#there was a time like 2 weeks ago that it rained for maybe a few hours lightly. and then I think 3 weeks before that it rained for maybe an

[icantalk710]

📱😪

[phantomrose96]

Sham Sacrifice: Chapter 2

(Sham Sacrifice: Chapter 1)

Chapter 2, because @ciestess voiced an idea that absolutely consumed my entire mind and I could not rest until I made this

...

Danny’s eyes tracked the swing of gunfire raining bullets across the horizon. Tucker reloaded, crouched, dodged left and pivoted, another blast of bullet confetti launched through a gaggle of zombie heads. He tossed the magazine and reloaded. Click. Ching. Danny flinched when a zombie smashed a hammer clean through Tucker’s head.

 “God. Fucking…” Tucker pulled out of his hunch. He unclamped his fingers from his controller like bug legs unfurling. He extended the controller to Danny, bouncing it in his grip. “Your turn.”

“Huh?” Danny asked, as if he hadn’t been watching Tucker’s game the whole time.

“You. You’re up. I died.”

Danny accepted the controller, reloaded the screen, and jogged about a hundred feet forward before the first horde of zombies took him out football-style from the left. The death screen rolled.

“Oops,” Danny said.

“Not your best work.” And Tucker took the controller back. Tucker shot a few spare glances to Danny while the level restart loaded in. “Is it Vlad?”

“No. Well, yes,” Danny answered, flopping back into his normal position on the Foley attic armchair. Tucker’s mom had planned to toss it ages ago, before it became Danny’s chair. “But at least he left when my parents went all zombie mode into the basement.” Danny picked absently at the scabs of leather flaking from the armrest. “It was just weird.”

“I don’t mean this as an insult, but it’s definitely not the first time your dad’s gotten some math wrong,” Tucker said. “He blows up like three things a week doesn’t he?”

“He does. But he doesn’t care when he gets that math wrong. This one was like I broke something important.” Danny’s expression soured, and he picked a leather flake clean off the chair. “Vlad did, I mean.”

“Does any of the math actually work?” Sam offered from Tucker’s desk. She leaned an elbow around the back of his chair, head tilted to Danny. A pencil dangled from her loose fingers, nib-half worn to the History of an Invention report she was actually working on. Tucker had half-assed his earlier in the day about the palm pilot. Danny had not done his. “Like, it’s all crackpot theory, right? Do ghosts even follow math?”

“I think they follow some math. It’s not magic that makes the ecto-bazookas work, or the Fenton-phones work, or—well the thermos DIDN’T work—until I made it work.”

The unspoken thing Danny had been not-quite-saying hung in the air. He said it this time.

“So I’m wondering if I did it. Like the Fenton thermos. And now maybe they’re gonna do the math all over and realize the missing piece of the equation is one half-ghost son.”

“Well the order is backwards, for starters,” Sam said. “Thermos worked because you pumped ghost-energy into it. How would you have done that to the portal? You were human when you walked in.”

“Sam’s right. What do you think you brought to the table exactly? Button-slapping abilities?” Tucker loaded up the next level. “It was their portal, and their math, and it worked. There’s a million-billion kinds of math and they probably just forgot one thing.”

Tucker took a headshot and died. Mechanically, he handed the controller back to Danny.

“Yeah, probably.”

“Ask Vlad. He’s got a portal.”

“Like Vlad’s gonna tell me.”

“Just promise to be his diligent little son minion or whatever. He’s easy. Wait, let me do the next level. You know I like the cyberpunk levels.”

“It’s not your turn,” Danny said, reeling the controller just out of Tucker’s wiggling grasp.

“I’ll let you do two in a row for your next turn.”

Danny knocked Tucker away, distracted just long enough for a zombie cyberbeam to launch from the horizon and take him out through the head.

The screen washed sepia. Danny stared at it. You died.

…

Danny hadn’t really meant to stay the night at Tucker’s place. They’d just gotten really far in Man vs. Zombie, and Sam had gone home, and Danny was just resting his eyes between his turns with the controller.

