorite things. 

   “Thought you’d wanna warm up with a cup of hot chocolate and maybe a movie?” he asks, hope filling his big brown eyes. 

   Curling your fingers around the warm glass, you give him a soft smile. “I’d love that.”

   With one more smile, he leads you into the living room and turns on the flat-screen tv, the fire crackling in the near distance. And when he hands you the remote, you push it back and shake your head. “This time I’ll let you pick.”

   “Alright, sweetheart. This time I’ll pick.”

   This time, you sit on the same couch as him, just inches apart. And halfway through, you start to doze off and end up sprawled over the couch, your head on his knee. You don’t miss those soft, light strokes of his fingers or the gentle way he says your name through the fog. This time, it feels like more. Feels like this is bubbling into much more than you would’ve thought. 

   Feels like your heart just made its decision that he was made to find you…

   He’s got such a soft spot for you, just like you do for him. Maybe this could be more. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll fall for you the way you’re falling for him. Slowly but oh so easily. 

   He feels like home. 

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@whxtedreams @sawymredfox @sanarsi @mountainsandmayhem @bitchytimetravelqueen

@southernbe @katinasweeney @pixelspunk @amyispxnk @mysterious-moonstruck-musings

@christinamadsen @aurorawritestoescape @evolnoomym @littlevenicebitch69 @alltheirdamn

@inept-the-magnificent @maried01 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @fandomdaydreamer @elliaze

@callmecath1 @kulekehe @yorkshirewench @untamedheart81

@tateypots @stylesispunk @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @mellymbee @pascalsbae

@locaparapedrito @ladyofmidlo72 @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @axshadows

@here-briefly @cozylittlepigeon @pastawench @keylimebeag @joelsoftie

@romanarose @captainredspade @megangovier @bishtrouille @almodovarispunk

@papipascaaaal @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler @bambisweethearts @puddles221b

@valkyreally @northennlights

[burningembers91]

The Fear of Feeling Nothing - Choi Su-Bong x Fem!Reader

Follow up piece to:

Not Who I Want to Be The Beauty of Vulnerability Fuscia Pink Kisses Performance of a Lifetime Vacation Mode

Synopsis: Choi Su-Bong is forced to face his addiction head on

A/N: Based on this ask

Life had been a whirlwind since you’d returned from vacation. Choi Su-Bong had barely been home, touring the country with his record label, recording songs in the studio, and giving interview after interview. You’d barely had time for each other, save for a few phone conversations and three blissful nights that he’d managed to sneak away and spend at home. You’d been renovating the apartment, painting walls, ripping up carpets and replacing kitchen cabinets, and the whole place just felt chaotic.

You knew Su-Bong was keeping himself busy on purpose. If he was busy, he wouldn’t have time to deal with his dad. The man had been calling him non-stop, leaving voicemails and text messages at all hours of the day and night. He knew he’d have to see him at some point, knew he’d have to face up to the man who had turned him into a monster.

He’d tried to explain to you what life had been like growing up, but it was hard to put it into words. You had such a great relationship with your family and couldn’t even begin to fathom the things Su-Bong had been put through. Years of his dad’s drinking, physical and mental abuse, and living in constant fear of the man who was supposed to have loved him had left their mark and Su-Bong could feel old habits trying to scratch their way back into his life.

He desperately wanted a drink, craved the numbness that came from the colourful little pills he used to pop. He didn’t have you around him to keep him grounded, didn’t have the safety of your embrace to turn to whenever things got hard. He wanted to ask you to come with him on his press tour, but you had your own work to focus on, and the apartment desperately needed sorting. He had to be strong for you, had to stay sober for you. if he lost you, life would lose it’s meaning entirely.

It was late when his phone rang, breaking through the light sleep he’d finally fallen into after hours of tossing and turning. His dad’s name flashed up on his screen and he immediately silenced the phone. There was nothing that man had to say that Su-Bong wanted to hear.

“Why don’t you block him?” you asked then next day on FaceTime, giving him a tour of the kitchen you’d be awake until 2am painting. “If you have nothing to say to him, and you don’t want contact with him, block his number.” Su-Bong had thought about doing that, but could never bring himself to do it. he wasn’t sure why, but something always stopped him just before he hit the button. “Part of me wants to know why he’s back,” he admitted. “I keep wondering if maybe he’s come to apologise.” He knew that wouldn’t be the case. His dad was a textbook narcissist, and never felt any remorse for his actions, because he never felt like he’d done anything wrong. “Would you accept his apology?” you asked. He knew the answer was no, but it didn’t stop him wondering if maybe, after all these years, his dad had seen the light.

The next day, Su-Bong had another four missed calls, and the day after that there were another three. “Please, son,” his father’s voice begged down the phone. “Just hear me out. Meet me tonight at The Python Lounge. I really need to talk to you.”

Against his better judgement, Su-Bong found himself outside his father’s favourite bar, finally relenting on the man’s request to meet up. He hadn’t stepped inside a bar since meeting you, hadn’t had a drop to drink in months. He could feel the desire clawing at his skin, could feel the insatiable thirst gripping him. He had to stay strong though, for you.

Heading inside, he couldn’t see his father but found a quiet table in the corner. The bar was a complete shit hole, the kind of place you went to drink yourself to death. Su-Bong sunk down into the booth, eager to hide his face. Not that he was worried about seeing anyone here. The bar was mostly empty, and the few people propped up on bar stools were too drunk to know their own name, let alone recognise him.

He waited, and waited, finally calling his father when an hour had gone by. His phone went straight to voicemail, so Su-Bong hung up and tried again. He was getting angrier as the minutes passed, unable to believe he’d been stupid enough to allow himself to believe his father would show up. He’d failed him his entire life, so why had he expected him to change his ways now? The need for a drink was almost overwhelming now, the heavy smell of liquor in the air making his mouth water. His chest was tightening, a sign he now recognised as a panic attack. A drink could soothe him, could calm the rising nerves.

He balled his fists, willing himself to be stronger, to be better than his addiction. He needed to leave, needed to get out of this shithole and head home to you. “Thanos?!” His heard his name, his old name, and turned around. One of his old friends stood behind him, the man who had been glued to his side at every party. He could barely even remember his name. Kang-Hun? Was that his name? It embarrassed him that he couldn’t recall. “It’s Choi Su-Bong now,” he snapped, his anger almost at boiling point. Why, when he was trying so hard to be a better person, did his past keep trying to drag him back down.

“The fuck happened to you, bro?” Kang-Hun, or whatever his name was sighed. “You just, like… disappeared.” His pupils were huge, so dilated his eyes were almost entirely black. His face was slack, his mouth slightly drooping as he attempted to focus through the haze of drugs. “I changed,” Su-Bong said, pushing himself out from the booth. “Man, we used to have so much fun,” Kang-Hun laughed. “Hey, you remember that time we did coke off that stripper’s tits? Man, that was a sick night.” Su-Bong cringed as he remembered it, the flashback making him feel sick. He’d been a horrible person back then. “Have a drink with me,” Kang-Hun smiled, slapping him on the shoulder. He was swaying in place, the combination of booze and pills wreaking havoc on his balance. “I don’t drink anymore,” Su-Bong sighed. “Listen, I’ve got to go-“ “One drink, bro. that’s all I’m asking.” Kang-Hun held his hands out. “For old time’s sake.”

Against his better judgement, Su-Bong found himself at the bar. He ordered a diet coke, but the smell of his former friend’s whiskey burned in his throat, that niggling desire itching the base of his skull. He could almost taste the warm, bitter amber liquid. “So, you’re making new music now?” Kang-Hun asked, gripping the bar as he swayed in his seat. “So fucking cool, man. why don’t we talk anymore? I miss you.” He couldn’t find the words to respond, all his energy focused on not taking a sip of alcohol. His heart was hammering in his ears, the sound almost deafening. “You seemed stressed, bro,” Kang-Hun told him, rummaging for something in his pocket. “Hey, remember what you used to say? When the feels get real, just pop a pill.”

Su-Bong wished he could go back in time and punch the old him. He’d been a real fucking prick. Kang-Hun nudged him, showing him a tin of the pink pills he’d once loved so much. “Come on, man,” he smiled. “Just one, so you can chill out.” “No,” he spat through gritted teeth. He needed to leave, needed to get in his car and drive home to you. “You’ve gone soft,” Kand-Hun laughed. “Like a chick. You all in tune with your feelings now or some shit? Just take the fucking pill, man. Feelings ain’t worth fucking shit.”

Is this what Su-Bong had been like? A junkie with no regard for other people’s boundaries? He looked at his former friend, so high off his face he could barely keep his eyes opened and wondered if this is how people used to see him. He remembered how he used to numb himself, so he’d feel nothing. He didn’t feel pain, sadness, happiness or even pleasure. He spent years feeling nothing, but now he knew that feelings, no matter how uncomfortable, made you who you were.

Kang-Hun shook the tin of pills, wiggling his eyebrows. “What do you say?” He smirked. “I’d rather feel something, than nothing at all,” Su-Bong snapped. He stood up to go, before turning around. “It’s not too late. You can get help if you want it.” “I don’t need your fucking help,” his former friend spat. “Get fucked.”

Su-Bong headed out into the night, driving back to the sanctity of the apartment he shared with you. He burst through the door, pulling you in close. “I’m covered in paint,” you laughed, but you wrapped your arms around him anyway. You could tell something was wrong, could see the pain in his eyes. His clothes smelled like stale booze, and you wondered if maybe he’d relapsed. “Did you drink?” you asked him softly. “No,” he should his head, “I went to meet my dad, but he didn’t show. I waited in the bar for hours and I wanted a drink so badly. But I didn’t drink a drop, I swear.”

He was desperate to feel you, to feel all the emotions he’d spent so long blocking out. He made love to you on the paint-stained sheets in your kitchen, feeling every curve of your body, every inch of your soft skin. He lost himself in the pleasure he had so often blocked out, relishing the way he felt inside of you, the way his body felt against yours. Tonight had been a stark reminder of what could happen if he lost his way. He didn’t want to be like Kang-Hun, didn’t to become the person he’d once been.

He needed to face his past, to confront his dad and then block him from his life. He would never again allow himself to sink into the numbness that came with addiction. But in order to free himself, he needed to confront the man that had caused the need to block out all feelings in the first place.

His dad had bailed on him tonight, but Su-Bong wouldn’t allow him to do it again. He’d faced his past head on, and now it was time his dad did the same.

[jaggedamethyst]

boy savor ⏳✨

ekko (arcane) x f!reader

content: ekko using time...to his advantage

18+ minors dni, smut, porn w/slight plot, edging, soft, (just trust me ik they sound different lmao), oral (f!receiving), complicated/ unlabeled relationship, angst, mentions of death, not proofread

notes: i am a timebomb truther but this is set after the whole ordeal so literally months if not a year or more after the finale...and no the title isn't spelled wrong just read it.

main master list

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

You and Ekko found each other after everything. He’d lost his friend—and something more—when Jinx disappeared. Ekko had remained steadfast; she wasn’t dead, couldn’t be. You would nod, affirming him. You understood what others might deem delusion—and empathized with the desire to have someone be alive. 

For you, it was your dad. Like many others you were sent away—forced to join the herds of people who piled up to leave town. This came, of course, in spite of what you wanted. If it was up to you, you’d have stayed. You would’ve died alongside your father. Instead, you were left to wonder if he even actually was gone. With a body never actually being found it was hard to not think other wise.

The relationship between you and Ekko went unlabeled and remains that way. You both could agree, though, that in the midst of the pain the presence of each other filled a void that would persist for years. Deep down you knew that if Jinx did ever show up he would leave without a second thought. But the gentleness he held with you was enough to make the thought a throwaway. 

In a single word, you would quickly describe Ekko as tender. When you were together the just barely there touches and faint grasps made you feel light—as if you could escape him at any moment. Freeing yourself was the last thing on your mind, though. You’d stay with him, like this, in any timeline…forever.

“Can I try something?” Ekko spoke between breaths, lips kissing on the inner skin of your thighs. He’d paused his devouring of you to glance up, motioning next to him. 

“Uh huh,” you were close. The question hadn’t made a difference to you. You didn’t bother to look in the direction he waved. Whatever he did, whatever he intended to try—you would still unravel in a few seconds. If there was no other proof, the heat emanating off of you would be enough. 

A second later, the sound of a clattering filled the room. The fire in you tamed a bit and Ekko had his lips wrapped around your clit again. Just as he had before speaking up. You panted, feeling his breath fanning over you. He continued to move his entire mouth into you, sucking and moving up and down with an urgency that had your legs twisting erratically. 

Ekko slipped in two fingers, then, pulsing them in and out of you at a steady tempo that made you whine. The sound was melodic for him—it made him want to do this a thousand more times, and he would. 

“Can I try something?”

Without thinking, you replied, “Uh huh.”

The phrase felt sticky on your tongue, as if it had left a residue lingering there. You blinked, looking beside you as Ekko fumbled for the counter. He moved up your body, kissing over your chest as he pulled on a string. 

In an incomprehensible moment of time, his lips found you again. Ekko moved against you and you writhed as a result. He felt your body lift and looked up through his lashes to examine you. A smirk found the space between you, a sheen over the bottom half of his face. 

“What?” He asked as he moved a finger to push your clit up and down. The steady and slow pressure was one you loved—and it almost always had you fumbling for him like you were now. The heat found you, again, and gave you pause. A hand found the top of his head grasping at his hair for relief, the fleeting feeling of déjà vu causing you to yank his head up. 

“Ekko-“ 

“You said I could try something…”

Creating a tool to wield time in the palm of his hand was single handedly the pinnacle of Ekko’s existence and nothing else came close to it. Nothing except his ability to use it to his advantage. He loved the sensation of you pulsing against him, the inadvertent response to his body on yours. He could bask in the sound of your quickened breaths, survive off of the feeling of your fingers clawing at him. Every movement that even resembled you finishing for him made him desire the sight, feeling, and sound even more. 

He tapped around, finding the string much easier this time. He had, after all, done this before. Ekko’s fingers twisted and nudged the dial back an additional few seconds. You watched the world seem to warp around you and your sentience of the current moment seem to slip away. 

The sound of his name teetered on your lips again, dragging at the feel of your climax reverting back to being just on the edge of explosion. 

He was still so delicate with you, savoring every moment he had with you. He spoke quickly, “You okay?” 

You sucked in your own lips, stifling a moan. “Mhm.” 

“Knew you could handle it.” 

You nodded, not speaking but revelling in the feeling—inching on the precipice of finally finishing, again that was. 

Ekko had never done this before, tortured you so sweetly in this way. Going back every few seconds added a weight to you that was surprisingly comforting. Reverting to a moment in time, just before he had you fully undone, welled tears in your eyes. 

He licked and slurped you, his fingers again pushing in and out of you. Ekko let his other hand snake up and kneed into the warmth of your stomach. Your lower half began to match his rhythm, swirling up and around in circles. 

“I’m,” you sucked in a sharp breath, “I’m gonna-“ 

He heard the slurred words. The moist sound of your words was an indicator, too. Every detail about you was intoxicating. He couldn’t think too far ahead, just for now. 

Ekko became more fervent, speeding up every pace he’d found. You could no longer keep up; you let the feeling of him guide you. The once slowly building embers snapped in you and jolted your entire body in half—your spine finding its way away from the mattress. 

He crawled up, kissing your lips sweetly until he’d lost breath…and when he did, a crank filled the room. He’d kiss you forever if he could—and with time at the palm of his hands, he’d make sure this feeling would last a lifetime. 

[ch0llies]

REVIVAL | CHRISTOPHER STURNIOLO

A story in which a messy breakup lands you in your best friend's Boston apartment a year after high school, and you find yourself face-to-face again with Christopher Sturniolo-your first love. As your paths cross again, the bitterness of how you left him still lingers, fueling every hated glance. But with your best friend dating his brother, you know is there's no escaping Chris- or the tension that refuses to die. Is this revival destined to reignite, or will it crumble under the weight of your unresolved past?

story warning: filthy smut, angst, swearing, underage drinking, underage drug use, abusive behavior, morally skewed choices, toxic relationships, and overall mature themes. if any of this upsets you... don't read!

word count: 4k

CHAPTER SIX:

Two Months Later

The cycle never ended. If anything it got worse. Chris pulled you in, made you believe you were something to him, only to push you away the second you got too close. And the worst part? You let him. Over and over and over again.

Some days, he was all over you- his hands on your waist, his lips ghosting over your skin, whispering things that made you forget everything except him. And then, the next day, he’d act like you barely existed. He’d brush past you without a word, act cold, distant, and cruel, as if the night before never happened. And every time you told yourself you wouldn’t fall for it again, that you’d shut him out, he’d find a way back in.

It was exhausting. It was toxic. And yet, you couldn’t stop.

To make matters worse, the triplets’ channel had blown up. In just two months, they’d gained over 20,000 subscribers, and their videos were pulling in thousands of views daily. With their rapid growth, filming had become their priority- meaning your apartment had basically turned into their second home.

Matt had even moved in with you and Ava, claiming he “practically lived here anyway.” He wasn’t wrong. He and Ava were inseparable, and while you loved having him around, it also meant dealing with the other side of their relationship- the constant sex, the loud giggles coming from her bedroom at ungodly hours, and the way they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

Chris, of course, was around even more now because of it. Between filming, editing, and brainstorming video ideas, he was constantly in your space, constantly finding new ways to get under your skin.

Right now, the living room was a mess of cameras, lighting stands, and random props as the boys set up for another video.

“You’re sure this is okay?” Nick asked, adjusting the camera on its tripod. “We don’t wanna be in your way, Y/N.”

You scoffed, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Nick, you guys have basically been living here for weeks. I think we passed the ‘in my way’ phase a long time ago.”

He grinned. “Fair enough.”

Matt jogged into the room, wrapping an arm around Ava’s waist and spinning her in a quick circle before setting her down with a loud kiss. She giggled, slapping his chest playfully, and you rolled your eyes.

“You two make me sick,” you muttered.

“You’re just jealous,” Ava shot back, smirking.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, you felt it- Chris’s presence behind you. Close. Too close.

“You should be jealous,” he murmured in your ear, his voice just low enough for only you to hear. “They have their whole life planned out and you? You’re just my bitch.”

Your stomach twisted as his words sank in, a familiar frustration bubbling to the surface. You turned to face him, but he was already walking away, joining Matt and Nick by the camera, acting as if he hadn’t just whispered something that would sit in your head all night.

This was how it always was. He got under your skin, made sure you knew he was in control, and then left you stewing in it.

You clenched your jaw, exhaling sharply as you grabbed a pepsi from the fridge. If this was your life now- Chris everywhere, pushing and pulling, never letting you breathe- you were going to have to figure out how to survive it.

Even if it meant pretending he didn’t affect you. Even if it meant lying to yourself every single day.

The video wrapped up after another chaotic hour of filming, and soon enough, everyone collapsed onto the couch, exhausted but still buzzing with leftover energy. You sat wedged between Ava and Nick, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly as the boys talked about their next upload.

Chris was sprawled on the other end of the couch, legs stretched out, his fingers lazily tapping against his thigh. The air between you was already tense- it always was- but tonight, there was something different, something thicker and heavier lingering between you.