So when he woke to the bright strip of sunlight beaming into his eyes through the attic skylight, his first thought was Fuck.

He was awake, here, morning, school. Fuck he had not actually done his History of Invention report, despite the stupid amount of grief it had already caused him this weekend. He pulled his face out of the armrest, now pineapple-patterned from the decaying leather, and pawed for his phone fallen on the floor. If it was still early enough, he could maybe still afford to desperately half-ass something before sixth period science.

He flipped his phone open. A text from Jazz. “Don’t come home. Make up an excuse.”

“…Fuck,” Danny whispered, through the sensation of his heart launching itself into his throat.

He scrambled upright, whole body shaking at the mercy of adrenaline shock so soon after being pulled from dead sleep. His mouth was dry, teeth unbrushed, wearing his old clothes from yesterday, report not done, Don’t come home, Don’t come home, Don’t come home.

They knew. He’d fucked it up. Somehow they knew. The math. Something. And it had to be with guns blazing, because Jazz would not send that text if they’d taken the “We accept you” angle.

Were they coming for him? On their way here? Tracking by his phone? Did they like Mrs. Foley enough to not SWAT-slam her against the wall when she opened the door for them so they could come capture the ghost pretending to be their son?

Fuck.

Danny was upright. Danny was standing. Danny was shaking. Danny wasn’t actually sure what the next thing was he was supposed to do.

Tucker’s ball of blankets rustled from the couch. “Mmph?” he asked, articulately.

“I have to. Go deal with my parents, I think,” Danny said, because any plan felt a little better than no plan. “I think they know.”  

Danny was a ghost. Danny was gone. Tucker sat upright, alone, blinking himself awake. He was staring at the You Died sepia screen still displayed on monitor, now burnt into the plasma of the tv.

…

Danny paused with his human hand slick on the Fenton front door. The gears in his mind turned as his plan quickly unraveled into no-plan. He had no plan, right? What was his plan? Handle this Man vs Zombie style—open the front door ready to dodge wide, because both zombies and parents liked to camp behind closed doors with bazookas at the ready?

“—absolutely absurd, and entirely unscientific, with no probability of being true. It goes against everything we know about neurology.”

Oh, Jazz. Was Jazz enough of a bazooka-deterrent? Probably not. Knowing his parents.

Danny turned the knob. His heart hammered. If bazookas, dodge left.

The first thing he noticed was in fact the no-bazookas. It was what he was most looking for. And so it was Jazz’s expression he did not notice until second—whites of her eyes wide, snapped to Danny, with a look that would be accusatory if worry hadn’t won that battle. Her cheeks were pale. Her hair was unbrushed.

He noticed his parents third. Compulsively, he rocked back onto his right foot, still outside the doorway, still outside the threshold of the Fenton family household.

Seeing his parents tired was of absolutely no shock-value to Danny. It was at least a twice-per-month tradition to see them haul themselves up from the basement sweaty and glaze-eyed at 7am, babbling excitement about some new ecto-spectral-hoozy-whatsits whose concept had shimmed into their minds at 8pm and now existed, fully operational, 11 nonstop hours later.

So it wasn’t the exhaustion on their face. It wasn’t the stagnant smell of sweat or the paleness of their faces or the stains on their clothes.

It was the way they looked at him. Like their whole world had fallen apart with his foot passing over the doorstep.

“Danny,” Jazz said, choked, a break in the silence. “Things are…! A little weird here. So maybe, if you wanna just get to school, I’ll finish clearing up—there’s a misunderstanding Mom and Dad have with their math. I am state finalist in Math League and have been studying college-level calculus in preparation for school applications so I’ve offered to help them fix their math, or prove to them—”

“Danny,” Maddie said, an echo of Jazz, but it felt worse. Danny scanned her hands for anything pointed enough to be a weapon. They were empty. “Danny can I just ask you something honestly, just quickly? Jazz is right. I’m just trying to clear up an issue with our math. And I won’t be mad. Whatever the answer is, I won’t be mad. I just want an honest answer.”