Then, out of nowhere, Chris scoffed loudly, his eyes dragging over you with an expression you couldn’t quite place-but you knew it wasn’t good.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he asked suddenly, his tone dripping with amusement and something sharper, something meant to cut.

Your head snapped up, your stomach twisting immediately. “What?”

He gestured vaguely at your oversized hoodie and bike shorts, his smirk deepening. “Did you gain weight or something?”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and the room went still. Ava and Matt were still laughing about something, not fully tuned into the conversation yet, but Nick caught it. His head snapped toward Chris, his expression shifting into something wary.

You clenched your jaw, heat rising to your face. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Chris leaned back against the armrest, completely unfazed. “I mean, you just look… bigger. Maybe it’s the outfit.”

Something inside you snapped.

Before you could think, you were lunging over Ava, your hands flying toward him as pure rage overtook every rational thought. Ava yelped as you climbed over her, and before Chris could react, your palm connected with his cheek in a sharp slap that echoed through the apartment.

“What the fuck, Y/N?!” Matt barked, grabbing you before you could strike again.

Nick shot up from the couch, eyes wide. “What the hell is going on?”

Chris barely flinched from the slap, his jaw tightening as he wiped at his cheek. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel the anger radiating off of him. Matt still had his arms wrapped around you, keeping you from lunging again, but you shoved him off roughly, stepping back and breathing heavily.

“Oh, I’ll tell you what’s going on,” you spat, glaring down at Chris. “Your brother just called me fucking fat, that’s what’s fucking going on.”

Ava’s mouth dropped open, and Nick immediately turned to Chris, his face a mix of shock and disgust. “Dude, what?”

Chris just smirked, rubbing his jaw where you had slapped him. “You’re overreacting.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Overreacting? That’s real fucking funny, considering you were telling me how much you loved my body when you were inside it the other night.”

The entire room went silent.

Ava’s head whipped toward you so fast you thought she might get whiplash. Matt and Nick both froze, their faces morphing from confusion to complete shock.

Chris’s smirk immediately disappeared, his entire body tensing. His blue eyes darkened, his jaw clenching as he pushed himself off the couch.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he snapped, his voice low, dangerous.

He took a step toward you, and you squared your shoulders, refusing to back down.

Matt and Nick immediately jumped up, stepping between the two of you as Ava stared in horror, trying to process what she had just heard.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Matt said, holding a hand out toward Chris. “What the fuck is happening right now?”

Nick’s eyes darted between the two of you, his face pinched in disbelief. “You guys have been sleeping together again?”

Chris didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes locked on you, his fists clenched at his sides. The anger rolling off him was palpable, but you weren’t scared. Not even a little. You were pissed.

You took a step closer, tilting your head up to meet his glare. “Nah,” you said, shaking your head. “Let him go. What’s he gonna do, huh?”

Chris took another step forward, getting right in your face, his chest barely brushing against yours.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. You just smirked up at him, pushing every ounce of anger and adrenaline into your words.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice dripping with venom. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

Chris’s hand shot out before you could react, gripping your jaw roughly and tilting your face up toward him. His fingers pressed into your skin, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of the control he he had. His blue eyes burned into yours, his expression a mixture of fury and amusement.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he muttered, his voice low and threatening.

Ava gasped loudly from behind you. “Chris, what the fuck?”

Nick and Matt immediately moved forward, their faces twisting in anger.

“Whoa, dude,” Matt barked, pushing forward. “Fucking watch it.”

Before you could even react, Matt shoved him back roughly, breaking his hold on you. Chris stumbled, falling back onto the couch with a heavy thud. His smirk returned, but this time it was darker, more twisted.

“Nah,” Chris said, shaking his head as he adjusted his jaw, his eyes flicking back to you. “If we’re gonna go there…” He let his words hang in the air for a second before locking onto you with a look that sent your blood boiling. “Why don’t you tell them how much you like being manhandled by me?”

Your whole body tensed, your vision going red. Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear Ava’s shocked gasp or Nick’s stunned, “What the fuck?”

Chris just smiled evilly, watching as the words settled over the room, as the weight of them crushed you under embarrassment and anger.

Your hands clenched into fists, your nails digging into your palms.

You lunged for him again.

Chris didn’t even flinch, just smirked wider, waiting for you to completely snap.

But before you could reach him, Ava stepped in front of you, pressing her hands against your shoulders. “Okay, that’s enough- let’s just go upstairs.”

You shoved her hands off roughly. “Nah,” you spat, shaking your head, eyes locked on Chris. “He’s fucking getting it. I’m sick of his shit.”

Chris just sat there, leaning back lazily on the couch like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it on a pile of gasoline. His smirk never faltered. If anything, he looked thrilled by your reaction, like this was exactly what he wanted.

Matt and Nick both moved in again, their faces set in frustration, trying to de-escalate, but you didn’t care.

Your blood was boiling, your hands shaking with rage.

You were done playing his game. And if Chris wanted a war, he was fucking getting one.

Chris stood back up, towering over you, his smirk now fully twisted into something cruel and enjoying this. His blue eyes glinted with satisfaction, like he wanted you to react, wanted to break you down in front of everyone.

“Yeah,” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. “Go ahead, Y/N. Tell them.” He took a step closer, tilting his head as his voice dropped into something even darker, something condescending. “Tell them how much you like me grabbing you like that. How you beg for me to be rougher. How you whine for me to touch you. How fucking pathetic you are for me.”

Your whole body went rigid, your breathing sharp and uneven as the words sank in, hot and humiliating.

Ava gasped again, but she didn’t step in this time.

Nick muttered, “Dude- what the actual fuck?”

Matt looked at you with a mixture of confusion and concern, but all you could hear was Chris. His words burned into your skin like fire, filling you with a rage so consuming you didn’t even think-

You lunged.

This time, no one was there to stop you.

Your hands collided with his chest as you shoved him back with everything you had. But Chris barely moved. He let out a low chuckle, his smirk deepening, enjoying your reaction.

Before you could strike again, his hands snatched your wrists, his grip strong and unyielding. In one swift movement, he twisted your arms together, locking them in place as you struggled.

“You never learn, do you?” he muttered, shaking his head as if he pitied you.

You thrashed against his grip, but he didn’t budge. His fingers tightened around your wrists, his hold completely inescapable. Your breathing was ragged, your chest rising and falling too fast, your anger consuming every rational thought.

Then, without another word, he started dragging you away.

“Chris, let go of me!” you yelled, twisting in his hold, but he didn’t stop.

“Woah- wait, wait, wait!” Matt’s voice rang out, his footsteps moving toward you both.

“Nah, what the fuck?” Nick snapped, his voice sharper now. “You can’t just take her like that!”

“Chris-” Ava started, stepping forward, her tone full of warning. “Bring my girl back- NOW!”

Chris ignored all of them. His grip on you stayed firm, his body radiating nothing but control as he dragged you toward the hallway, toward somewhere away from them. Somewhere just you and him.

Ava’s panicked voice cut through the tension. “Matt, do something!”

Matt didn’t hesitate. He surged forward and shoved Chris back- hard. Chris stumbled a step, his grip loosening on you just enough for you to break free.

Matt got right up in his face, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “Yo, you wanna put your hands on someone? Let’s go, kid.”

Chris let out a low, humorless laugh, rolling his shoulders like he was itching for a fight. “Are we really doing this right now?”

Matt didn’t back down. “Yeah, bud. Let’s do it.”

And then Matt swung.

His fist connected with Chris’s jaw in a clean, sharp hit that sent a crack through the room. Chris staggered back, his tongue swiping over the inside of his cheek where Matt had landed the punch.

But before he could retaliate, you moved.

“Matt, STOP!”

The words flew from your lips before you could even think. Without hesitation, you stepped between them, your hands pressing against Chris’s chest, keeping him from lunging forward.

Matt froze, his breathing ragged as he glared at you. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

Ava’s voice rang out next, full of disbelief. “Are you deadass? Y/N, what the fuck are you doing?!”

You weren’t listening. Your hands instinctively moved to Chris’s face, checking where Matt had hit him, your fingers lightly grazing his jaw. “Are you okay?” you asked breathlessly, your voice softer, concerned.

Chris’s smirk returned- but this one was different. He tilted his head slightly, soaking in the way you were touching him, the way you had stepped in for him instead of letting Matt beat his ass.

And then, before anyone could react, he cupped your face in both hands, his touch almost gentle in contrast to the chaos around you. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, his fingers curling into your hair as he pulled you closer.

Then he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

The action sent shockwaves through the room.

Matt’s fists clenched at his sides. Ava’s jaw dropped in pure disbelief. Nick looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Chris’s arms wrapped around your waist, securing you against him as he turned his head just enough to glance at Matt, smug satisfaction dripping from every inch of him.

“See?” Chris murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear. “She’s fine.”

Then, his grip on you tightened slightly, his lips brushing against your temple as he muttered the final nail in the coffin-

“We’re leaving.”

And he started guiding you toward the door, leaving nothing but silence, shock, and the unmistakable feeling that you had just chosen the wrong side. But you knew it would be the side you’d choose again and again and again.

Chris didn’t give anyone time to process what had just happened. He moved swiftly, his grip still firm on your wrist as he led you toward the front door. His eyes flicked toward the table near the entrance, and without hesitation, he grabbed your car keys.

“Chris, what the fuck-” you started, yanking at your arm, but he wasn’t letting go.

Ignoring your protests, he snatched a jacket from the coat rack- the first one he saw- before throwing it over your shoulders. It wasn’t yours. It was his- one of his dark, oversized hoodies, drowning your frame, completely swallowing up the little shorts and shirt you were wearing prior.

And you knew he did it on purpose.

Chris didn’t like other people seeing you like this. Even though he had no right to that opinion. Even though you weren’t his.

But he still covered you up like you were.

He pulled you outside without another word, walking straight toward your car. With one hand, he wrenched the passenger door open, and before you could fight back, he shoved you inside.

“Chris-”

SLAM.

He shut the door before you could finish, storming around the front of the car and sliding into the driver’s seat like it was his car. The second he turned the ignition, the engine roared to life, and his grip tightened around the steering wheel.

Then, without so much as a warning, he peeled out of the driveway, speeding down the street recklessly.

The anger in the air was suffocating.

The silence was short-lived.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” you screamed, whipping around to face him.

Chris’s jaw was locked, his knuckles white around the steering wheel as he refused to look at you. “Shut up.”

“NO!” you snapped, slamming your hands against the dashboard. “PULL THE FUCK OVER!”

Chris laughed. A cold, humorless laugh. “Not a fucking chance.”

Your nails dug into your palms, your rage blinding. “You do NOT get to do this to me, Chris! You do NOT get to fucking drag me out of there like I’m-”

“Like you’re what?” he interrupted sharply, finally cutting his eyes toward you. “Like you’re MINE?”

The car swerved slightly as he took a turn too fast, and your breath caught in your throat.

You weren’t scared.

You were fucking furious.

“I AM NOT YOURS!” you screamed. “I HAVEN’T BEEN YOURS SINCE HIGH SCHOOL, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!”

Chris slammed his fist against the steering wheel so hard that the entire car shook. His breathing was ragged, his knuckles white, his face twisted in pure, unfiltered rage.

“YOU WERE NEVER MINE IN HIGH SCHOOL!” he shouted, his voice so raw and furious it sent a jolt through your body. “THAT WAS THE FUCKING PROBLEM, YOU CUNT! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO FUCKING LEFT ME!”

Your chest heaved as his words slammed into you like a bullet, but you didn’t back down.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING CALL ME THAT! I LEFT BECAUSE YOU WERE NEVER GONNA BE WHAT I NEEDED, CHRIS!” you screamed, your own voice just as raw. “You never fucking cared about me- not really! You cared about owning me! Controlling me!”

Chris’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch. His grip on the wheel tightened, his breath coming out fast and uneven. “Oh, that’s rich,” he sneered. “You think I didn’t fucking care about you? You think I wasn’t fucking obsessed with you? I would’ve burned the entire fucking world down for you, Y/N, and you fucking left.”

His words felt like a slap.

For a second- just a second you saw it.

The real anger. The real pain. The Chris who had been left behind, the Chris you had ghosted, the Chris who had spent years turning that heartbreak into something uglier, something crueler. You did this to him.

But you weren’t about to let him rewrite history to make himself the victim.

“You pushed me away first,” you hissed, your voice shaking with rage. “You never told me what we were, you never let me in, and the second I started moving on, you decided I wasn’t allowed to!”

Chris let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, is that what you tell yourself? That I pushed you away? No, baby.” His voice lowered, his tone sharp as a blade. “You left because someone else gave you a little bit of attention. Because the second you saw an easier option, you fucking took it. You ran the moment things got complicated, because that’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Your hands shook in your lap.

“Fuck you,” you whispered.

Chris smirked, but it wasn’t amused- it was mean. Cruel.

“Oh, I already do,” he murmured. “Over and over again.”

Your body burned with rage, with shame, with the unbearable truth in his words.

He leaned in again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “And that’s why we’re here. Because you’re mine now, Y/N. Maybe you weren’t back then. But you are now.”

“I AM NOT FUCKING YOURS YOU EVIL, MANIPULATIVE, PIECE OF SHIT! GET OUT OF MY FUCKING LIFE!” You screech, your entire body fighting between the urge to slap him again and the urge to fucking sob.

Chris slammed his fist against the steering wheel again, his knuckle busting open as the car swerved. “Oh, REALLY?” he shouted. “Then why the fuck did you just CHOOSE ME OVER THEM?”

Your mouth opened- but nothing came out.

Chris scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s what I fucking thought.”

Your blood was boiling. Your hands were shaking. “You are so fucking sick and twisted, Chris-”

“AND YOU FUCKING LOVE IT!” he yelled, voice raw with frustration.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your vision blurring with rage.

“You don’t know shit about what I love,” you spat.

Chris finally slammed the brakes, pulling the car onto the side of the road so fast that your body jerked forward against the seatbelt. His breathing was heavy, his hands still gripping the wheel like he was trying not to completely lose his mind, his knuckle bleeding down his hand but it was like he didn’t even notice.

Then, slowly, too slowly, he turned his head to look at you.

His eyes were burning.

“You’re right,” he murmured, his voice dangerous. “I don’t know shit about what you love.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your face as he tilted his head.

“But I do know you love me. That every time I touch you, you melt for me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“And I know that you can sit here and scream and curse at me all you want, but at the end of the day?” He licked his lips, eyes scanning your face. “You let me do this to you.”

Your breathing was ragged, your throat burning from all the screaming.

Chris smirked, leaning back against his seat. “So, tell me again, Y/N- who’s really the fucking psycho here?”

Your entire body burned with anger, with frustration, with pure, unfiltered rage. You clenched your fists so tight your nails dug into your palms, your breath coming out in ragged gasps.

“YOU’RE THE FUCKING PSYCHO!” you screamed, the words tearing out of you like a final, desperate attempt to shake him, to make him feel something real.

Chris just grinned.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, shaking his head like he pitied you. “You wanna see psycho?”

And then he closed his eyes.

He shifted into drive and peeled onto the main road without looking.

The tires screeched, the engine roared, and your stomach dropped as the car lurched forward, blindly, into traffic.

“CHRIS!” you shrieked, your hands flying toward him, shaking his arm. “OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES!”

But he didn’t.

He laughed.

And kept driving.

The headlights of another car came blaring toward you, horn blaring, tires screeching-

You screamed.

With shaking hands and tears streaming down your face, you yanked the emergency brake, the car swerving violently off the road, your body jerking forward against the seatbelt. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car skidded onto the shoulder, your heartbeat pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

And only then- when the world stopped spinning, when the car settled in the dark stillness of the roadside, when your whole body was shaking with terror- did Chris finally open his fucking eyes.

And the fucker was smiling.

A slow, lazy, utterly thrilled smile, like he had won.

You were still gasping for breath, tears spilling down your face as you tried to process what the fuck just happened, when he reached over and cupped your face in his hands.

“Shh,” he cooed, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, his grip firm, inescapable. He leaned in, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him through your tears as blood dripped down his fist onto the hoodie you were wearing. “You’re okay, baby. See? I told you you’d be fine.”

And then he kissed you.

You were still crying, still shaking, your whole body running on pure adrenaline, and he fucking kissed you.

His lips moved against yours slowly, deliberately, his grip on your face owning you, holding you in place like you belonged to him. His tongue swiped against your lower lip, his breath hot and steady, like he wasn’t the one who just almost killed you both.

You didn’t kiss him back.

You didn’t fight him off, either.

Because you couldn’t breathe, because you were still trying to process, because you were so fucking scared- and he knew it.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, his smirk small, knowing.

“We’re gonna go back to my house,” he murmured, his hands still holding you like you were his. “I’m gonna tell my mom we’re together.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Chris-”

“And you’re gonna be my good girl, just like you always are.” His thumbs brushed your wet cheeks, smearing your tears away. “And you’re gonna play along, okay?”

Your stomach twisted, your throat closing up with a choked sob.

You tried to move, but his hands tightened around your face.

“Okay, baby?” he repeated, softer now, like he was gently coaxing you into insanity.

Your whole body trembled.

“Fuck you,” you whispered, your voice raw, broken.

Chris only grinned.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chided, pressing another slow, possessive kiss against your lips, barely letting you breathe. “That’s not very good manners.”

His smirk deepened.

“Mary Lou wouldn’t like that.”

Your stomach dropped, fear curling up your spine like a vice.

Chris let go of your face, his fingers trailing over your jaw as he finally pulled back, shifting his focus back to the road.

Then, without another word, he reached down, undid the emergency brake, and pulled back onto the road towards his family house.

And you just sat there.

—

A/N: long overdue part!! thank you for being patient!! i actually loved writing this and can’t wait to get back into this series now that earned it is over!!

MASTERLIST

tags: @mattsobvimyfav @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @violetstxrniolo777 @urfungi @jxst-Ixving-bxt-wxerd @chrispycremedonut @ranwa0y @princesspinkkk23 @madisonnxtdoor22 @sturniolohohoho @theboredknightcat-blog @hi-people-who-are-alive @middlepartmatt

[oonajaeadira]

Thank you. Thank you so so much for reading this and seeing it and giving me this beautiful feedback. I'm so sorry I'm dragging my feet on the epilogue. It's coming. I hadn't planned on initially, but after such a brutal chapter, I need to gentle them out of it and on with their lives.

Hence the watch in the shadowbox. Joel's spent so much time keeping going, he has to move fast and leave things behind and possessions come and go. But that watch is his one true thing, his one physical anchor, the only thing he can call his own and he keeps it strapped to his body because he might have to get up and run at any time and if he didn't have it, he'd feel unmoored and start wondering what kept him even a little good, a little human.

But here, he's finally finding that there's reason to trust that he won't have to run. There are other things keeping him anchored, other people. And the worst has already happened to the watch--it did go up in the fire. But there were more precious things to save--family, yes, but a whole existence he thought wasn't possible anymore, something Tess would have wanted for him, Sarah too. And he went out there without the reminder on his wrist not to lose his heart. And he made it home. And even then, the watch was found, so nothing of value was lost to him after all.

He saved what he could save. Including himself...by accepting that he sometimes has to step outside of humanity to keep it.