She stepped closer. Danny fought the urge to match her with a step backwards. Her eyes roved over him in a starved way, looking for something.

“Were you there when the portal turned on?” she asked.

“No, I wasn’t,” Danny answered. He wasn’t sure what to do with his face to make it look convincing. “It just. It needed some time to boot up, or something, right? That’s what you two said.”

“That was our guess ,but we don’t really know. The security tapes are wiped. We tried to make them EMF-resilient but a very, very strong blast of EMF could still corrupt them.”

“Yeah. I mean the portal’s gonna do that, right? When it turned on? Ripping open the Ghost Zone that’s—gotta be huge EMF.” Danny’s focus bounced between his mother’s eyes. “Just a guess. I really don’t know. I was in bed, already, whenever the portal started working.”

Left eye. Right eye. Why was she looking at him like that? Like she was sad. Was this part a trick? Make Danny let his guard down, go hey Mom need a hug? and that’s when the bazooka-whipping starts? It made his ribs feel scratchy. Stop looking at me like that.

“Have you felt anything weird at all, since the portal started working? Any gaps in your memory? Any parts of you that don’t feel right? Is there any part of you that feels like it’s changed in a way you can’t explain?”

She reached a hand out. Danny instinctively recoiled.

“Uh, yeah. They taught us about this in health class. They call it ‘puberty’ there.”

“Danny,” Jack said, and his voice was scratchy from disuse, from a long and uncharacteristic amount of time spent not speaking. “Did you die in the machine?”

A beat. A moment. Like when the zombie sends a hammer through your head.

“I’M alive!” Danny declared with a crack in his voice, with hands slammed to his chest. “Look at me. What are you talking about?”

“It’s the only math that works,” Jack continued, his words like chalk, his voice too dead. He looked too much at Danny. “If one of you two walked into the portal, and died in it. And I don’t think it was Jazz.”

This was bad. This was weird. Danny had ghost powers, sure. ‘They can’t kill me I’m already dead,’ was a funny joke sometimes. But it was funny as a joke. He was a ghost sham, really. A faker, a LARPer, whatever Tucker had called it. He was a human who was just kind of a freak now. More of a freak than he already was. He looked dead, for someone who was super-duper still alive.

He’d buried that worry, already. They weren’t allowed to bring it back.

“Look… at me!” Danny continued, mouth dry. He threw his arms wide. “Look how super alive I am! I’m awake! Using energy! Eating food and sleeping with my human body. I’ve got flesh and blood and bones and stuff! I’m not a ghost-expert but ghosts don’t have that.”

This was weird. This made Danny feel like something was scratching to get free from inside his rib cage. It twisted his entrails. Sure Tucker and Sam had thought he was dead, for those first horrible few minutes, but then he changed back to a human and the nightmare ended there. Jazz never called him dead. The ghosts called him freak and halfa and whelp, but never ‘one of them.’ That was his whole thing: being different from the ghosts who became ghosts by something so normal as dying.

He was not dead.

“If you died in the portal, your ghost wouldn’t have been ripped out of your body. It would have been allowed to stay, and then you’d be…” Jack hesitated. “I don’t know what you’d be, but you wouldn’t be alive.”

“Dad,” Jazz said, and she stood herself bodily between Danny and Jack. “What an absolutely messed up out-of-line thing to say to your son! You don’t know that! Dad you’re tired, and just because you weren’t able to solve your math problem in one night doesn’t mean you get to treat Danny like this! I said I’d help you with your math! Now apologize to Danny.”

Jazz looked over her shoulder to Danny, her expression falling at the sight of Danny’s face.

Danny backed up over the door threshold. He shook his head. “I’m not comfortable with this. This is weird. I’m gonna go to school now.”

“Danny, I promise they’re just—”

Danny turned on heel. No backpack, no change of clothes. He took to the street without a single school supply and moved, and moved.

It was supposed to be guns-blazing. Molecule by molecule. Headshot you died. He’d prepared for that this whole time, in the shower, in his dreams, in his daydreams in class. He’d duck and dodge and explain himself over and over until they understood him.