It makes me so happy that you appreciate Maria. She's a hard character to love in the series, but I do, especially in the TV version. I highly admire her drive. In the game, she was born into the family that started the town, but in the show she's a transplant. I decided to merge the two and have her start in the area and go and come back and let her be Meadowlark's tie to family. Because if it were me, I'd want to be close to her. She is hypocritical here because she's human and she's in charge. It's hard to justify difficult choices with all or nothing answers at the end of the world. Sometimes you have to make the choice to throw the switch when the train's barreling down the tracks. If anyone's got the teeth to grit and bear it and face the pointed fingers, it's our Lady of Jackson.

I'm sorry there's no epilogue waiting in the wings at the moment. But it's started. I've posted the snippet before, but for being so kind and thoughtful, here is the opening:

__

There’s a cardinal that’s decided that the A frame home you share with Joel is one of the corners of his territory and the light’s just starting to come into the day when he wakes you up and you find your way to the toilet and back. The mornings are still chilly and the best part of being woken up too early is getting to crawl back into the bed, full of warmth and flannel and chest and scratchy beard and a “hmmf” in your hair as an arm traps you against a man that is finally learning to rest.

You purposefully take up the left side of the bed so that he’s more likely to sleep on his good ear. And it works. The cardinal doesn’t bother him none.

And usually your hand sliding up the back of his shirt doesn’t either. Usually.

“Hand’s‘er cold.”

“Not for long. You’re a furnace.”

“Mmmf.”

He’s quiet and still a long while, but you can tell he hasn’t fallen back to sleep, even though you start to. But you’re thwarted by his moving away, by him finally deciding his bladder’s gonna bug him until he does something about it, and you hear the door slide open to the porch, picking up your head to watch him from the back as he leans forward and over the railing, see the tug of the band of his sleep pants across his waist.

“Joel, we’ve got a toilet.”

“So.”

“Just because we don’t have neighbors yet doesn’t mean you can just heave to in the yard.”

“Don’t see why not. Nature.”

You can’t help but laugh as you bury your face into the covers against the crispy morning air. “It’s called decency and civilization, you heathen.”

Seconds after the door slides shut, he’s grunting as he works his way back under the covers, curling himself around you. 

“See? Now you’re cold. If you’d just used the bathroom–”

“I’ll warm up.” Now it’s his turn to run his chilled hands up and under your shirt, pull you in tight to the parts of him that certainly were not affected by the spring morning and hums, satisfied. “Thanks.”

“You ass. You not even gonna give me the decency of washing your hands?”

“After what you got up to down there last night, you’re gonna complain about what I’m touching with my hands?”

He’s got a point. Figuratively. And, by the feel of it, literally.

It’s not like you’ve brushed your teeth since last night and he doesn’t seem to have a problem kissing you very, very deeply, using one of those said hands to haul your leg over his hip. So who are you to complain? 

Nature indeed.

Obviously, neither of you are going back to sleep. 

Well, not for another hour at least.

Leave Off Your Wandering pt. 4: Winter

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV)/ Joel Miller

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. Old enough to have been an adult on Outbreak Day. Wyoming born and bred. Sheep farmer, easy-going but confident and self-sufficient. Likes to sing, not a great cook. Childhood friend of Maria. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.

Rating: Mature.

Warnings: Mentions of sex but nothing explicit. Canon-typical violence, bodily harm, death,  (blood, broken bones, knife wounds, shooting, blunt force) and PTSD.

Summary: Revenge comes calling and you work though it as a family.

A/N: Series set after season 1 and then diverges. Does not acknowledge the existence of further plot/seasons, although it does use some characters/elements from the second game.

I’m so sorry it’s taken this long to get to winter. This one was difficult for me to face writing for reasons that may be made clear. But it was very rewarding. <3

The air is thin and cold this morning, takes your breath and makes a show of it as you quickstep it down to the stables. The sun is just starting to make the frost sparkle and no doubt Goldie will be using up the rest of the firewood at the Roost today.

Good thing you have a Joel who’s ready to chop more.

Although he’s also a Joel that’s forgotten his tea, the “stuff with the things in it” that Willa gave him for the stiffness in his knees. With this cold he’s going to want it today on patrol and the last thing you think you can stand is the tug in your heart when he comes home complaining of the cold and the ache and you sitting warm and cozy with his thermos on the counter when you had the legs to trot it on out to him.

It’s a relief to round the corner and find the patrol party still at the stable gate, Tommy helping one of the teens with their rifle strap, and Joel waiting on horseback, weaving his gloved fingers together, packing them down at the valleys to get his hands all the way in.

He’d laid one of those hands on your cheek this morning. Gentle. First thing you saw when you opened your eyes. Like most mornings now. His thumb rounding the rim of your cheek so he could lean in and take a good long drink of a kiss.

He likes it that way…soft, slow. Likes to pull you in as close as he can, twist his forehead into your temple when he hits his peak, jaw clenched in agonized pleasure, kisses along your jawline when you find yours, his eyes half-lidded and watching you in a hazy awe. He’s quiet but thorough, completely  present like he can’t believe he’s got this little slice of warmth, sighs a hushed curse in your ear and calls you sweetheart in the same breath, and then sleeps like a baby the whole night through.

He doesn’t like to talk about the past much, but listening’s your specialty and it comes out in bits and pieces, stuck between the little he does say. You come to understand that he very rarely got to be very close with anyone while Sarah was growing up. There were the years when everything was a nightmare. Then there was Tess and she brought him out of that, thank goodness. But it took time. And there was also denial and survival and means to their ends. There might indeed have been strong love there. But you have the feeling he’s not had this–or anything like it–for a long, long time.

So if he wants it soft and slow, then who are you to deny him?

Maybe it shouldn’t be so surprising that it was him who pulled you in a little closer.

“What if you didn’t move in with Tommy and Maria this winter?” He’d lingered the morning after Christmas, leaning one shoulder against the frame of your bedroom door, savoring the show of you getting dressed for the day.

“And waste the fuel? Why? So we can cuddle up now and then without your brother down the hall? You keep me plenty warm, Joel Miller, but I’m not going to heat this whole house just for me and your more-than-casual visits. Everyone’s got a responsibility here to conserve in the winter. This is how I do my part. And besides,” you purred as he stepped in to button up your flannel for you, freeing up your fingers so they could run through his curls, “I know where you live and your bed’s good as mine.”

“You seem to like it there well enough.”

“I do.” His beard was growing in all but a patch on his jaw that was now your right to kiss.

“Well I was thinkin’ we just make it ours for the winter.”

His hands had circled your hips and his words had stopped your heart, but there was little for to say with his lips pressed against yours.

So mornings often started as they did today, waking to find Joel beside you, roused because you can feel him watching you with that little half smile that reveals the crack in his weary heart where the light shines through. Who needs spring to come with sunshine like that to turn to? Now there are family breakfasts with Ellie and cozy days knitting in the company of Maria and Riley and then warm nights with Joel on one of those pillowtopped mattresses that were all the rage before the outbreak…the ones that are great when you have a stiff back, but even better because the springs don’t squeak…

“Aw dammit,” Joel says when he sees you nearing the stables with the thermos, “Knew I forgot something.”

“Two somethings,” you say pointing to his bare head and passing your hat up to him in the saddle. “Your ears are already bright red. Here. Take my hat.”

“This’s Ellie’s.”

“Huh. Guess I just grabbed one on my way out. Oops. Be a man. Wear a pompom.”

He pulls it down over his ears and smiles. “Matches my scarf.”

You’d had a small batch of deep red wool you’d managed to squeak a hat and scarf out of and gifting the hat to Ellie around Christmas, but the scarf went to Joel. He may not want anyone to think of him as sentimental, but it was worth your while to make it easy on him by giving him something that was also practical. Even if he had his jacket zipped up all the way, it was always there, tucked around his neck; he may leave his ears to the elements but he never went anywhere without that scarf.

The line of horses start making their way toward the Jackson gates and you squeeze Joel’s shin before stepping out of the way, letting him and his horse follow the group. He simply lets a gloved finger glance your cheek as he passes by.

All the way out here on this side of the apocalypse and humans still have a million variations on saying “I love having you around and I’d like to keep it that way.”

________

“Ellie’s more than welcome around here if you and Joel don’t want to leave her home alone.”

Maria’s lightly bouncing a wet-faced and blubbering Riley on her lap, trying to tempt him with a frozen carrot for his teething. He has tommy’s curls and they sproing with every boing.

“Nah, she wants to come out. We’ll be dividing the ewes and driving part of the flock into the old town for the rest  of the overwinter and she wants to see how it's done. Should see it, if she thinks she’ll be entering the rotation at any point. Speaking of,” you grunt, leaning down to gather your knitting basket and gather your things, “I promised I’d meet her after school. She’s gotten into collecting cassette tapes and the commissary says she’s hit her quota on goods this week. Gonna give up a couple credits so she can discover the wonders of Joan Jett and the Beastie Boys.”

“That’s throwing gas on the fire. She pick those out herself?”

“Nope. My points, my choice. And I say that girl needs to fight for her right to party and put another dime in the jukebox, baby.”

Maria rolls her eyes, chuckles, goes light on the sarcasm. “You’re the coolest auntie.”

“Don’t I know it,” you laugh, tying up your boots.

“Joel’s gonna just love that.”

Leaning in to bop a quick kiss to Riley’s head, you give Maria a crazed grin. “So much.”

Ten minutes later, Ellie has her doubts, holding up a cassette at the commissary. “But there’s a dinosaur on this one! How can it not be great?”

“Listen, missy. I’m not saying Dinosaur Jr. doesn’t have a place in music history, but I’m telling you that you’re likely to be disappointed. Trust me. Just this once.”

Ellie makes a face but you glance past it, distracted by what you see through the window behind her. Following your focus, she turns to look too. “Who’re they?”

All of the patrol horses coming back in have two people on them–a member of the party, and a stranger. And all the strangers can’t be more than teenagers.

“Dunno, but it looks like you’re about to get some new classmates. I’ll sign these out. You go ahead and make a good first impression.”

“You’re just sending me out there because you know if they’re infected, I can’t catch it.”

“If they were infected, they wouldn’t be on those horses or inside those gates. I’m sending you out there because you have a way of reading people. Go.”

Something in that puts a gasp in her throat and a sparkle in her eye and her ponytail whips behind her as she goes, striving to live up to the compliment.

But really, you just want half a minute to take a good look at the kids without Ellie asking questions. They’re all scrawny and filthy. Backpacks. Been traveling and living rough for a while now. Where’d they come from? What’s their story? Not an adult among them. How have they survived? You’d swear something feels off, but that’s the world now. Can’t be too careful. Everything seems off all the time. 

Question is, off by how much?

You find Joel in the group; he’s the only one riding with a kid in front of him rather than hanging on behind. And once he gets down off the horse and reaches up to help his passenger down, you can see why.

She’s pregnant.

Shit. She’s what, fifteen? Sixteen?

Shit.

“There’s a house up near mine has good plumbing turned on.” Tommy’s speaking over his shoulder to the small group and leading his horse to the stable door as you come out of the commissary. “We’ll get you all washed up and fed. There’s at least two beds there and some other furniture fit to sleep on if it makes you comfortable to stay together. Give me a minute to put Lady away here and we’ll walk on up together. Joel? A word?”

Handing off the pregnant girl’s backpack to her, Joel takes the reins of his horse and follows his brother inside, leaving the newcomers to look around them and take in the town.

All but one. A girl with hair that’s neither light brown or dark blonde, somewhere in between. Your mother would have called it dirty dishwater blonde and you always thought that was rude. But your mother also would have said the girl had a hatchet of a face with a strong jaw like that. And it’s that girl whose head whips around the second she heard Joel’s name, quickly scanning the patrol to ascertain who belonged to it, and stands watching the stable door in thought long after the Miller brothers were gone.

Was Joel her father’s name? Her brother’s? Is it hers or close to hers? Is she a Jo or Joelle?

“Abby. Hey,” a boy calls and she turns. “Mel should get a bed and we can share. Manny and Nora can share too…if you’re okay with taking a couch.”

“Fine,” Abby says. Her eyes and mouth all unmoving lines.

“Hey. Welcome to Jackson. I’m Ellie.” Your starling jams her hands in her pockets as all the new eyes turn her way. “It looks like you’ve been wandering. Where you coming from?”

The boy who spoke before blinks and opens his mouth to say something, hesitates. You’d take him for the leader up until the moment Abby speaks for him.

“West of here. QZ. Seattle.”

“Oh. Cool,” says Ellie with a bounce to her nod. Easy. Instantly welcoming. “I came out of Boston.”

Seattle QZ. The same one your dead husband and his sister came from. Not a good place. Warring factions and nothing but oppression and disease, last you heard. Good that they got out. They’re gonna need to be de-loused. 

But Seattle’s also much harder than most zones to break free of. You’ve been told the Western Liberation Front makes FEDRA look like a bucket of clowns.

“Seattle?” Now it’s your turn to pull focus from the group. “We’ve had refugees from there before. You really get out of there in one group like this? With no grown ups?”

Abby rips her eyes away from Ellie. “It’s a long story,” she says, shutting the questioning down.

There’s a moment that hangs between you and that stinks faintly of threat, but is mostly just the smell of feral kids. Tension breaks as the men emerge from the stable.

“We all ready?” Tommy says, making his way down the road and waving a hand for them to follow. “New home’s this way.”

Ellie starts to fall in with the group and you pull her back in close, speak low. “Go with them if you want, but keep your distance.”

“What? Why?”

“These are your first refugees. You’ll learn that they sometimes bring things with ‘em.”

Her face screws into a question mark. “What things?”

“Fleas. Lice. Viruses. Just give ‘em some space for a while.”

After the quickest flash of disgust, Ellie’s tried and true compassion kicks in and she gives an understanding nod as she turns to go, tape cassettes clattering in her jacket pocket.

You keep watching her even as you speak to the owner of the hand snaking around your waist. “Where’d you find them?”

“Up at the old crossing. They were under attack.”

“Jesus.”

“Nope. Infected.”

“Been a while since we’ve seen any of those stumble through here.”

“Infected? Or the kids.”

Turning to him in exasperation you look him over. “Both. And the same goes for you as for Ellie, Foxy. Let’s take you home and wash that scarf and hat. Run a fine-toothed comb through that hair just to make sure.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says, stopping when he catches your zero-temperature glare. If it’s something else you love about Joel, he recognizes when something’s important to you and answers a lady with composure and respect. “Yes, ma’am.”

____

“You couldn’t have found her some Cash or Fleetwood Mac or something?”Joel grumbles into the fireplace as he places another log on the coal bed and moves the poker around like he’s doing something.

Ellie sits on a blanket near the fire, reading a comic book, headphones on, Joan Jett’s grinding guitar bleeding out into the otherwise quiet living room. With his face turned to the fire and Ellie facing away from you, she most likely can’t hear the conversation that’s happening around her if you keep your voices low.

“You’re just jealous that she asked me to pick something out instead of you,” you smile on the couch, picking up your feet and swinging them into his lap as he sits down beside you. “80’s rock is good for her spiky little soul.”

“80’s means trouble,” he counters, considering her as his hands absently squeeze and rub at your feet.

You go back to your book. Seemingly anyway. It’s easy to steal observing glances from where you are. The thoughtful concern he has for Ellie. You can see him looking over the wood in the hopper and calculating how many days of fuel he has before you all head out to the Roost. A twist of a lip tells you he’s realized he might be a day short and needs to chop more. His gaze drops to his lap as he lightly massages your feet–just running his hands along their contours, pressing a thumb in here and there to tenderize a muscle. The firelight loves him, plays at the edges of his curls, slides down his nose, kisses the purse of his lips.

You jump as he slides a tickling fingertip up the sole of one foot. “Hey!”

“What you get for staring.”

“I wasn’t staring at you, I was reading.”

“Must be pretty small print you don’t turn a page for five minutes.”

Taking off your readers and closing the book, you sit up and deposit them on the coffee table. From here it’s easy to scoot up to him and lean an elbow on the couch back. “What’s got you so thinky tonight, hmm? You look like you’ve got your worry pants on.” There’s a curl right behind his ear that’s so easy to twirl in your fingers and you indulge. You’ve found a little touch helps him open up.

“I can’t help thinking about those kids, thinkin’ they could just wander out in the world like that. If it weren’t for us hearing the runners….” He goes quiet a minute and you let him, his gaze haunting Ellie’s direction but living somewhere in the past. “They gotta be somebody’s kids. I can’t believe Seattle’s so bad they just let ‘em run wild…let ‘em run away from the best you got for ‘em.”

A faint guitar blares from Ellie’s headphones as she flips a page, purses her lips, absently nods along.

“Yeah, well teenagers rebel, Foxy. That’s what they do.”

“No,” he says, softly, resolutely, a tick of his jaw. “Not all of ‘em. Not if they’re loved. And fiercely. And I don’t know a love that isn’t fierce.”

It’s the look on his face that makes you believe him.

Love isn’t a word that Joel bandies about. It’s easy to see it work in him. The way he tells Ellie no when she wants to do something reckless but promises her something just as exciting, going to any length to make her smile. The way he holds Riley’s head in the crook of his arm, his other hand reflexively coming out in defense if anyone gets too near the baby’s soft spot. The way he shoves his brother with a laugh when Tommy picks on him or how he helps Maria to her feet when she’s been on the floor too long, even if she says she doesn’t need it.

The way he… with you he…

His hands work at your feet again. He understands the minute levels of his strength, knows how firm to go without bringing pain.

With you, it’s the way he rolls over and shows you his soft places, invites you in to be a part of it.

Not really what you’d call fierce. Does that mean he doesn’t–

“Is a cherry bomb like a little bomb or a big bomb?” Ellie asks, an earpad pulled away from her ear and spilling Cherie Currie’s stuttered chorus.

“It’s a little one. A firework. But it packs a big punch. It’ll take your fingers off. Hello, world, I’m your wild girl, I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch cherry bomb,” you sing, pushing your foot against Joel’s thigh with every beat. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he says, wrapping a big hand around your ankle to secure it. “Ellie, run on up and get my guitar. Lemme teach you a better song.”

In the minute it takes for her to come back, Joel foregoes softness for force, tickling relentlessly, almost ending up with a foot in his face with how much you squirm.

___

Church isn’t really your thing, never was. You have your own way of listening to the beauty of the earth that doesn’t mean sacrificing a morning sleeping in to listen to lessons you’ve already learned and hold true.

But today you’ve come to the after-brunch curious to welcome the new residents and managed to show up a little early. So you’re standing in the back of the mess hall with Maria and Riley, waiting for the final hymn to end, for the preacher to call an end to the service and a beginning to the meal.

Maria leans in and murmurs in your ear as the final chorus comes. “Tommy and the crew are working on one of those bigger houses with the vaulted ceilings in the new district so the church can have its own building.”

“They’re not gonna like having to walk over there.”

She shrugs, adjusts Riley’s teething toy and bounces him up a notch. “Might cause some of them to move over there. Thin out the density. Easier on the power grid. We do have five new residents.” 

You watch as one of the new boys–Owen–helps the pregnant Mel to her feet. “Soon to be six.”

Once the kitchen starts serving, Owen and Mel find their way over to your table, eager to meet Riley and ask Maria all kinds of questions about childbirth and your friend finds herself in a mentoring role she didn’t ask for. She’s not opposed to being helpful, just lets her judgment slide through on the whole babies having babies thing which completely flies over the kids’ heads.

They’re good enough kids, but something tastes a little sour when Owen tries to include you in the conversation.

“What about you? You and…is his name Joel? You gonna have any kids?”

It’s a rude question. He’s earned your side eye and he knows it, but smiles through it, playing innocent.

“Already got one. One’s enough,” you laugh, sly, chewing through some boiled oats and letting him know you’re gonna let that one slide.

“Oh, yeah, right. Ellie, right?” he asks, with a flick of his eyes to a table behind you. Turning, you find Abby at a table with some other residents and when you turn back it’s with a dry expression that tells him he’s worn out his turns at beating the bush and should be out with it.

“We just were wondering if she’d show us around,” Mel explains. “She’s the only one of the children here who will talk to us.”

You snort. “Don’t let Ellie hear you call her a child. She’s short for her age, but she’s not much younger than you. She likes people, but that won’t win you any points.”

“And don’t worry about the other kids,” Maria takes over, shooting you a look. “They’ll come around. A lot of them were born here and they don’t see a ton of new people.”

“Are they not coming to the brunch today?” Owen asks.

“Who?”

“Ellie and Joel.”

Shaking your head, you swallow your latest bite. “Joel and Tommy are off getting some work done in the new sector and Ellie would bite my face off if I woke her up before high noon on a weekend. But she knows where you’re staying. I’ll send her around to you once she’s up and acting like a whole human.”

You’re about to change the subject and ask them a few questions of your own but Riley starts fussing and Mel asks to hold him and the whole baby talk starts up again.

When you look over your shoulder, Abby is gone from the table. Left her dish for someone else to clean up.

There’s a thought creeps in that maybe Ellie can teach them all some manners. And then you remember the mouth on your starling and smile.

____

“And Owen showed me some of his drawings and they’re so amazing. He’s like a fucking Picasso or something. He says he’ll give me lessons if I can get Mr. Scowlface here to take him out hunting. Says he misses hunting deer with his dad. And Abby wants to go too. I told her how you taught me to use a shotgun and she seemed really interested to learn. She might want to join the patrols some day. But I told them not this week since we’re going out to the Meadow and they all had questions about that. Abby especially–” 

Ellie has a remarkable talent for chewing and talking at the same time. She catches a piece of apple that escapes her mouth, slurping it off the back of her hand where it landed, then downs the rest of the milk and wipes her mouth with the cuff of her sweater, leaving you to negate your silent praise of her manners from earlier in the week and giving you a break in the chatter to speak.

“Well, you’re a little young to be recruiting your own Roostlings, but if Abby or any of the others want to come out sometime and see what the fuss is about, they’re welcome. I’d rather them wait until spring though, or at least until we get the whole of the flock back from the deep winter holding grounds. Chickadee’s taking up the caboose on that.”

As you push the carafe of chicory coffee toward Joel and clear the breakfast plates, Ellie snatches the last hunk of bread you left on yours, shaking her head. “Abby’s afraid of heights. Didn’t even have time to tell her about the Roost being up on stilts. What’s a caboose?”

Joel scoffs. “Last car on a train.” He takes a long, loud drag of his coffee, pouring on the annoyance to get a glare out of the girl and succeeds. “Well, if she don’t like heights, she’s not going to enjoy learning patrol duty either, not with the watchtowers and the mountain trails. And don’t go promising services you can’t guarantee. I’m not a scout leader.”

“What’s a scout leader?”

“Someone with a lot more patience than me. Get.”

Taking up her backpack, Ellie makes her way to the front vestibule to pull on her gear.

“Don’t forget your hat and scarf!” You call to her, but smile at Joel as you perch your butt against the table and tuck a little curl behind his ear. He’ll ask you to cut it soon. And you’ll put it off for as long as possible.Tickles, he'll say. I know, you'll say.

“Thanks, Gramma Betty!” she calls back and pulls the door shut behind her as Joel lays a warm hand on your outer thigh.

“What’er you getting up to today?” he asks.

You shrug. “I’m in carding mode. Got a whole bag of washed fleece needs combing. I’d ask you what you’re up to, but I assume you and Tommy are gonna be tearing down some poor old house.”

There’s a moment where he squints, thiinking. His thumb tracing the outer seam of your jeans. 

“I want you to come with me. Got something to show you.”

“Really. Well I like the sound of that. I could use a little walk in the bitter cold with a mystery at the end of it. Gonna have to go pull on a heavier sweater though. Might need to take this one off first. You wanna come watch?”

There’s a knock at the front. Tommy. The door opening.

Joel only grins fondly and pats your thigh, sending you off, before pushing the chair back from the table and separating himself from his coffee mug. “I’ll catch the later show. ‘Specially if it calls for audience participation.”

Five minutes later, bundled and booted, the three of you head out toward the new section, Joel with his scarf tucked in tight and hat pulled down low, and Tommy with a set forced upon him because you’re quickly becoming the winter clothing police around here.

It’s not a long walk. Jackson was never more than a few miles wide and this is just the first expansion of the wall. You’ve wandered over during the construction crew’s activities enough to know the way without being led, but what you’re expecting is for Joel to lead you away from the furthest street, away from the beautiful A-frame house so neatly repaired along with its pretty neighbors and up the street with Tommy to the next clutch of houses they’ve been working on. 

But instead, Joel tells his brother he’ll be along in a minute, and Tommy smiles knowingly as he continues on, leaving the two of you in the walkway up to the pretty A-frame that’s so much like the Roost’s bigger sister.

“You know what today is?” Joel asks, hands in pockets, squinting up at the peaked roof.

“Friday?”

“Probably,” he says, shifting focus to his boots. “I was thinking more holiday-wise.”

The air’s particularly crisp today, hitches in your lungs as you take each mental step and catch up with him.

February 14. Valentine’s.

As your mouth drops open, he jerks his chin at the house. “You like this one, right?”

“What…what are you….Joel?”

There’s a cringe that belies his confidence, maybe a tinge of regret. “I just figured we were gettin’ along so well, that maybe you’d… It was just an idea–”

He can’t even look you in the eye until you yank his hand awkwardly out of his pocket and wrap your gloved hand around his. He seems almost shocked to see your tears welling up–true, half from the cold–but he’s also relieved. Big breath in, big breath out. That must have been the hard part.

Words aren’t Joel’s way. This is how he tells you just how deep his feelings go. You know he’s had time to imagine with every window replaced, every floorboard leveled out, every load bearing wall reinforced,  just which family was going to get to live in this house and what kind of life they might make in it.

What kind of life you might make together here.

So you take his lead and say only what’s necessary, as steadily as you’re able. 

“Take me inside.”

His sheepish grin confirms that it was exactly what he’d hoped to hear.

The interior’s simple, but gorgeous. The dark wood gleams, and the whole back wall of the A frame is windowed. The triangle at the top replaced with a leaded stained glass in a sunrise of orange and rose that reflects the undertones in the timber inside and the pines out the window, the mosaic just high enough to catch the last rays that will come in over the mountains at the end of the day and turn the whole place into a dream. The open floorplan has the kitchen near the door, but over by the windows….

Joel gives the tour. The hand-laid stones in the fireplace. The built-in shelves for your books. This is the corner where your favorite chair can go, nearest the fire and where there’s good light for spinning. This rug was here, still good. He points out to the little shed in the back–a place for wool dying, he can hang pegs in there however you need them.

If he weren’t so occupied in explaining the wood he chose to finish the countertop, the way he followed the original dovetailing in the doorframe, the pattern he made with the reclaimed wood in the floorboards, he may have seen you admiring the most important part of the house…or, rather, the most important person in it.

There’s more. Two bedrooms, one off each side of the main part of the house, each with its own bathroom, the larger one with its own porch overlooking a little creek.

“The basement’s not quite done, but I figure I’ll just use that for my own. Felt you might not like the…vibe…”

Ah yes. The former owners. He took care of that too. 

He took care of everything.

“I love it, Joel.”

“Yeah?”

“If there was a stronger word, it would be yours, believe me.”

He only wraps his arms around you as you dive in to squeeze him.

“Good,” is all he says. Breathes in the scent of your hair. “That’s good.”

________

The ewes hate the leader ropes, but they follow, bleating now and then as you slowly guide them through the woods toward the Meadow’s north entrance. Joel’s got two behind his and Ellie’s horse, and you’ve got four behind yours, a small party, but the only ones that were ready to come on back out after the coldest weeks.

Goldie’s happy to lead them out to the rest of the flock while you and Joel go up and get situated, get warm, get ready for the week ahead. Ellie follows Goldie and Joel hangs his watch by the door. All’s quiet in the Roost.

Until Joel’s tongue clicks. “That beam is bowing,” he points up to one of the main rafter struts on the far side of the room. “Wood stove keeps this side warm and the snow melts off, but there’s no balcony on the other side. No way to rake the snow off the roof. Tommy should have known better.”

“Well it’s not like he’s had a lot of practice with big boy tree forts, I’m guessing,” you say, dumping a sack of potatoes near the cook pile and throwing the stack of fresh sheets onto the bed. “Does it need to come down?”

“Don’t think so. But come spring we’ll add on another balcony and do some reinforcement.”

As he runs his hand up the wall seam, you come up behind him, hugging him from the back with the sole purpose of distracting him, your way of letting him know he’s obsessing like an old man. It gives you the right angle to grab onto his open jacket and start pulling it off him. “Take this off and stay awhile.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Goldie takes her leave on your horse, guiding Joel and Ellie’s behind, glad to be going back to more warm water than she can heat on a stovetop, and Ellie helps to cart a few buckets of the colder variety up from the stream so you can all just stay in for the night.

Then it’s stew and cards, and Ellie kicking Joel’s ass at Scrabble, all of you bundled in wool sweaters and slippers handmade by you and Chickadee, the firelight glinting off the game tiles, highlighting the glee in the girl’s eyes, the resigned agony in Joel’s smile.

Almost a whole year now she’s been coming out here with you, and it’s wondrous how much she’s grown inside and out. You never felt lonely at the Roost, in fact, you had always very much enjoyed the solitude. Now you don’t think you could abide it. It’s only a home for a week at a time, but only when they come out here with you now.

It’s a nice night. Stars are out. Ellie’s still staring out at them as you and Joel fall asleep in the big bed.

_____

It’s the scent of woodsmoke that wakes you in the middle of the night, sitting you up straight in bed. Or so you think, except that the embers in the stove are low, so it can’t be that. 

No. It’s a voice outside.

“Burn in hell, Joel Miller!”

Is that…Ellie? What’s she doing outside? No. Not Ellie. No it’s–

“Abby?” Ellie says blearily from the bunk above you.

There’s someone in the room moving swiftly toward you from the windows, hulking, with a rifle–

Joel.

“Get up. Both of you. Get out. The place is on fire.” 

It doesn’t register.

“What? What fire? Joel? What’s happening–”

He shakes your shoulder, pulling you from the bed. “Get Ellie out. Now!”

There’s no other thought, just fumbling in the dark as Ellie jumps down beside you and dives for her jacket, shoving her feet into her boots without doing up the laces while you reach out one hand to catch hers for when it comes to you. The other gropes the near table for the walkie and thumbs the button.

“Meadowlark to patrol. Meadowlark to Goldfinch. We’re in trouble, there’s a fire and–”

The whole cabin sways. A gunshot from the balcony. Joel growling over his shoulder. “Get out! Now!”

“Joel–!”

“NOW!”

The ladder is still sliding down into place when you jump on it and ride it part of the way down, still waking up as Ellie’s boots come fast, almost kicking you in the face as she follows you down the rungs two at a time, moving through a plume of choking blackness only to come out below it to a roaring bonfire that’s eating through the Roost’s supports.

Oh god. The Roost…

is burning….

“JOELLLLLL!” you scream up as your stocking feet hit the ground hard, as you catch Ellie and pull her off the ladder and stumble backward, as something hits your head hard and causes you to let go, as separate sets of arms grab each of yours and drag you roughly backward, fast enough to keep your feet from catching up until you’re on your knees.

There’s a crackle in the air– “Patrol to Meadowlark. What’s the trouble?” 

The walkie lies somewhere in the pine needles just out of reach and you’re screaming at it for help but all that comes out of your mouth is a string of names and no’s and helps. You’re able to yank your non-dominant arm free, pitching forward, clawing for the radio, until a flash of hard silver–a meteorite, exquisitely dense and smooth, malignant, swift, direct–cracks down on your forearm with a sickening thud, shattering the bone.

The world slides out of focus through a screen of sudden pain.

At first, you assume you’ve been shot in the arm. But then a figure steps around to your line of sight. Abby. With a golf club? What? Why? Where did she get that? The commissary? Why the fuck would they stock golf clubs? What the fuck is going on? 

And you watch as Abby picks up the walkie. Tosses it into the fire.

The hands are back upon you now, forcing you back to your knees, and a third set joins them, wrapping around your forehead and chin, pulling you back against a belly and you struggle.

Where’s Ellie.

You’re able to twist your head to one side despite being held. She’s there on the ground, face down, groaning, with Owen’s knee in her back.

“Ellie? Honey?”

One pair of hands holding you twists you hard, meaning to pull you further away from her without compliance from the other hands or consent from your muscle structure and there’s a sickening pop as your shoulder leaves its socket and then your scream drowns out everything even the roar of the fire.

“She keeps it in her pocket,” Abby says. Rooting into Ellie’s pocket, Owen finds the knife and pulls it out–the one she cherishes, imbued with the legend of her mother, given to her on the same day as her name, her life, and her orphanhood.

The day Ellie told you the story, you’d taken steel wool to the knife and cleaned it. Oiled the hinge. Shined it up good and pretty.

It flips open easily in Owen’s paw. It twirls swiftly around, and points downward, his fingers closing over the hilt, thumb curling over the butt of the handle to give it more leverage when he’s ready to bring it down.

The night is horribly black and lit along the edges in orange fire.

There’s a loud crack. Owen’s thigh explodes in a splatter of blood and he falls backward off Ellie, screaming. The hands around your head let go and Mel runs to him.

Joel stalks out of the plume of black smoke, cocking the rifle, pointing only long enough at Owen to confirm he’s down and then swinging the barrel around to Abby.

A stand off. No sound or movement but the whoosh of flames and a few ground-muffled cries from Owen, a few sniffles and shushes from Mel.

“Who the fuck are you,” Joel growls out over the steel barrel, his cheek quivering in barely hinged anger.

Abby stands, solid, unyielding, straight as the blonde braid hanging down her back, club wound up tight, ready for the pitch, a face full of lines and soot and destruction.

“The last survivors of the Firefly massacre. You didn’t think to check the rest of the compound? Like the whole team was just one-offs? Like none of them had family, you sick fuck? You fucking orphaned us. Left us to fend for ourselves. Go ahead and shoot, old man. Marlene always said you weren’t so good at keeping kids alive, actually surprised you got as far as you did. So go ahead. Not like we’ve got nothing to lose. We just came to return some favors and finish the job.”

It’s only in the moments later, before the dawn, when you’re laying on your back looking up at the stars, one arm laying broken and useless in the snow beside you, the other cradling a weeping Ellie Williams as tight as you can, that you’ll be able to slow the film of your memory and play out the next thirty seconds frame by frame.

The series of snaps and cracks as the support under the Roost gave way and the whole structure tumbled out and away from the scene, pulling several pines down with it, the crashing and burning the only sound you remember now.

Ellie trying to shuffle along the ground toward you and away from the fire.

Owen pulling himself up enough to raise the knife and bring it down into the meat of Ellie’s calf.

Owen’s body flying backward as a bullet ripped through his skull.

A wrench of your neck and the warm splash of blood from above you as another shot rang out, one person holding you falling away and back, gone, but still pulling you down with their dead body.

The roar of an angry Abby and the clank of a club shaft on a rifle barrel.

Another gunshot.

The sound of metal hitting flesh.

Thirty seconds. And now you can see the stars. Orion. The Milky Way.

Somehow you’re lying yards from the little patch of burning trees with Ellie cradled in your good arm. Someone dragged you here.

There are voices and flashlights. The patrol. Bear and Tommy. Goldie and Willa and Chickadee.

And Maria. Laying on the ground beside you, exhausted from the effort of dragging two humans out of the burning thatch of trees.

“Joel. Where’s Joel.” It hurts to speak. Breath comes fast and shallow.

Then he’s there with the others, a bruise blooming purple beneath his eye, saying only what scant words he needs to move past them and get to you. To Ellie. 

His hands are gentle, but his eyes are cold.

Two still, black pools reflecting fire.

_______

Perhaps unsurprisingly, you dream of Troy, his mangled face open and bleeding, laying in the hole next to Ash, mutilated, stopped at the moment of transformation into something more sinister, your ex-husband and his sister lost to you because they were headstrong, foolish, too devoted to each other….

Ash’s eyes open, what’s left of them anyway. “Abby’s afraid of heights. Didn’t even have time to tell her about the Roost being up on stilts. What’s a caboose?”

They didn’t know the Roost was elevated. They followed us out here and didn’t have a good plan. Is that it?

They don’t answer. They get up and climb out of the hole, turn their backs on your and walk into the forest. You call after them, desperate to have them back after all this time, begging them not to leave you.

But you’re calling after them wrong. You can’t seem to say Troy. You can’t say Ash.

You’re only calling out for Joel and Ellie.

_____

The next thing you know, you’re sitting up in the snow, leaning against Goldie, the girl patting at your cheek as you’re coming around. “Come on, come on back, baby.”

The sun’s up, but not high enough to breach the mountains circling the meadow. Everything’s still lit by the slowly dying flames.

The one two punch of Willa setting the bone and popping your shoulder back in must have sent you off. Looking down, you see you must have thrown up as well. 

“Holy shit,” you groan, “I’m sorry. Oh my god, holy shit that hurts.”

“I know, I know,” says Goldie, smoothing your hair and kissing your forehead. 

“Here,” says Willa, handing you some dark root. You forget what it’s called, you just know you gotta chew. “Don’t swallow,” she reminds you. “You ride with Goldie. She’ll keep you upright once that sets in.”

“I gotta get up,” you mumble, struggling to stand and inhaling sharply at the twinge of pain the movement brings to your bandaged and immobilized arm. Goldie’s able to help get you up, but seems hesitant to let you go. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my feet, lemme go. Where’s Ellie?”

But you don’t need to ask, she’s just behind you, laying on her back in the snow, one arm flung over her eyes, breathing heavy to manage the pain, leg bandaged and tourniqueted.

Good. Next priority. “Where’s Joel?”

Goldie points to the fire. It’s starting to die down, enough to make out the bodies of three teenagers consigned to the flames. Past them, the group of the regular patrol. Joel shaking his head at them, speaking. Jacket zipped up to the top, no scarf, no hat; probably got left behind in the Roost. Rifle over one shoulder. A backpack over the other.

But not his backpack. Why would he have someone else’s backpack? Why would he have one at all…

He’s…. No.