Danny wasn’t sure he was capable of explaining himself anymore.

…

Danny knocked the heavy iron knocker. He was in ghost form, as a threat. He wondered if he still smelled like yesterday’s sweat now that he wasn’t wearing yesterday’s clothes. Now he was wearing the clothes he died in.

No one answered the door. Danny phased himself in.

“Vlad!” he called, and his words echoed along the slope of the two elaborate winding staircases that twirled and met at the top like caduceus. Gold-plated banisters. A security camera buried somewhere in the ceiling, no doubt.

Danny phased into the library. His eyes roved the three stories of bookshelves wrapping the perimeter like a sheath. Gaudy. Audacious. Like Vlad would ever read that much. Danny racked his brain because some something in here was the secret to opening Vlad’s laboratory. Jazz had told him. Some gold something to be touched, and pressed down, or pushed up? Or it opened to a button. Or a keypad, maybe.

Danny spat a curse. He was being stupid. He was frazzled. He wasn’t thinking straight.

He dove into the floor below. Intangibility was the only key he needed.

The sheetrock was cold, even when he wasn’t touching it. The darkness was so piercing it made static jump in his vision, some weird trick of the brain Jazz had explained where, in the absence of all light, the brain hallucinates its own. It came with a sensation of pressure against his eyeballs, and a complete disorientation of direction, and he simply just kept going down.

Danny emerged into a wash of cold air. Cold like metal was cold. The low lights of dials and clicking machines were bright to his eyes previously dunked into the pitchest nothing. He drank it in, eyes grateful for light no matter how little, inner ear grateful for orientation that had left his head swimming and his stomach tight.

His feet tapped down to the stone ground, and the air that breezed past him was chilled.

“Vlad!” Danny called again.

Nothing.

He moved by the floor lighting, which ran in trim along the perimeter of the laboratory rooms. It lit things from beneath, made machines gaunt and specimens into sharp geometries of darkness and flesh. It made the Fenton lab feel warm in a way Danny had never considered it warm.

His feet clacked. His breath puffed.

“Vlad!”

He followed light, followed a wash of green miasma percolating from some far room and catching on the particulate of water and dust that disturbed with the air currents. Danny disturbed it too, walking through, wearing its shade of green which his shadow robbed from the wall behind him.

“Vlad. I swear to god Vlad.”

He crossed the threshold of the portal room, where the dusting of green ambience became a medallion wash of golden-green coating, painting every surface of the room. The Fenton lab was one single expansive room, portal anchored into the far wall and facing all the dead and empty air in front of it. This was different. A much smaller room, walled on all sides save for the simple doorway, and each surface reflected the color back deeper and heavier. It was like a fishtank in the wall of an aquarium lit radiant aqua-blue by all the lights within, but green instead, pure ecto-green.

Danny approached the open portal. He stared into its placid swirls, mesmerized, and scared of it, in a way he hadn’t previously felt about the portal in the Fenton basement.

“Ah, seems the cat is a good mouser after all, it dragged you in my boy.” The words came sing-song. They came spine-shivering for Danny, who felt them like hot breath on his shoulder and reeled back, pivoted, fire crackling to life in his palms.

Vlad stood at the doorway, a solid 20 steps from Danny.

“Vlad.”

“So I’ve been hearing.”

“I need you to explain the portal.”

“Ah, I see you’ve spoken to your parents.” Vlad stepped in, washed in the ecto-green which muddied his ruby red eyes. He held his hands behind his back, cape trailing, a smirk on his fanged face. “Last I heard they weren’t taking the news very well.”

“What news. What did you tell them?”

“Me? Nothing. In fact, very kindly for your sake I even tried to drive them away from the answer but… We know how stubborn your parents can be.”

“What answer?”

“That you’re dead, Daniel.”

Shock washed like ice down Danny’s spine. It sent prickles like spider legs across his skin.

“Well, I suppose there’s still chance for some doubt. It could be Jazz. She could take the fall for you, if there’s any benefit to that at all.”

“I’m a halfa. We are halfas,” Danny said.