Pushing off Goldie, you immediately find out that walking is hard. Even if the pain’s just in one arm, everything’s connected, everything hurts; it’s disorienting. Your knees are bruised and even your soft sleep pants feel like sandpaper on them. Feet cold and wet, no boots…

Joel sees you struggling to get to him and walks away from the group and the fire, meeting you partway, catching your good arm as your fist falls hard on his shoulder and yanks, fingers digging in hard to his coat, doing your best to hold on tight, to keep him here, to convince him not to go.

“Don’t you dare, Joel Miller. What do you think you’re fucking doing???”

He says nothing, only lets you collapse onto his chest, to sob. There’s not even an arm to comfort you, he gives you nothing but the bare necessity, a wall to keep you standing, and you know nothing you say will make a difference. In essence, he’s already gone.

“Please. Joel. Don’t. Please don’t go.”

“Trail’s fresh. Best to get on before it snows and covers the tracks. One of them’s the pregnant girl. One of them’s bleedin’. They can’t get that far.”

“You don’t have to. Just come home.”

“They’ll just come back. Maybe not soon, but someday.”

He’s right. You know he’s right. Stepping back, it hurts to look at him. The Joel you love has been asked to step aside, the care and fondness he’s come to show you locked up somewhere secure, somewhere where it won’t get in the way. 

I warned you, this Joel seems to say, void of emotion, jaw set, brow even and low, hand on the strap of his rifle. You took me in knowing exactly what I am.

He’s right.

“I need you here, Joel. Ellie needs you here. Don’t you dare go…unless you can come back.”

“I need you here too. ‘S why I’m going.”

Nothing. No kiss goodbye, no waiting for approval, he just turns and walks. 

Maybe this is the last of it, just one last loose thread, then he can finally leave off wandering, finally shake off the killer and just come home, just be your Joel.

Convincing yourself of this is the only choice you’ve got.

________

You find yourself out on Maria’s back porch that night. Unable to sleep from the ache of the mending bone and the swell of your assaulted shoulder, it seemed like the best remedy was to find the toughest jerky in the kitchen, to sit on the porch in the cold and chew through the pain, and to lean back in one of the porch chairs with a soothing snowpack between it and your back.

The moonlight plays illusions like the canteen filmstrips–a summer image of Tommy and Joel teaching Ellie the mechanics of tackle football. The twinkle of the fireflies lending veritas to the picture…which in reality is only the twinkle of a dusting of new snow.

Not enough snow to make tracking impossible, but enough to make it difficult.

The back door opens and a blanket lands over your lap.

“Was gonna ask you if you wanted company, but then I decided, it’s my house and you don’t get a choice.”

Maria plops her own blanket in a nearby chair before disappearing and returning with two steaming mugs of tea as offering for the table between you. She takes her time covering you just so before wrapping herself up and joining you on the porch. “Suppose I should have asked if you want that cold pack changed before I get too comfortable,” she says, not really offering, but leaving the suggestion there between you if you need it.

It’s not necessary to talk for a while. She knows exactly what you’re thinking. Sees what you see.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Riley did,” she lies. You’d heard her shift when you got up from the bed–her bed, well, hers and Tommy’s. But hers and yours for now.

“Thanks for taking care of us.”

“You say that like you’re not my family.”

“Well then, thanks for staying behind as if you are.” 

It’s hard to see her out of the corner of your eye, backed by dark shadows. But the moon plays little crescents on her face, the curve of her nose, her cheek, her chin. Her voice comes out velvet from the dark.

“I know you’re pissed at Joel for going, but he’s doing the right thing.”

Now you make the effort to turn, rotating more from the waist than the neck to save the injury from twinging, but it does anyway, mirroring your spike in irritation. “Really? You think so? Is that why you sent Tommy with him? After all that time you spent bemoaning the things Joel made Tommy do all those years ago–”

“This is different. This is about the greater good.”

“You know that’s what the villain always says, right?”

She presses her lips together, hating that you’re right. “Okay, so maybe not the greatest good for the morality of the remainder of the human race, but. For the good of Jackson.”

“Two grown men hunting down two teenage girls is the greater good.”

“They won’t be teens forever. They’ve both got reasons to come back for their revenge. And now they know where Jackson is. They get taken in by the wrong people, and then the wrong people will know where Jackson is too and when they come back they won’t be alone. They’ll know exactly how many and what kind of folk to bring.” She holds your gaze for a few seconds, steady and wise but also warning, her warmth only thinly veiling the matronly protectress behind it, like a Durga on her throne. “You know why we have patrols. You know what happens to people that get too close. Two more drops in the bucket is all.”

“Three. One of those little girls is pregnant.”

She has no answer to this. Rather, your dig brings no new argument to the table. It’s just words, just a fact on the wind. It doesn’t sway the needle one way or the other.

It’s exactly what you’d been thinking about, staring up at her bedroom ceiling. Then out here on the porch. It’s like she knew you needed to hear the justification out loud.

“They would have killed him, lady. And Ellie. And you. I’m surprised you don’t want them hunted down like dogs.”

You turn your attention to the back yard, the smallest hump of leaves under the big tree there not quite scattered to the wind, sparkling with snow cover. You can almost still hear Ellie’s high laughter as it sounded the day she experienced her first leaf pile.

“Oh, I want them run down,” you say. “I’m all for that, let ‘em eat lead. I just didn’t want…” It’s not really necessary to continue. Maria knows exactly what you want. She always does. That’s why she sent Tommy with him. To keep him tethered to humanity.

To the way Joel watched Ellie jump and disappear into a poof of leaves. The sun in his smile. At peace. At home. Free from the old violence. Reborn.

I just didn’t want Joel to be the one to do it.

______

Maria’s dinner table feels empty. Funny, you think, it was always the two of you. For a while there was four, what with Troy and Ash, but most of the time just the two. Then Tommy. Then Joel and Ellie. Now Riley…well, that is, if he’s still up during family dinner.

You’ve slept through most of the light of day and was hoping to talk to Ellie at dinner, but Maria’s been taking all her meals to the guest room for her. Mostly so she doesn’t have to walk down the stairs on her healing leg, but also because Ellie’s not been talking since that night.

And you can guess why. It has less to do with the injury and assault or the fire, and more about the truths she learned during them. 

Not much to do. The arm has to stay stable, strapped to your body. At least they fucked up the non-dominant one so you can still hold a fork, still brush your teeth. But knitting? Spinning? Helping Maria clear the dishes? Fat chance.

Not much to do but chew root, smoke wild weed, and sleep it off.

Maria reappears with a plate needs washing. “There’s a break in the clouds. I got three whole words out of her. This might be your chance.”

“Oh. Joy.” It’s getting to be less of an effort to stand now that you’ve got rest and food in you. The stairs are daunting only because of the conversation that waits at the top.

A knock on her door only grants you silence.

“I’m coming in, Starling girl. Best not be naked.”

No answer. You take that as the opposite of opposition. Tolerance.

She’s sitting on the bed, propped up by pillows behind her back and under her knee, her bandages freshly changed, no more blood pooling or free bleeding. She plays with the cuffs of her sweater, tugging at a loop in the knit, a book abandoned by her side as if she’d put it down when you knocked. A good sign. She doesn’t want to hide.

You crawl in beside her, awkwardly, one-handedly, a big showy sigh of relief when you finally land. “You know, if I was your mom, I’d probably start off with ‘what’cha reading there, kiddo?’ just to get you to say something, but I’m not your mom and I’m not here to make you talk if you don’t wanna–”

“Well I don’t.”

“Good. I didn’t come up here to hear you yap anyway.” You detect the tiniest twitch of her cheek, not quite a smile, perhaps a sneer…to scare away a smile. “Don’t talk, just listen.”

“I don’t wanna do that either.”

“Tough titties. I’m cashing in exchange for all the time I had to listen to you go on about Sally Fucking Ride.”

Now she does smile. Barely. Gives you the teenager face you wanna slap sometimes. “Tough titties? Really?”

“They didn’t have tough titties in the orphanage? Seems off-brand.” The smile fades. “Tell me how you’re healing. I’m not asking, I’m demanding.”

A big breath in. But the air doesn’t come rushing back with a dramatic sigh, just melts out of her with a single tear she doesn’t move to brush away.

So you do. “That bad, huh.”

“It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks so bad.”

“Heh, tell me about it. I miss the good old days of ibuprofen. Shit. I miss morphine. You’re young though, you’ll be up and running in a week or two. Me? I’m gonna be aching for–”

“He fucking lied through his teeth.”

Ah. There it is.

Now the colony of tears follows the first scout, pouring out over the plains of her cheeks until she covers her face with those cuffs she’s been picking at, relieved at being able to let it all out in front of someone who might understand, but probably scared as hell to let herself be this messed up in front of someone who might not. A gamble.

And a win. You’ve still got one good arm and you put it to good use, pulling her into your side. “Yeah, you’re right. He totally did. He’s a fucking asshole. Why the hell would he do that.”

“It wasn't time that did it,” she hiccups from under her woolen cuffs.

“I don’t know what that means, Starling” you say, unable to stop yourself from kissing the crown of her head.

She wipes her nose and comes up for air. “I mean I know why. But he fucking lied about everything. Straight to my face.”

“Well, you’ve got every right to demand an explanation and an apology when he comes back. Straight to his face.”

“If he comes back.”

You let that sit a moment between you. It’s her way of saying that she knows you’re mad at him too, that she heard the conversation you had with him when he left. It’s her way of poking at your own fears and getting you on her side.

“Those girls aren’t armed and the Miller boys have a lot more experience with being hunters than those kids do being prey. He’ll be back.”

“I hate him.”

“I know. But also. You don’t.”

“I had a… a purpose. A fucking purpose.”

“Well….I know you did, but…probably not so much as you think.” She looks up at you but you can’t meet her eye, she’s right to mourn, and you can’t deny her that. “Remember what I told you about my sister and her treatments?”

“The research hospital.”

“Yeah. Cancer’s been killing people on this earth far longer than cordyceps and they’d had millions of patients to test on. Still couldn’t crack it. How many people are immune like you? Because if it ain’t millions, you just become one part sample in a petri dish and another part dead body that maybe give some vague clues and then you’re all parts in the bin, end of story. I mean, I’ll be honest. I don’t blame him. You’re quite a keeper.”

Now her sigh is dramatic. “And then he fucking lied about it.”

“So you would feel good about it. Accomplished in your goal. Also so you wouldn’t hate him for caring about you more than you do.”

“Why didn’t he just say–?”

“Do you know that man to be good with words?”

This quiets her. Both of you. For a few minutes. She goes back to picking at her sleeves.

The sun’s set completely now and her little bedside lamp can’t even drown out the stars so bright on the other side of the window. Clear night. Cold out there.

After a moment you take your arm back, jostle her with your shoulder. “Hey. I’m going out to the Meadow tomorrow, check in with Willa, look over the damage. If I bring you back a piece of the Roost, you wanna do some carving or whittling or something? We’ll build a platform like the old one and it’s probably just gonna be a tent up there for a while like it used to be, but hopefully this spring or summer we’ll get a structure up there and we’ll need a cornerstone or a plaque or something signifying its importance. Since you’re on your ass all day with nothing better to do, and you’re the star recruit, I’d love for you to do it.”

Her lips twist, half smiling at the request, but then in regret. “I lost my knife.”

“The one from your mom?” She nods. “Well if you’ll do some carding for me while I’m out there, I promise to look for it, ask around, maybe one of the patrol picked it up, okay?”

“Okay. Oh. By the way…How are you healing?”

“I’ve been worse. But mostly I’ve been better. Thanks for asking. ‘S kind of you. But don’t you worry about me.”

“Okay. Um…I’m…sorry about telling them about the meadow and all.”

“Why? You’re a Roostling. It’s your story to tell.” Sliding off the bed you head for the door. “Oh hey. I meant to ask–” you nod at the book by her side. “What’cha reading?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh…just porn.”

“Cool. G’night.”

“‘Night. Hey Meadowlark?”

You poke your head back in before the door closes completely. “Hm?”

“Thanks. For all that. But mostly for not calling me kiddo.”

You smile. Nod. Give her a warm wink. “Sure. I gotchu, kiddo.”

It’s worth the eyeroll you catch as you close the door.

________

The most sickening part of coming in through the north passage isn’t seeing the burn scar on the pine grove in the middle of the Meadow, isn’t missing the outline of the Roost through the trees, but rather the feeling that your home has been breached, that for a moment it wasn’t safe and now you’ll always wonder if it will be.

Riding across the north plain, you close your eyes and breathe, let the horse plod on without your guidance, he knows the way. Once spring comes and the valley fills with flowers and the music of the lambs calling for their ewes takes over from this cold silence that comfort will be renewed. 

But for now, there is no comfort on the Meadow in winter, not without a pretty little fireplace and a warm spot to watch the snow build up on the mountains.

You know what’s coming, but it turns your heart inside out all the same when you open your eyes.

Where once there was a cabin in the treetops is now a void leading downward to a pile of blackened rubble and debris. Off to the side under some lower trees is the old canvas tent with the vent hole and a friendly little trail of smoke rising from it. Willa always knew her way around a fire and didn’t mind keeping a low one going on the inside. You never were that confident, even with a fire-treated tarp.

She’s been at work out here, pulling useful things out of the rubble. The woodstove. The pulley jacks. A few timbers that are mostly unburned. 

But there’s a pile of other things too, useless items that shouldn’t be mixed back in with the earth: a burned walkie. Twisted silverware and blackened plates. The iron tools from the rafters. Shattered tile. Your charred and mangled boots.

All that’s left in the major wreckage is wood. And glass. And bones.

Three blackened skulls, three sets of eye sockets and three jaws gaping up at the sky as if they were caught in the moment of realizing their plans were going terribly awry. 

Stupid fucking kids. ….Just kids.

If someone asked you how you knew which one was Owen’s, you wouldn’t be able to say. You just know. The memory of him sinking that knife into Ellie’s leg…of hurting her…intent to kill… His skull breaks like a cracker when you put your weight on it.

Willa doesn’t say anything when she comes up along side to stare down at the bones with you. It's not the first time you've stood with her at the edge of a burned down home.

"I hate that it’s gonna take me a while to sift though all this,” you say.

“We’ve decided to skip your turn for a while. At least until there’s a new platform.”

You nod, resigned. You don’t love it, but it’s best. Trauma lingers longest of all hurt. 

“How’s the flock?”

“They’re over it.”

“Figures. Fluffy shits. Any chance you found a pocket knife out here?” You ask her.

She nods, reaches into a jacket pocket and there it is, like it’s been waiting to come back to its keeper, made itself shiny and easily found. It’s passed between you like a sacred object, holy, a relic saved and cared for, a thing infused with deep love and meaning. There’s an instant relief as your fingers curl around it, your shoulders relaxing and releasing a little of the pain.

“Thank you.”

“There was this too.” From the same pocket Willa pulls a disk of silver and glass, turning it over and placing it in your hand with the knife.

The watchband is burned away. But it’s otherwise unharmed.

Willa may be a stoic, but she knows enough to recognize a release through tears and to hold you while you cry.

Later that afternoon when you knock on Ellie’s door, you’ll hand her the knife and a piece of the old Roost to carve to consecrate the new one. And then you’ll give her the watch and ask her to be your hands, to help you with one more thing.

________

Two days later, you’re standing in Joel’s living room, never having been here when it’s so quiet, dark, and cold. With you and Ellie staying with Maria, there’s been nobody here to light a fire, to make the place live. You wouldn’t be here if Maria hadn’t made a side comment about maybe you and Ellie’d been in the same clothes for a day too many. Not that you thought you’d be with her that long.

She was right. It was nice to change into something clean–a soft fleece and some sleep pants. While the sword of Damocles kept things in check at Maria’s house, it did feel just this side of an extended girl’s night sleepover, might as well dress for it. Ellie had asked for something soft and comfy so you decided to go for it, an assortment of sweats and sweaters in the duffel at your feet.

What you’re eyeing at the moment is an empty hook on the wall by the fireplace.

You put your hand in your jacket pocket and pull out the watch.

Ellie did a beautiful job with it, took directions like a champ. Sitting together on her bed, listening to Joan Jett and Pat Benetar, you’d instructed her how to design the plaid stripes into the strap, how to knot and plait in patterns.

“Macrame. MACrame. Mac. Ra. Mayyyyyy,” Ellie’d chanted. “It’s a fun word to say. What’s it mean?”

“Fringe. Knotting. It’s just the name of the technique. I dunno. Probably something prettier in French.”

The strap clasps had been lost in the fire, so you’d had Ellie work him a new strap out of dyed and tightly-spun wool, something a little longer so he could tie it on. Most likely he’d come back here first, so you want to put it somewhere he’d see it, that way he could have it again without a lot of fuss but knowing at the same time you were thinking of him. So you slip the end loop over the hook, gently let it slip through your fingers and rest against the wall.

If he comes back…

The front door opens. Boots on the wood. The thump of a backpack.

By the time you’ve turned, he’s coming in through the front hall.

When he sees you standing here, he stops.

You never imagined this moment. You should have. It might have prepared you for the yellowing bruise on his face, the majority of his left pant leg browned with dried blood, his knuckles raw and just beginning to heal over.

You struggle with finding the right question. Find ‘em? They dead? Finish the job? No survivors?

I’d ask you what the hell you did, but I know and I don’t wanna hear you say it.

Instead all you can muster is a nod at the blood on his jeans.

His eyes slide to the staircase, already looking to move on, and he only answers with a short and shallow nod of his own before doing just that.

You find yourself sitting on the couch, staring at your hands, the duffel, the watch, back at your hands. Listening as he moves around upstairs, dropping boots, his belt buckle clapping to the floor. The shower running for a long, long time.

Sun’s going down. Getting colder.

The squeaks from the staircase are slow, softer than usual. He’s taking his time coming down. Doesn’t want to force himself back into a space so safe and quiet after pushing through one so big and mean.

He barely shifts the couch as he sits on the far side. Clean shirt. Clean jeans. A pair of socks you knit him.

“Where’s Ellie?” He sounds like he hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. You’d wager he hasn’t.

“With Maria. We’ve been staying there. I was just getting us some clothes. Didn’t think you’d be gone this long.”

“Neither did I. They had a head start. Younger. Faster. But you’re safe now. You’re both safe now.” He’s quiet long enough for the house to give a settling creak as the wind picks up outside. “How’s that arm?”

“Joel, you can’t keep us safe from the world. The world is what it is.”

“The fuck I can’t,” he whispers back, defiant, stubborn, with enough venom that he seems to scare himself and he breathes in deep, keeps it, holding back.

All you want is your Joel back. Even in all this mess. All you want is for him to lay down his fear and love you the right way. 

So instead of arguing, you get up and stand before him, give him the time it takes to understand you’re going to straddle his lap whether he helps you or not. He reaches for you on your way down, guides and supports you, allows you to rake through his wet curls before leaning in to take possession of his lips, to will him–by kissing through to his very soul–to come back to you.

He can’t help but respond, his whole body coming to life, and in the cold, twilit living room, you become a tangle of silhouettes as his hand pushes up under your sweater–somehow still keeping an aura of care around your ruined and wrapped arm–to squeeze almost painfully at your curves, rough and wanting, panting between devouring kisses as he paws beyond the waistband of your sleep pants, sucking at your neck when you throw your head back as he reaches what he was searching for….what you hoped he’d find…

There’s a tousle of repositioning and a clatter of belt and zipper. You’re both raw and rough and needy, and you both take advantage of the emptiness of the house to fill it with the sounds of desperation, of effort, the song of casting off of all inhibition, a duet of total and grateful release. 

But through it all, it’s the way he holds onto you that tells you how much he wanted to get back to you, how close he intends to hold you and never let you go, a desperation that tells you exactly where his faults lay…

…that it was necessary–and always will be–to eliminate any chance of someone taking you from his world by force.

It’s not so much possession as a fierce and burning need to be possessed. A need to belong, concentrated down to its basest form.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he softly kisses your temple, spooning you in the afterglow that burns bright in the darkening room.

“For what? You didn’t hurt me.”

“Rushed it a little. Tend to act before thinkin’ sometimes.”

You’re not completely sure what he means by that. At first you think he’s talking about the rough sex, but you get his meaning. Stalking off after Abby and Mel so impulsively. For being impulsive in general.

For acting out of trauma.

Or love.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to for that, Joel.”

You can tell the moment he understands when his forehead gently meets your shoulder. “Shit.”

It’s probably the best time to break it to him, while he’s still a little softheaded and euphoric. “She’s ready to listen. But I won’t promise it’ll be easy. It might just be you and me here for a while.”

Once his breathing evens out, he shifts, still holding onto you, but just coming back down, settling back in.

“What’s that?” He mutters, just on this side of falling asleep, lazily pointing at the watch on the hook by the fireplace.

“Your Valentine’s Day present. From both of us. Sorry it’s late.”

________

Taking some shifts off from the Meadow rotation affords you time to start slowly moving things over to the new A-frame, Maria helping you to load up a skid now and then and unload it, walking beside you as you lead the horse that tows it.

After a week or two, Ellie’s up and walking–well, limping, but healing–and starting to talk to Joel at dinner again. She’s on the verge of actually gracing his bad jokes with a smile or even a laugh, but she’s making him work hard for it. Good for her.

You haven’t asked either of them how the talk went. Don’t know if you ever will. That’s between them, the less you interfere, the better.

But you know that things are on the mend when you find Ellie playing Joel’s guitar–learning some Johnny Cash song you know he loves.

And you have a feeling that spring is on the way when you drop off another load at the new house and find a new frame on the wall–a handmade, custom carpentry display shadowbox.

With a watch hanging inside.

_______

PREVIOUS: AUTUMN

NEXT: SPRING AGAIN (coming soon)

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

[zayleb]

pairing; sylus x zayne x reader

tags: threesome, deepthroat, subspace, cunnilingus

A/N: got a snow crow sandwich on the brain

“My, my. Isn’t this a sight, kitten?”

Your trembling body was spread along the width of the bed with your head hanging over the edge. The good doctor was absolutely devouring your cunt with a wanton ardency while his fingers interlocked with yours.

Sylus watched as you keened and gasped, but never squirmed. Only because Zayne had told you not to. Your need to please the both of them was so adorable that it made Sylus’s heart twinge, but he didn’t dare voice it.

A languid hand trailed from your breast up to your mouth before it traced along your soft lips. Swollen from the hungry kisses you’d shared with the both of them as soon as you’d arrived at his place earlier that night. Evenings like these were precious few, and you all tried to make the most of them, to take everything you could from each other.

As if from instinct, your mouth opened and you sucked his fingers down, almost gagging. He pulled back slightly at the noise, but your hand firmly gripped his wrist in a gesture that clearly meant that you wanted him there. His already fully erect cock twitched at your enthusiasm.

Fuck, were you a delight.

“How is he making you feel?” he asked with an amused lilt to his tone as he pushed his fingers further into your mouth. “Is the good doctor taking care of you as he should?”

An incredulous sound came out from Zayne, as though the thought that he wasn’t doing a thorough job in making you feel the heights of pleasure was offensive. Sylus chuckled, “I’m sorry for even asking, Doctor.”

You voiced your thoughts with an eager hum. The answer was satisfactory enough and Sylus smirked as he finally took his fingers out of your mouth before giving your chin a light tap.

“Keep it open. Don’t you dare move.”

He pushed himself into your mouth and hissed as your tongue eagerly ran along the length of his cock. The feeling of it rubbing him while he pushed in was pure sin and his normally cool composure was nearly lost as a low growl rumbled from somewhere deep within him. The outline of his cock showed as he pushed himself into your throat and he couldn’t help but trace his hand along it, mesmerised at how well you took him. “That’s it…just like that. Fuck—” he whispered as he encouraged your progress. He knew your body absolutely sang at praise and he loved to exploit that knowledge at every opportunity.

You looked so beautiful as pleasured tears started to well in your eyes. There was absolutely nothing in this world, in the whole universe that could compare to the vision of your fucked-out face, of the ethereal sheen of sweat that dusted your body, of the way your body trembled as Zayne fucked you with his tongue. Something twinged within his heart — lust, love and absolute adoration in its purest form. He wanted you more with every passing moment. He wanted to fuck you until you couldn’t walk straight, he wanted to ravish and worship your whole body, he wanted to make love to you in the cheesiest, corniest settings under full moon and whisper sweet nothings in your ear.

Though he was trying to control the pace, he felt your eager hands grab the back of his thigh to push him in quicker, which caused you to choke a little.

The sound broke his spell immediately.

Sylus pulled out immediately, and Zayne definitely heard as well as he moved away from you and gave you one of his stern looks.

A pathetic whine left your lips at the loss from both ends and your hand moved to wrap his cock only for Sylus to grab your wrist and tut at you. “Uh-uh. Greedy little slut today, are we?” His voice lowered. “You’ll take only what I give you, when I give it to you. Do we have an understanding?”

Your pout was adorable. God it was adorable. It really wasn’t fair. He could feel his resolve falter ever so slightly.

“If you don’t do as he says, we’ll stop right here.”

It was clear that the doctor was serious and if the way you tensed was of any indication, you knew it, too. This wouldn’t be the first time he stopped everything for your safety and comfort.

“As much as I enjoy the thought of you…choking on my cock, kitten,” Sylus purred, trying to ease the tension as he cupped your face, “I’d much prefer it if you’d take it like the good kitten we know you are. Could you be that good girl for us right now?”

Your expression was dazed and he could tell that you were deep in whatever headspace he and the doctor had put you in. But he needed to know that you would obey.

“Need more,” you whined softly.

“And you’ll get more. Just trust us, kitten,” he assured. “You do trust us, right? And you want be good for us?”

Hesitation, as though you were processing his words. Zayne would need to coax you gently out later after all this was over. But finally, finally you nodded and Sylus smirked before tapping the corner of your mouth again.

”Good, now say ‘ah’.”

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

I was wondering what Hanma, Baji, Draken, Peh and Mikey’s reactions would be to a S/O who so clearly lights up whenever she sees/hears their name. Like every time, with out fail. Where even they notice it. Thank you!!

That's sweet, here's how I think they would react!

Hanma-

Notices it immediately but takes a few days to test it out. You're very confused as to why Hanma keeps running off snd disappearing then suddenly appearing again for those few days but it is Hanma so don't really question it.

Actually get's a bit addicted to that look in your eyes during his little experiment, he's never seen anyone light up or be so happy to see him before

Vaguely wonders if he can capture it in a photo

He's still very amused by the whole thing though, he never would've guessed he would've had someone like this, you really did surprise him.

Eventually he mentions it to you, it sounds like he's genuinely thanking you for a moment until it quickly turns into teasing and how much you miss him everytime he leaves.

Baji-

The first time he realises you're doing it he looks around. His first thought is that there's a cat nearby (he recognises that Chifuyu looks like that when he spots one) then he wonders if maybe one of your friends are here????? He's a bit confused when he sees no one but then it dawns on him, this look is for him.

Get's a little flustered everytime he sees you after that

He's glad that you seem to like seeing him so much but he's unsure how to respond or what to do about it. Does he mention it???? Groans a lot trying to figure it out.

Eventually Chifuyu notices somethings up and Baji get's roped into some kind of crazy romantic Chifuyu plan. Which ends with him taking you on a big date and confessing that he's noticed how you light up whenever you see him and that he really likes it.

Draken-

Draken's always been pretty observant so notices pretty quickly but he has a few doubts. He wonders if it's for him or even if he's just seeing things (he's always been a bit hopeless with stuff like this)

After a while he accepts you light up for him though, it fits with your other loving behaviours towards him.

Vaguely considers mentioning it to you but decides to not, these looks are just for him and he wants to keep them that way.

It quickly becomes the favourite part of his day, getting home to you and seeing you light up as he walks in through the door.

Peh-

"Hey you're face just did this weird thing! It lit up!?"

Subtlety isn't exactly something Peh is known for so of course he blurts it out the first time he sees it.

Quickly backtracks at your surprised/ kinda upset look though, telling you that it looked cute and was nice in a very awkward way (if you mention anything about his blush rn he will deny it)

Brags about it a lot to Pah and his other friends, he just thinks it's really cool.

Always grins so happily whenever he sees you doing that.

Mikey-

"Hmm?" Get's very close to your face the first time he notices it, you think he's going in for a kiss at first but nope. He's just observing you by ignoring all concepts of personal space.

He figures it out pretty quickly (being around his hopeless romantic siblings for years meant he knew this look pretty well) but refuses to tell you. Instead he just happily hums and innocently says it's nothing.

Sometimes he asks you to do "the thing with your face" then pouts when you don't. He seems to think it's something you can do on demand rather then a reaction.

Doesn't let anyone walk in with him at the same time because that look is his alone and he doesn't wanna share it.

You never have any idea what he's talking about or why he get's so happy to see you and comments about how cute/ good you look.

[sinbiis]

i gave you life, and you took his face

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝  new!dad!xavier x new!mom!reader

⟢ synopsis : After nine months of anticipation, you’re left wondering how your newborn came into the world with one thing that looks so familiar—your husband’s features. with every smile, every giggle, every tiny gesture, it’s clear: this little one is the spitting image of Xavier. you’re not upset, no… it’s not like you didn’t carry him for nine months. he should have gotten at least one thing from you!

⟢ a/n : okay, hear me out on this. i always see stories of lads with their babies but it’s like, 9/10 times a little girl. don’t get me wrong, xavier would make a WONDERFUL girl dad (they all would i’ll demonstrate-), but i think xavier would 100% love his little boy with his whole being. he’s gonna teach him to love his mama and when they take incredibly long naps its concerning cause they don’t move??? so… :) also, i am currently in the process of creating a Masterlist, but I wanted to wait until i make like, 5 posts?? idk :) im a college student so we’ll see if that ever happens

⟢ warnings : contains so much fluff that you’ll sleep wonderfully tonight, some swears

⟢  w.c : 1.2k

©sinbiis, likes and reblogs are appreciated

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Today was the day.

Yet, despite careful planning weeks in advance of today’s date, you were nervous. 

You were currently resting at your and Xavier’s shared apartment, after some discussion, you both agreed it'd be best to move into yours. Not only was it closer to the ground floor, but Xavier also insisted after he remembered a certain baker was living next door now. With your swollen belly, pretty ring adorning your left hand, and now living together, he finally felt at ease. But as you sat comfortably on your brand new couch, which Xavier insisted on buying for your comfort (as he thinks no chair/couch is uncomfortable), you felt a sudden craving for some gummy bears. As you waddled into the kitchen, you opened your little cupboard above the sink and began rummaging through various other snacks. Your husband was a very doting man; any snack you could ever want and it’d be in the palm of your hands within minutes. 

But not the gummy bears, since they were out of your reach. 

Just as you were about to place your hand on the counter for a small boost, you felt something warm and wet dripping down your legs and a sudden stinging sensation. It's not too painful, but enough to make you immobilized in the kitchen. Whether lucky or not, the bathroom door opened just in time. Xavier appeared from the bathroom after a quick shower - a towel wrapped around his waist while another wrapped around his shoulders. “X-Xavier! I-, hahhh fuck,” you groaned, hand reaching out to grasp at the air as the other lay on your belly. “T-Think it’s time!” And you swear you’ve never seen Xavier move so fast. His form couldn’t be seen, only a trail of light that followed his movements. He was quick to grab your to-go back, a pillows, your slippers, anything that would make you comfortable on the way to the hospital and while you were at the hospital. 

Just as he reached out to take your hand, preparing to teleport you both to the next destination, you quickly jerked your hand back, shaking your head in mild panic. "W-We agreed no teleporting, remember?"

He paused, his fingers hovering awkwardly in the air for a moment, his brow furrowing in confusion. The silence stretched for a beat too long before his eyes flickered with realization. A flash of memory—the conversation—finally hit him like a wave, and he swore under his breath. "Shit, right. No teleporting." He sighed in defeat. "Where are the keys?" You sighed, trying not to laugh at his sudden shift from calm to flustered. “On the c..counter, next to the fruit bowl,” you responded quickly, clutching your stomach as another wave of contraction hit. You felt the pressure mounting, and it was clear you weren’t going to make it much longer if he didn’t hurry the hell up.

His hands fumbled with the keys as he shot you a glance of both panic and apology. “I’m trying—I’m trying, okay? Just—fuck, why is everything in this damn house so complicated?” You took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm, even though your whole body was shaking with the rush of it all. “You’ve got seconds, Xavier. Get the keys—now.” Finally, he snatched them from the counter, his face twisted in urgency. “Right, right—got it.” He turned toward the door, his voice rising as he fumbled to grab his jacket. “We’re gonna make it, okay? We’ve got this. Just—breathe, alright?”

“I’m not doing anything but trying to stay conscious here,” you gasped, the contractions getting closer together. Your voice was tight with panic. “Xavier—now!!”

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The ride to the hospital was a messy one. With each contraction hitting harder and sooner, and with Xavier trying to keep you calm with soothing rubs, you felt nothing but irritation and some waves of sadness. 

“It hurts, Xavier..!” “I know my star, just please hold out, we’re almost there.”

“You did this to me!” “I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

“Honk! Get them t-to move, fuck!” “My star, we’re already here.”

Getting out of the car proved to be tricky, your legs felt like they were giving out with every step you took, so you lovingly yelled at your husband to get you a wheelchair – to which he was already hurrying back with one. 

As he pushed you into the emergency room, the nurses were quick to get you prepped and rushed off to the delivery room. And through it all, Xavier remained by your side. He held your hand as you went through four intense hours of pushing, grueling the pain of your intense grasp. Just when you thought you couldn’t go on for a second longer, there was a sharp, intense release. The pressure lifted for the briefest moment, and everything seemed to slow. Your body went still as if time itself had taken a breath.

And then, you heard it.

The high, desperate cry of your baby boy—the sound that would forever mark the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. You could hardly believe it at first, still lost in the haze of pain and exhaustion. The cry echoed through the room, a primal sound that filled every corner of your soul with overwhelming love and relief. Tears welled up in your eyes as you turned to Xavier, who was already blinking back his own. He smiled at you, a look of awe on his face that you hadn’t seen before. His hand, still tightly wrapped around yours, was now trembling with emotion. He leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, then your cheeks, before finally your lips. The feeling of his tears falling onto your face made this moment unforgettable. You now had a family.

The nurses were quick to clean him off before gently laying him against your chest for some skin-on-skin. And in that moment, everything felt perfect. 

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The next morning rolled by, and you and Xavier were cuddling in your bed, your son resting against Xavier’s naked torso. The nurses had suggested that the dad participated, and there was no way Xavier would pass up the opportunity. But as you stared down at your son, his big blue eyes looked back up at you. Your eyes trailed to his hair, which resembled that of Xaviers. A lush gray-blonde mixture, just a tad bit darker. Then to his little button nose, just like Xavier’s. He even had a light complexion, just like your husband’s. 

Your brows furrowed for a moment. Xavier glanced down at you after noticing you went quiet mid-conversation about ordering hotpot once you guys arrived home. “What’s wrong?” He hummed gently, laying his hand gently on your thigh while the other held his son. “Hmph… I carried you for nine months, and you came out looking exactly like your father,” your finger wiggled in front of your son, who only cooed as he stared at the foreign object waving in front of him. A smile then graced your face, your hand gently resting on top of Xavier’s as you leaned forward to press a kiss to your baby’s forehead.

“You’re perfect.♥”

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©sinbiis2025

[ruewritesoccasionally]

Friction & Flames | Terry Richmond

pairing: terry richmond x black!reader

warnings: smut (18+), workplace rivalry, power dynamics, forced proximity, angst, rough sex, oral (f receiving), light hair pulling, explicit language, possessiveness, a lot of dialogue, a little slow burn and Terry being an absolute menace (but we love him).

summary: a classic enemies-to-lovers showdown: sharp words, sharper tension, and a deadline that forces them into close quarters. When tempers flare and restraint snaps, her and Terry finally settle their differences - in their own way...

word count: 6.4K

a/n: this came out much longer than intended 😭 this is a reupload, just reworked - the original didn't do as well as i would've liked but also it wasn't my best work. i'm much happier with it now though and i hope you guys are too 🫶🏾

The alarm buzzed, shrill and relentless. She groaned, blindly slapping at the snooze button before peeling herself out of bed. Coffee brewed while she moved through her morning routine—shower, dress, make-up—each step as precise and efficient as the last. The world felt easier when it followed structure, when things happened as they should.

Which was exactly why he drove her insane.

Terry Richmond had no regard for order, for rules, for method. He operated on instinct, on charm, on raw talent that somehow, infuriatingly, got him just as far as the meticulous planning she slaved over. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But it was the reality she faced every single day as his co-lead project manager.

By the time she arrived at the office, it was still quiet—just the way she liked it. These early mornings were her sanctuary, the only time of day when she could get ahead without distraction. But of course, peace never lasted long.

The telltale hum of easy conversation carried through the space, growing louder as he made his usual rounds. Schmoozing. Charming. Doing absolutely nothing useful. She didn’t even have to look up to know Terry had entered the room.

“Morning, everyone,” his voice rang out, smooth as silk.

Her fingers paused over the keyboard. Not yet. Not today. She kept her gaze locked on her screen, willing him away with sheer willpower.

No such luck.

“Well, well, Princess” he drawled, stopping beside her desk. “I see someone made it in without getting lost. Impressive.”

Her jaw tightened as she slowly swiveled in her chair, eyes locking onto his. That smirk. That self-satisfied, arrogant, infuriating smirk.

“For the last time, Terrance,” she said, enunciating his full name like a curse, “it’s not Sweetheart, it’s not Babygirl, and it’s definitely not Princess. Now turn around and—”

“Terrance,” he interrupted with a hand over his chest, feigning a wound to his heart. “Damn. And here I was, thinking we were past the formalities.”

Her glare could’ve set the whole office ablaze, but he only grinned wider, like he enjoyed the fire.

He always did.

The smug grin Terry shot her before he strolled to his desk was enough to make her want to hurl her coffee at him. Bastard. He knew exactly how to get under her skin, and he did it with a deliberate ease that made her blood boil. She inhaled deeply, gripping her pen tighter than necessary, willing herself to stay calm. The workday had barely begun, and he was already pressing every button she had.

It had been like this for years. Their competition wasn’t just petty office bickering—it was a game of survival. A slow-burning, high-stakes war waged between two people too damn good at what they did to ever back down.

The promotions? She’d landed hers first. The biggest client of last quarter? He’d swooped in and stolen it from right under her nose. Every time she thought she had the upper hand, Terry Richmond would find a way to level the playing field—or tilt it entirely in his favour.