“A silly made up word by a silly child,” Vlad mused, and the light smile left his lips. “We are dead.”

“I’m not dead,” and Danny’s words were small, and they were childish.

“You are. I am. Embrace it. It’s nicer this way.” Vlad took a few steps closer, lionously tall in his saunter, feet clacking the ground. “It’s very freeing. After you’ve died already what is there left to fear?”

“I’m alive.”

“You’re a dead body with its soul still stuffed inside it like a Christmas goose. A lot of things in your body don’t work anymore, but ghosts don’t work right anyway and it is, for all its defiance of nature, a perfectly symbiotic relationship.” Vlad’s smile brushed his lips again, warm. “It’s nice to share this with you. Isn’t it nice to share things with people?”

Danny’s heart was beating too fast in his chest, and it was a human heart, a human beat. “I’m not dead,” he declared.

“Your wounds heal quickly because the ghost piloting you only needs to remember form. It stacks cells back into place and calls it good. You’ll endure fatal injuries as you no doubt have many times in your fights, but they’re trivial because physical trauma is not what kills a ghost. It’s what creates one. You’ll necrotize in places but it’s okay, because you’ll carry on, and it will bother you only if you let it bother you, if you’re too sentimental about the puppet you’re still inside.” Vlad closed in closer, neck craning to appraise Danny. “Ghosts love a facsimile of life so you will keep your heart pumping, your lungs breathing. You’ll eat and you’ll sleep but you’ll find you won’t perish if you don’t. It just won’t be a good time if you want to keep occupying your flesh form. Take better care of it. You won’t get another.”

“You’re psychotic. And you’re wrong.”

“I have all the math to prove it.” Vlad leered from over Danny’s shoulder. He circled the boy, knocking Danny’s balance, who still on a hair trigger stood ready to fight. The light from the ghost portal painted Vlad’s face like the phases of the moon as he moved. “Did your parents explain that part to you properly?”

“No, because they didn’t get the math right.”

“Oh they’ve gotten it right. This time. It only took them two decades longer than it took me.” The portal rolled like static, and its fizzling pattern crashed like an ocean wave across Vlad’s cape. “No amount of man-made power is sufficient to drag the entire fabric of the Ghost Zone up against our own, tear a hole through it, and anchor it to a stable frame. It requires something with a pull on the Ghost Zone, a strong pull, and that thing is a human life at the moment of an extraordinarily violent death.”

Danny backed a step away from the portal, from Vlad, but the walls boxed him in. He swam in its green light.

“You stepped in and you turned the portal on, that’s what you thought, right, Daniel? Pressed a careless button on the inside and now here we are. Silly parents for not finding that button first.” Vlad’s face hardened. “No. Jack and Maddie knew about the button. Maddie explained it to me over the phone. What engineer designing and building their own portal would forget the location of the on button? They’d pressed it from the outside. It didn’t work. And so you pressing the button was not the important part. It was you dying to the electrocution that clicked everything right into place. And while your ghost should have been torn from your lifeless corpse and pulled to the Ghost Zone you instead pulled the Ghost Zone here. Your ghost got to stay put. You opened the portal. You became the undead freak you are. And now we’re here.”

Danny’s eyes bounced between Vlad’s. His cheeks felt hot, like he was enduring an accusation of wrongdoing. And he had none of the knowledge to refute what was being said.

“You’re messing with me. You’re wrong,” Danny shot back. He thrust an arm out, drenched in the fog of the portal. “If the portal needs a person to die in it then explain your portal! Are you so casual about it? You killed someone? You’re admitting to murder and you think I won’t do anything about it?”

Anger flashed like a storm across Vlad’s face. His aura swelled, pressing down with a pressure on Danny as Vlad halted and cast his shadow clear across Danny, coating the back wall. “The killing of other people with the wanton carelessness of half-baked machines is the domain of Jack and Jack alone. I’ve brought no such harm onto anyone else.”

“Then how do you have this portal?”