And he loved it.

She could see it in the way he watched her now, that knowing glint in his stormy grey eyes as if he was waiting for her to snap.

Not today.

Before she could drown him out with work, Linda’s heels clicked against the floor, her presence snapping the room into silence. Linda was direct, no-nonsense, and not easily impressed—so when she stopped by their desks instead of addressing the entire team, something was up.

“This next campaign is the biggest account we’ve landed all year,” she started, flipping through the folder in her hands. “Which means I need our best people on it.”

She paused—just for a beat—before letting the inevitable bomb drop.

“I want both of you heading it.”

Her stomach twisted, and she barely managed to suppress a groan. Of course.

Terry leaned back in his chair, the picture of casual amusement. “Our best, huh? You sure you want to put her in the running, boss?”

Her jaw tightened. “I should be asking the same about you.”

Linda exhaled sharply. “Enough. I don’t care how you two feel about it—I care about results. And between the two of you, I expect nothing but success.”

Linda’s expression remained impassive as she looked between them. “I don’t care how you two feel about it. This job is crucial, and it needs to be done. Quickly.” Her voice was sharp, clipped, leaving no room for argument. “In fact, why don’t you use tonight to start planning? Somewhere neutral. Off-site. No distractions.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. The mere suggestion of being alone together outside of work sent an undercurrent of something charged through the air.

Terry’s smirk stretched wider, like a cat toying with a trapped bird. “Neutral, huh? Guess that rules out your place, Princess.”

Her jaw clenched at the nickname, her irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “Don’t call me that,” she hissed, voice razor-sharp.

Linda, either blissfully unaware or purposefully ignoring the crackling tension, made a quick note on her clipboard. “That’s settled, then. I expect a full report by tomorrow morning.” She barely spared them a glance before walking away, her heels clicking against the floor in sharp finality.

Terry, ever insufferable, watched her go before turning his gaze back to the woman standing in front of him. His smirk hadn’t faltered once.

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other tonight,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

She shot him a withering glare, but deep down, she already knew—this was going to be a very, very long night.

The words settled like a weight in the air. She hated that Linda was right. Neither of them would ever willingly bow out of something like this, not when winning meant getting one step ahead of the other.

And Terry knew it too.

He tipped his chin toward her, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. “What do you say, sweetheart? Think you can keep up?”

She refused to look at him, refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she turned to Linda and gave a curt nod. “Fine. I assume we’re getting full creative control?”

Linda returned the nod. “Within reason.”

“We’ll see about that,” Terry murmured under his breath.

Linda gave them one last pointed glance before walking off, leaving the tension behind her thick enough to choke on.

She should have just let it go. She should have focused on the work, ignored him like he was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing in her ear.

But then she saw it—his damn smirk widening, like he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to bite back.

Slowly, she turned her head to him, keeping her expression neutral. “Try not to get in my way, Richmond.”

His gaze flickered with amusement, but he leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. “I wouldn’t dream of it, babygirl.”

Her fists clenched at her sides as she bit back a retort. She was going to need every ounce of patience to survive this.

The hours ticked by, and as expected, Terry took his sweet time getting back to her about the details of their meeting. She wasn’t surprised. He loved making her wait, forcing her to reach out first. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Not tonight.

She went about her evening, refusing to check her phone, knowing that the moment she did, he’d win. And she’d sooner staple her own hand than let him believe she was sitting around, waiting on him.

When her phone finally buzzed, she ignored it for a few minutes before opening the message with deliberate disinterest.

Terry: Meet me at my place. 10 PM. Try not to get too distracted tonight, Princess.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers tightening around the phone. She should have known. Of course he’d make this as inconvenient as possible. Not a café, not a bar, not even the office—his place. A blessing in disguise to be honest. There was no way she’d let him pollute the sanctuary of her own home with presence.

He was testing her.

She could decline. Tell him to meet somewhere neutral, somewhere that wouldn’t give him the upper hand. But then he’d smirk that insufferable smirk and say something smug about her being too scared to be alone with him.

And she refused to give him that, too.

So she texted back.

Her: Fine.

The response was short, devoid of anything he could twist into a game. Still, she knew he’d find a way.

Standing in front of his door, irritation coursed through her, tangled with something deeper—something she refused to name. She wasn’t nervous. That would imply he had some kind of power over her, and he didn’t. He didn’t.

The door swung open, and there he was: Terry Richmond, leaning lazily against the frame and she was immediately annoyed. He looked too good. Smug satisfaction lined his face, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing inked skin stretched over muscle.

"My, my, my," he drawled, letting his gaze sweep over her with deliberate slowness. "Don’t you look stunning. Don’t tell me you dressed up for me."

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Terry, you’re on my time now—use it wisely," she snapped, slicing through his charm before it could gain traction.

Terry raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering for a split second as he clocked her no-nonsense mood. He adjusted quickly, though, stepping aside and gesturing her in with a lazy wave. "Come on in, then. We wouldn’t want to waste your precious time, would we?"

“Didn’t think you’d show.” His voice was lazy, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

She tried pushing past him but he blocked her movements. “I’m here to work, not play into your little games.”

He finally moved, shutting the door behind her, a low chuckle escaping him. “Princess, everything we do is a game.”

She walked past him, jaw tightened, but she ignored him, scanning the apartment instead. It was neat, too neat. The kind of place that suggested he didn’t spend much time here, that it was more of a crash pad than a home. Still, it smelled like him—clean, woodsy, with a faint trace of cologne—and the familiarity of it made her stomach tighten.

Terry shut the door, watching her. Always watching. "Drink?"

"No."

He hummed, pouring himself a glass of whiskey anyway. "Suit yourself."

She moved to the dining table, pulling out her laptop. "Let’s just get this done."

Terry exhaled dramatically, taking the seat across from her. "So eager. You always this desperate to get away from me?"

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before she met his gaze, bored. "Depends. You always this desperate to keep me around?"

His lips curled. "Oh, always, sweetheart."

She hated the way her pulse betrayed her. The way his voice dripped with a promise she refused to decipher.

As the night stretched on, she noticed his focus drifting—not from the project, but from her. His gaze lingered too long, tracing the line of her throat when she sipped her drink, flicking to her mouth when she spoke, dropping to her bare legs beneath the table.

She knew the exact moment he stopped caring about work.

“Tired?” she asked, feigning innocence.

Terry leaned back in his chair, stretching leisurely. “Bored.”

“Because you’re losing?”

His smirk deepened. “You think this is a competition?”

She mirrored his expression. “Isn’t it?”

The words hung heavy between them, thick with something unspoken. Something neither of them wanted to name.

Shaking it off, she focused on the task at hand. They settled into work, heads bent over the project, their focus sharp. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe this might actually be productive.

But Terry was Terry, and peace was never part of his repertoire.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what they were supposed to be doing—he did. But slipping in his usual jabs was second nature, like breathing. Whether it was the clash of egos, his compulsive need to compete with her, or sheer stupidity, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

To her credit, she let it slide. For now. His behaviour, by his standards, was almost tolerable, and she kept her focus on the task at hand. So much so that she barely noticed the way his eyes lingered on her.

Terry wasn’t focused on the proposal anymore. His gaze drifted, taking in every detail: the shimmer of gloss on her lips as she spoke, the way her movements carried an effortless grace even in her irritation. He wasn’t oblivious to the effect she had on him.

She walked into every room with a quiet confidence that drew him in, her voice carrying an authority that demanded attention. And it drove him mad that she seemed entirely unaffected by him. Her refusal to acknowledge his flirtations turned into a game he couldn’t resist playing. He loved riling her up, watching her react. Every glare, every clapback—it all meant she cared, and that’s what he wanted.

He leaned back in his chair, letting her take the lead on the project, though his mind had long since wandered. His eyes lingered on the way she crossed her legs, the slight arch of her back as she leaned forward to emphasise her point. He imagined how it would feel to have her closer, to—

And then he couldn’t resist.

“So," he drawled, his voice low, carrying that signature teasing edge, "how many other guys would kill to be in my position right now?"

That was it.

Something inside her snapped. Her face flushed, anger blazing in her eyes as she shot to her feet. Fists clenched at her sides, she fixed him with a glare that could melt steel.

"You arrogant, son of a—"

But she didn’t get the chance to finish.

Terry was already grinning, wider than ever, his expression one of pure satisfaction. He basked in the chaos he’d created, every ounce of her fury a testament to his power to get under her skin.

He leaned back, utterly unbothered, his smirk taking on a wicked gleam. He’d pushed her to this point, and he loved it. Relished it. This was his game, and he was playing it to perfection.

The tension in the room shifted—thick, potent, and almost suffocating. He moved toward her with a predatory grace, every step deliberate, his presence commanding. Placing his hands firmly on the armrests of her chair, he caged her in, leaving no room for escape.

Trapped and surrounded by his heat, her senses were overwhelmed. But even as he asserted his dominance, one thought lingered in his mind: she would taste him later.

Leaning down, he lowered his voice to a murmur that sent shivers racing down her spine.

"You see how easy it is for me to get under your skin?" His breath ghosted against her neck, his lips barely brushing her ear in a tantalising tease.

"But between you and me," he continued, his tone thick with sinful intent, "I’d rather you be under me."

The hitch in her breath was almost imperceptible, but Terry caught it. Of course, he caught it. That was the thing about him—he noticed everything. The way her pulse flickered at her throat. The way her fingers clenched, then relaxed, then clenched again, like she was trying to fight off whatever was brewing inside her.

And the way she didn’t move away.

His smirk deepened, his hands still bracketing her chair, keeping her right where he wanted her.

“I can see you're thinking about it,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something richer, smoother, meant to sink under her skin. “We both know how this ends. Why fight it?”

She scoffed, though it came out weaker than she wanted. “You’re delusional.”

His lips twitched. There she was. “And yet,” he murmured, tilting his head, “you’re still standing here. Close enough to feel me.”

She swallowed hard.

Terry chuckled. Low, slow, like he had all the time in the world. He let one hand trail up the armrest of her chair, fingers grazing hers. Barely a touch. Just enough to make her breath hitch again.

Then, he leaned in. Closer.

She could smell the whiskey on his breath, the warmth of it mixing with something darker, something entirely him.

And she hated—hated—how badly she wanted more.

“You know what I think?” he murmured. “I think you like this. The arguing. The tension. The push and pull. I think it gets you off—”

She moved before she could second-guess herself. A sharp, frustrated sound left her throat as she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down, her lips crashing against his.

Terry groaned, deep and guttural, as if he’d been waiting for this, aching for this. His hands found her waist, gripping tight, and then suddenly she wasn’t in the chair anymore—she was against it, her back pressed into the table as he stepped between her legs, pressing into her, all hard heat and impossible arrogance.

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, holding him there, not that he had any plans to go anywhere. His mouth was urgent against hers—hot, demanding, a perfect mirror to the fire that had been simmering between them for months.

She bit down on his lower lip, just hard enough to make him grunt.

Good, she thought, satisfaction curling in her stomach. If she was going down in flames, he was burning with her.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark, wild, consuming.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for that,” he murmured, his thumb dragging over her bottom lip.

She licked the tip of it, just to watch his jaw tighten.

“I think I have some idea,” she teased, voice breathless, electric.

Terry’s eyes darkened, amusement flickering into something sharper. Hungrier.

“Alright, Princess,” he murmured, voice dropping to something low, something dangerous. “You wanna play?”

The air shifted.

The power balance tilted.

And neither of them were backing down.

Terry let out a slow, dangerous chuckle. Then he kissed her again—deeper, harder, bruising in its intensity.

His hands gripped her waist with practiced ease, lifting her effortlessly to her feet as he closed the remaining distance between them. Their bodies collided, his heat searing against hers. His lips crashed into hers with an intensity that was anything but gentle—a clash of teeth and tongues, raw and unrestrained. She tasted like temptation, and for a fleeting moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

She met him with equal fervour, her fingers threading into his hair and tugging him closer, pulling a low growl from his throat. He took it as permission to push further, his lips leaving hers to trail down her jawline. His teeth grazed her skin, nipping lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue.

As they pulled apart, his smirk spread, slow and calculated, dripping with satisfaction. His eyes gleamed with the knowledge of what he’d just unleashed. The storm between them was no longer just a simmering rivalry—it was a blaze, out of control, and neither one of them knew how to stop it.

“You think you’ve got this figured out, don’t you?” His voice was rougher now, all edge and low heat. There was an unspoken challenge in the air. He was no longer just teasing—this was war, and the rules had changed.

Her heart raced, her pulse thundering in her ears, but she refused to let him see the effect he was having. Instead, she shot him a pointed look. “I’ve got more than you think.”

He chuckled, the sound dark and mocking. “Always so sure of yourself, aren’t you?” He pushed off the desk, the sudden movement bringing them closer, his towering presence stealing her breath away. His eyes never left hers, hungry, predatory.

They were circling each other now, neither willing to show weakness, both battling for dominance. The air around them felt too thick, too heavy, but neither of them could make the first move. The competition had always been fierce, but this? This was something different. Something primal.

Her gaze flickered to the clock on the wall, as if time could be her ally. “I’m just here to finish the job,” she said, trying to sound detached, but the words caught in her throat, betraying her. They both knew it was more than that.

Terry’s gaze softened, just for a moment. Then he was back to his usual cocky self, pressing closer. “It’s funny,” he murmured, voice quieter now, like he was letting her in on a secret. “You act like I’m the one distracting you.” His fingers brushed the edge of her desk, and the simple movement was enough to send a shiver down her spine.

Her clenched her fists at her sides. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

She was playing right into his hands. Lowering himself further, his lips brushed along the line of her jaw, his breath hot and unrelenting as he whispered, "Nuh-uh. That’s not how this works, sweetheart. You’re in my house now." His voice dropped even lower, the words landing with weight. "And you play by my rules."

Fully closing the space now, his breath warm against her skin. “You always know how to keep things interesting, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his breath warm against her flushed skin.

It was a challenge. A dare. And it hit harder than any insult or word they’d thrown at each other before.

His proximity was intoxicating. She could feel his heat radiating off him, like a physical presence pressing against her own, testing her resolve. For a moment, she considered backing away, but something about the way he looked at her—so assured, so relentless—made it impossible to move.

His fingers grazed her wrist, just barely, the touch lingering enough to make her skin burn. She could feel her breath quicken, the air around them thick with unspoken words. The space between them was dangerously small now, and neither one of them was backing down.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked, voice a little more breathless than she'd intended.

Terry’s smile turned devilish, the playful glint in his eyes sharpening. “What would be the fun in that?” he said, then stepped back, breaking the spell with a sudden, disarming ease. He ran a hand through his hair, cocky as ever. “Let’s see who cracks first, then.”

Her pulse quickened at the challenge, the tension between them building with every word. Neither of them was prepared to lose. Not this time. And as the clock ticked on, the battle between them grew more intense, the stakes impossibly high.

His hands moved with purpose, one slipping to the small of her back while the other pressed against her hip, guiding her until her back met the solid surface of the nearest wall. The coolness against her skin was a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him, pressing into her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. Every nerve in her body was alive, her senses alight with the overwhelming presence of him.

She wanted to snap back, to hurl something biting, to put him in his place with that razor-sharp tongue of hers—but nothing came. Her thoughts were too hazy, clouded by the way he towered over her, by the way his body felt against hers. His presence was magnetic, undeniable, and it was pulling her under like a riptide she had no hope of escaping.

Then his hand brushed against her arm—a barely-there touch, yet it sent a bolt of electricity straight to her core. A sharp breath left her lips. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. She hated him, truly, deeply. But she wanted him just as fiercely. And no matter how much she tried to deny it, to shove it down where it couldn't be touched, it clawed its way back to the surface.

Terry took another step closer, deliberate, unhurried, his confidence infuriatingly steady. His fingers trailed lower, sliding to the small of her back again, and this time, he pulled her in. Every inch of her was flush against him now, the heat between them scorching, the last remnants of distance obliterated.

“What’s it gonna be, sweetheart?” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dripping with challenge. “You gonna keep pretending? Or are you ready to stop fighting this?”

The words settled heavy between them, the weight of them undeniable. The world outside blurred, irrelevant. All she could hear was the deafening pound of her own heartbeat, the ragged pull of her breath.

And then, like a dam breaking, every pent-up emotion, every unresolved moment between them came crashing down.

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt before she could stop herself, a sharp tug pulling him into her space. She wasn’t following his lead anymore—this wasn’t about his challenge, his rules. She was setting the pace now. She was in control.

His smirk deepened, as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment. But she didn’t give him the satisfaction of gloating. She surged forward, her lips crashing into his with a force that stole the breath from both of them.

Terry groaned against her mouth, the sound raw, almost desperate. Then his hands were on her again, moving with an urgency that sent a fresh wave of heat through her. He caught her wrists in one swift motion, lifting her arms above her head, pinning them effortlessly against the wall. His body followed suit, pressing her there, letting her feel the weight of him, the full brunt of his control.

For just a second, he held her like that—let her feel the shift, let her know exactly who had the upper hand now.

Then his lips crashed into hers again, rough, unrelenting.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was everything they had never said, everything they had pushed down, everything that had burned between them from the very first moment they met.

The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in, trapping them in the storm they had created. Her pulse pounded against her ribs as his hands slid down, gripping her waist and pulling her tighter against him. His touch was firm, possessive, but there was something else beneath it—a quiet, maddening restraint, like even now, he was holding back.

She arched against him, breathless, defiant.

“Do you feel that?” he murmured, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, his voice dark, taunting. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

Her breath shuddered as she stared up at him, her mind a blur of want and frustration, her body betraying her with the way it leaned into his.

And the worst part?

She had been waiting for it too.

The arrogance in his tone should have pissed her off. She should have shoved him away, thrown a cutting remark to put him back in his place. But instead, his words sent a shiver down her spine, pooling heat low in her belly. Her heart pounded—loud, insistent—as if trying to warn her, but she knew he could hear it, feel it, just like she could feel the heat radiating off him, pressing into her.

She hated that he had this effect on her. Hated how effortlessly he stripped away her defences, unravelled her completely with nothing but a look, a touch, a single taunting word.

In a blink, she found herself against the wall, the hard surface biting into her back, his body caging hers in. She should have fought it, should have snapped something defiant—but she didn’t. The space between them dissolved, his lips hovering just inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin.

“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was thick, roughened with something unreadable. It almost sounded like concern. But she knew better. This wasn’t concern. This was a test. A challenge. A game of control, of willpower, of just how far he could push her before she shattered.

Her lips parted, but hesitation caught in her throat. Because if she said no, she couldn’t take it back.

Terry’s fingers skimmed the side of her thigh, his touch maddeningly light, a whisper of contact that made her body jolt in anticipation. The bastard was waiting. Letting the silence stretch. Letting her squirm under the weight of her own restraint.

Her nails curled into his chest, tension coiling tight in her stomach, and she knew she was at the edge—dangling over it.

Then, barely audible, she whispered, “No.”

His smirk was slow, dangerous. “That’s my girl.”

Then his mouth crashed into hers.

There was nothing soft about it. No careful prelude, no tentative exploration—just pure, unchecked hunger. He kissed her like he wanted to brand her, own her, stake his claim right there against that cold, unforgiving wall. And she met him just as fiercely, dragging him in by the collar, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a battle of dominance neither was willing to concede.

His hands moved with intent, sliding beneath her shirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of her ribs before finding the swell of her breasts. He cupped them through the thin lace, his thumbs circling over her nipples with infuriating precision. A sharp gasp left her lips, her body betraying her, arching into his touch instead of away.

Terry hummed against her mouth, amusement flickering through the kiss. “So sensitive,” he murmured, dragging her shirt higher, exposing her inch by inch like he had all the time in the world. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

She wanted to deny it, wanted to bite out something sharp to wipe that smirk off his face, but then his teeth grazed her jaw, his lips dragging down her throat, and any words she might have had died in a sharp inhale.

His hands were ruthless now, dragging her skirt up, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her knickers. The moment he found her, slick and wanting, a curse left his lips.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his breath hot against her skin. “Look at you.”

Her thighs tensed, heat surging through her, but before she could process the words, before she could react, he was gone.

The sudden loss of his touch made her shudder, her breath catching—but then he dropped to his knees.

Her stomach clenched.

Strong hands gripped her thighs, pried them apart, lifting one over his shoulder with unrelenting ease. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer any more smug remarks. He just stared up at her, dark eyes gleaming with wicked intent, and then—

His mouth was on her.

A choked gasp tore from her lips, her head knocking back against the wall. His tongue was relentless, dragging over her with obscene precision, tasting her like he’d been starving for it. Her fingers twisted into his hair, her grip tight enough to hurt, but he only groaned, the vibrations sending another wave of heat crashing through her.

She refused to give in so easily. She refused to let him win.

But then he sucked—slow and devastatingly deep—and her entire body jerked, a whimper slipping free before she could stop it.

Terry chuckled against her, the sound smug, knowing. His grip on her thigh tightened, a silent warning, and then his fingers joined the fray—two slipping inside her, filling her with an unrelenting precision that had her shuddering against the wall.

Her resolve shattered.

“Terry—”

He grinned, curling his fingers just right, hitting that spot that had her thighs shaking. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against her, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let me hear you.”

She had no choice. He tore the sounds from her, made her body betray her again and again, driving her higher, dragging her over the edge with devastating ease. And when it finally hit, when pleasure crashed through her like a violent storm, her body seized, her breath strangled, her fingers yanking at his hair as she cried out his name.

Terry didn’t stop. He worked her through every wave, every tremor, didn’t let go until she was fully spent, trembling, utterly undone.

Then, finally, he pulled back, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured, his voice smug, satisfied. Then he rose, towering over her once again, his gaze locking onto hers as he wiped the last traces of her from his lips.

And God help her, she wanted more.

Neither of them had the patience—or the inclination—to take this upstairs. The moment stretched, charged, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. Every second they waited only made it worse.

Terry’s hands were already on her, firm and insistent, guiding her towards the couch like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance between them.

“Right here,” he growled, voice low and commanding. “I’m done waiting.”

She didn’t protest. Couldn’t. Her breath hitched as he turned her around, rough hands gripping her hips with purpose, bending her over the plush cushions. The anticipation was maddening, her skin buzzing under the ghost of his touch as his fingers trailed down her back, slow, deliberate—like he was savouring the moment, relishing her submission.

“Stay just like that,” he murmured, his voice dark silk, but his hands were anything but gentle. The rush of air against her thighs sent a shudder through her as he pushed her skirt up, his fingers dragging over the lace of her underwear before slipping them down in one smooth motion.

A sharp inhale cut through the silence. He wasn’t even touching her, but she felt it—his gaze, the weight of it scorching her skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re perfect.”

Her nails curled into the fabric beneath her, fighting for something to ground her, but then Terry was pressing against her, all heat and hunger, the hard evidence of his arousal making her breath falter.

“Say it.” His voice was thick, strained, heavy with restraint he was barely holding onto. “Tell me you want this.”

She clenched her jaw, heart pounding. He wouldn’t move until she said it. Wouldn’t give her what she was aching for.

Her resolve cracked, her need eclipsing her pride. “I want this,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. Then, stronger—daring. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

His grip tightened—one hand pressing into the small of her back, the other bracing her hip—before he thrust into her in one fluid movement.

A broken gasp tore from her lips, her body arching as he filled her completely, stretching her, owning her. There was no hesitation, no restraint. He took her with raw, unrelenting force, his movements deep and demanding, fuelled by the same tension that had kept them at odds for so long.

His fingers dug into her skin, holding her still, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. “So fucking good,” he groaned, voice wrecked, like he was barely holding himself together. “Better than I ever let myself imagine.”

She barely registered the words. Her mind was slipping, drowning in the rhythm of him, the way he moved, the way he took. Every deep stroke unravelled her, pulling her further under, until all she could do was surrender to it—to him.

Terry leaned in, his chest flush against her back, his breath hot against her ear as his hand slid into her braids, tugging just enough to tilt her head back. “Don’t hold back, baby.” His voice was a rough whisper, wicked and coaxing. “I want to hear you.”

And she did.

Her moans spilled into the room, raw and unrestrained, each sound sending a fresh surge of heat through him. He rewarded her for it, driving into her with punishing precision, wringing every reaction from her until she was teetering on the edge, trembling, gasping—

Then she shattered.

A sharp cry broke from her lips as pleasure tore through her, leaving her breathless, undone. She felt him falter, his pace growing erratic, his grip tightening—then, with a deep, guttural groan, he followed her over the edge, his release spilling into her as he collapsed against her, spent.

Silence settled over them, save for their ragged breaths.

Terry’s hands, once rough and claiming, softened on her hips, tracing slow, lazy circles against her skin. He eased out of her, lingering for just a moment longer before stepping back, watching as she pulled herself together.

Then, with all the composure she could muster, YN wiped her mouth and turned to face him, lips curling into something wicked. “Well,” she said, smoothing her skirt down, “I suppose we can’t call it a productive meeting until we actually finish that proposal, huh?”

Terry chuckled, raking a hand through his messy hair, looking every bit as wrecked as she felt. “Oh, don’t worry,” he drawled, flashing that signature, lazy grin. “We’ll get it done. I work best under pressure… just like tonight.”

She arched a brow, crossing her arms. “Funny,” she shot back, “you didn’t seem too worried about the deadline when you were too busy getting under my skin.”

His grin widened, smug, infuriatingly charming. “Well, now that I’ve got you warmed up, I’m sure the rest of the work will be a breeze.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her. “Let’s just make sure we finish before Linda decides to make one of her famous surprise appearances.”

Terry laughed, shaking his head as he reached for his laptop. “Agreed. But next time—neutral ground, alright?”

“Next time?” she echoed, tilting her head. “You’re really pushing your luck, Terry.”

He leaned back, flashing her a wink. “Don’t worry, babygirl, I’m not done with you yet.”

And as they turned their attention back to the proposal, the tension between them still hummed in the air, thick and unresolved. They both knew this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

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[waight-gain]

Chapter 3: Subtle Changes

Mike and Sam

This whole story is filled with more NSFW scenes than my previous

Sam's body had undergone a transformation that was both subtle and undeniable. In just a few months, he had gained 25 pounds, and the extra weight had started to redistribute itself in all the right places. His stomach, once a gentle slope, now formed a soft, rounded curve that jutted out just enough to be noticeable. The skin around his navel had grown taut, and a faint crease had formed where his belt used to sit. His thighs, always a bit slender, had begun to take on a slightly more substantial shape, and his hips had acquired a gentle width that was impossible to ignore. The muscles in his arms and legs still held their definition, but they were now wrapped in a layer of soft, creamy fat that made them look almost… cuddly.

Mike couldn't tear his eyes away from Sam. The changes in his boyfriend's physique ignited a surge of excitement and arousal within him. He had been subtly encouraging Sam's weight gain for months, and the results were nothing short of spectacular. The way Sam's clothes fit him now was a major turn-on for Mike. The snug t-shirts and jeans accentuated Sam's new curves, making him look like a completely different person. Mike found himself stealing glances at Sam throughout the day, his eyes lingering on the soft bulge of his stomach or the way his thighs strained against the fabric of his pants.

One evening, as they were getting ready for a night out with friends, Mike caught himself staring at Sam as he dressed. Sam, oblivious to Mike's gaze, was struggling to button up his favorite slim-fit jeans. The zipper was stuck, and the fabric was stretched taut across his thighs. Mike's heart skipped a beat as he watched Sam's face contort in a mixture of frustration and amusement. He couldn't help but feel a pang of pride and ownership, knowing that he had played a significant role in Sam's transformation.

"Need some help?" Mike asked, his voice low and husky as he stepped closer to Sam.

Sam looked up, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "I think I've got it," he said, his voice strained as he tugged at the zipper.

Mike's hands instinctively reached out, his fingers brushing against Sam's as he took the zipper and gently coaxed it into place. The fabric creaked and groaned, protesting the tight fit, but Mike persisted, his fingers working their magic until the zipper finally gave way with a soft whoosh. As the jeans fastened into place, Mike couldn't help but run his hand over the soft curve of Sam's stomach, his fingertips tracing the subtle swell of his belly.

Sam looked up, a questioning glint in his eye, but Mike just smiled innocently, his heart racing with excitement. He stepped back, admiring the way the jeans hugged Sam's curves, the seams straining to contain the soft flesh beneath. "You look great," Mike said, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

Sam grinned, running a hand through his hair as he struck a pose, his jeans-clad thighs splayed wide. "Thanks, I think," he said, his eyes laughing. "Must have shrunk in the wash."

Mike chuckled, his eyes roving over Sam's body. "Your shirt too huh?" Mike said, his voice low and teasing as he reached out to adjust the fit of Sam's shirt, his fingers grazing the soft skin of his stomach. Sam's eyes met his, a flicker of awareness dancing in their depths, but Mike just smiled and stepped back, his eyes never leaving Sam's face.

As they headed out the door, Mike couldn't help but feel a sense of possessiveness wash over him. He loved the way Sam looked, the way his new curves seemed to glow with a soft, inviting light. He loved the way Sam moved, his hips swaying gently as he walked, his thighs rubbing together with a soft, sensual sound.

As they walked to the car, Mike found himself falling into step beside Sam, his arm around his waist. It was a subtle touch, but it sent a shiver of excitement through Mike's body, his heart racing with anticipation. He knew that he had to be careful, that he couldn't push Sam too far, too fast. But he couldn't help the way he felt, the way his body seemed to be drawn to Sam's like a magnet.

As they drove to the restaurant, Mike stole glances at Sam, his eyes drinking in the sight of his soft, rounded belly pressing against his seat belt, the tight waistband of his jeans accentuating his size. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing that he was secretly manipulating Sam's weight gain, but he pushed the feeling aside, telling himself that he was doing it for Sam's desires. After all, Sam seemed happier, more confident, than he had in months. And Mike was happy to be the one who was helping him get there.

The restaurant was bustling with activity, the sounds of laughter and conversation mingling with the clinking of glasses and the sizzle of food on the grill. Mike and Sam were shown to their table, a cozy little spot in the corner with a view of the entire dining area. As they perused the menus, Mike couldn't help but steal glances at Sam, his eyes lingering on the way his shirt buttons strained across his chest, the soft curve of his stomach visible beneath.

Their friends arrived, a lively group of people who had known Mike and Sam for years. They chatted and laughed, catching up on each other's lives as they ordered their meals. Sam opted for a large, creamy pasta dish, which he devoured with gusto, savoring the rich flavors. Mike, meanwhile, had chosen lasagna, but found himself more interested in watching Sam eat than in finishing his own meal. As Sam finished his pasta, Mike encouraged him to finish the rest of his lasagna as well, and with a laugh, Sam obliged.

As the night wore on, Mike found himself growing more and more aware of Sam's presence beside him. He could feel the warmth of Sam's body, the soft brush of his arm against his own. He leaned in, his voice low and husky as he whispered in Sam's ear, "Let's get desserts to go - the chocolate cake and the cheesecake. We can enjoy them later." His lips grazed the soft skin of Sam's neck as he spoke.

Sam shivered, a subtle movement that Mike felt rather than saw. He smiled, his eyes meeting Sam's in a fleeting glance. The air was charged with tension, a palpable sense of attraction that Mike couldn't ignore.

As they left the restaurant, Mike couldn't help but notice that Sam's belly was noticeably bloated, straining the buttons of his shirt and the waistband of his pants. He felt a surge of desire, his heart racing as he imagined the soft, round curves of Sam's body.

He could see that Sam had unbuttoned his pants, and his shirt had ridden up, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his stomach. Mike felt a pang of desire, his body responding to the sight of Sam's soft, rounded belly.

As they reached the car, Mike couldn't resist the urge to touch Sam. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Sam's stomach, feeling the soft, warm skin beneath. Sam looked up, a questioning glint in his eye, but Mike just smiled, his heart racing with excitement.

"You look amazing," Mike said, his voice low and husky. "I can't wait to get you home."

Sam grinned, running a hand through his hair as he struck a pose, his belly jutting out even more in response to Mike's touch. "I think I'm going to need new clothes," he said, his eyes laughing.

Mike chuckled, his eyes roving over Sam's body. "I think you're right," he said, his voice low and teasing as he reached out to adjust the fit of Sam's shirt, his fingers grazing the soft skin of his stomach. Sam's eyes met his, a flicker of awareness dancing in their depths, but Mike just smiled and stepped back, his eyes never leaving Sam's face.

As they drove home, Mike couldn't help but feel a sense of possessiveness wash over him. He loved the way Sam looked, the way his new curves seemed to glow with a soft, inviting light. He loved the way Sam moved, his hips swaying gently as he walked, his belly jiggling with each step.

As they entered their apartment, Mike pushed Sam up against the wall, his fingers tracing the soft curves of his belly and squeezing his love handles. He felt a surge of desire, his heart racing as he pressed his muscular body against Sam's bloated gut.

Sam moaned softly, his hands tangling in Mike's hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring Mike's mouth with a hunger that matched Mike's own. Mike's hands slipped under Sam's shirt, his fingers spreading against the soft, warm skin of his stomach, feeling the softness of his belly.

Sam broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Bedroom," he managed to say, his voice husky with desire.

Mike nodded, his eyes never leaving Sam's face as he led him to the bedroom. He pushed Sam onto the bed, his hands roaming over Sam's body, his fingers tracing the soft curves of his belly and the plumpness of his love handles. Sam's eyes were closed, his head thrown back, a look of pure pleasure on his face.

Mike leaned down, his lips brushing against Sam's neck, his tongue tracing a path down to his collarbone. He could feel Sam's heart racing beneath his touch, the softness of his skin. He trailed his lips down to Sam's chest, his hands cupping Sam's belly, feeling the softness of his skin.

Sam moaned softly, his hands tangling in Mike's hair as he arched his back, offering himself to Mike. Mike's lips trailed down to Sam's belly, his tongue tracing the soft curves, feeling the softness of his skin. He could feel Sam's belly jiggle beneath his touch, a sensation that sent a shiver of desire through Mike's body.

Mike's hands slipped lower, his fingers brushing against the waistband of Sam's pants. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, pulling them down, revealing Sam's soft thighs. He could see the soft, dark hair that covered Sam's pubic area, the plumpness of his love handles.

Sam's eyes opened, a look of pure desire in them as he watched Mike. Mike leaned down, his lips brushing against Sam's body, his tongue tracing a path around his sensitive nipples. He could feel Sam's body trembling beneath him, his hips bucking up towards Mike.

Mike leaned down, his lips brushing against the head of Sam's cock, his tongue tracing a path around the tip. Sam moaned softly, his hands tangling in Mike's hair as he arched his back, offering himself to Mike.

Mike took Sam's cock into his mouth, his lips wrapped around the head, his tongue tracing a path around the tip. He could feel Sam's body trembling beneath him, his hips bucking up towards Mike's mouth.

Sam's moans grew louder, his body tensing as he reached his climax. Mike felt the warmth of Sam's cum on his tongue, the taste sweet and salty. He swallowed, his eyes meeting Sam's as he pulled away, a look of satisfaction on his face.

Sam's body collapsed onto the bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Mike leaned down, his lips brushing against Sam's, their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace. He could feel the curve of Sam's plump love handles, the warmth of his skin.

As they lay in each other's arms, Mike couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment, a sense of peace. "Time for dessert?" he asked Sam.

Sam, still trying to catch his breath, nodded eagerly, his eyes sparkling with desire. Mike reached for the desserts they had brought from the restaurant, the chocolate cake and the cheesecake, and they shared them, savoring the sweet flavors as they continued to explore each other's bodies.

[lelengerine]

pairing. park jisung x reader

synopsis. the one where your boyfriend is suddenly so interested in your hand size.

tags. established relationship, reader bites jisung’s arm but it's for funsies, mainly fluff with a little teasing, no specific prns used for this!

wc. 0.4k words

notes. its been a while since i wrote something for ji and i still refuse the fact he’s probably bulking up so i’ve decided to make him as fluffy as possible instead 😁 (this is me coping) likes, reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated hehe

꒰ m.list ꒱

you’re curled up on the couch with jisung, your legs draped over his as the soft hum of the tv fills the room. his hand rests lazily over yours, fingers absentmindedly tracing along your palm and occasionally squeezing your fingers just because he can. it’s warm, comfortable—the kind of quiet moment you love.

but then he suddenly stops and you’re left looking at him with a questioning expression. jisung doesn’t answer right away. instead, he lifts your hand, pressing his palm flat against yours. his lips twitch, eyes twinkling with something smug.

“baby,” he starts, holding back a laugh by puffing his cheeks, “your hands are so small.”

you scoff, but when you actually look, your mouth presses into a thin line. his fingers stretch way past yours, his palm easily swallowing yours whole. you try to spread your fingers wider, but the size difference only becomes more obvious.

jisung lets out a soft chuckle, clearly enjoying himself. “wow. i knew they were tiny, but this is kinda crazy.” then, as if something clicks in his brain, his face lights up with mischief. “you know what you remind me of?”

you already don’t like where this is going. “…what?”

he grins. “a cute little chihuahua.”

“excuse me?”

“you’re tiny, feisty, and think you’re way tougher than you actually are.” his smirk grows as he taps your nose playfully. “it’s adorable.”

your jaw drops. “did you actually just compare me to a chihuahua?”

he nods, looking way too pleased with himself. “yeah. but, like, the cutest one ever. trust.”

you gasp, smacking his arm, but he just laughs, easily catching your hand again. “aw, don’t be mad, baby,” he teases, squeezing your fingers.

“i will bite you.”

jisung leans in, all smug. “go ahead. you probably don’t even have enough jaw strength to—”

you don’t let him finish before playfully sinking your teeth into his arm, making the poor boy yelp and jerk back his arm as his eyes widen in betrayal. “did you just—”

you sit back with a victorious grin. “yeah. that’s what you get for calling me a dog.”

jisung stares at you for a moment before bursting into laughter, shaking his head. “oh my god. it’s not that serious, babe!”

you huff, crossing your arms. “you better sleep with one eye open, park jisung.”

still grinning, he pulls you closer, intertwining your fingers again—this time, holding on a little tighter. “whatever you say, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “just don’t bite me in my sleep.”