“This portal? This portal that I’ve had for 20 years? Which I opened when I solved the piece of Jack’s broken math that he was never able to solve until this morning?” Vlad stalked closer, hunched, imposing. Danny stepped back. “My boy Daniel you’ve had it so easy. You had it so simple. A truly clean break. So clean so lucky. A single lethal dose of electricity and it was already over. I’m jealous. You never even suffered.”

Vlad stepped closer, striking distance, arm extended. Danny flinched, but Vlad only swept his cape around, clenched in his fist, and pivoted to approach the portal.

“Put out of your misery before it even started.” Vlad slammed his fist against the portal rim, and the explosive metallic clang bounced through the rooms. His laugh belted out. “I should have been so lucky.”

19. Vlad Masters was 19. A sophomore in college. A man actively in the midst of sabotaging his social life to chase a woman who was already deeply in love with Vlad’s best friend who he hated more every day. He wasn’t sure what he ever enjoyed about Jack’s bumbling ineptitude, or his loudness, his brashness, his poor social skills, his bad breath, his mullet. Maybe Vlad had gravitated to Jack because deep down he loved how superior it made him feel to surround himself with the likes of Jack Fenton… And now, he hated how enraged it made him to watch Maddie’s eyes skip past his to focus on Jack Fucking Fenton again and again and again and again.

But surely there was hope still. Surely it was a matter of time before the rose-tinted glasses fell away and Maddie saw bumbling and inept and every such word in the basket when she looked at Jack. There’d come the day she tested the waters with Vlad to complain about one of Jack’s little quirks, and they’d find solace together in all the things Vlad was that Jack wasn’t, and all the things Vlad had that Jack didn’t. And he’d be gone, back to bumble elsewhere, and it would be just them.

The day didn’t come. It wouldn’t come. And maybe Vlad needed to change himself for Maddie. If he listened to her and Jack’s ghost ramblings, if he could put Jack in his place and solve the things Maddie couldn’t, it would show her. She’d understand.

Because that was the thing about Jack. His math was never right. Enduring Calculus 1 with Jack was all it took to prove this to Vlad. How many times he’d caught a single error on a single line for Jack, like a dropped stitch that would unravel the whole sweater. Every problem, without exception. Jack only passed on his homework grade with Vlad’s help. On his tests, he failed.

So Vlad was staring at Jack’s equation, full of bogus math, which Vlad knew was wrong because Jack had penned it, and Vlad had not yet fixed it himself.

“I’m telling you Jack, it won’t work.”

“Bogus V-man it totally will!”

It wouldn’t. But Vlad wouldn’t fix it for him. Not yet. Vlad would let Jack embarrass himself first, fully in front of Maddie, watching on, judging. Vlad would solve it for her. After. Once Jack had made a fool of himself for the hundredth time since college began.

He leaned in to study the portal frame. The gears were turning in his head already. He didn’t hear the whir of the power source catch.

…

19. Vlad Masters was 19. A tube ran down his nose and into his lungs, supplying oxygen for lungs which were failed by a diaphragm sloughing itself away. He was poisoned from the outside-in. Irradiated by ecto-energy none of the nurses or doctors could fully understand. It damaged his DNA. First obvious in the skin of his face where the blisters of his ecto-acne drained and sloughed. “Acne” was the wrong word. An unkind word. They were boils where the blast had cooked his skin, microwaved his cells. The skin on his body blackened over time. Organs decayed. Vlad Master read a lot about radiation sickness. He knew everything he had to expect.

Jack and Maddie had stopped visiting. They were dating now. It was on their last visit they’d told him, and Vlad hadn’t taken it well, and he’d perhaps burned a few bridges with the words he chose. It was deserved. Considering what Jack did to him.

He’d found the error in Jack’s math, by the way. Errors, but all the rest paled in impact compared to the lambda. The ecto-energy. The necessary ecto-potential to pull the Ghost Zone here. How stupid. How idiotic. For Vlad to die to a machine so botched in its construction.

When Vlad was released from the hospital, it was not because they’d cured him. It had been because there is a certain cruelty in making a 19-year-old live the last of his days bedded down in a white-walled room with just his books, his equations, and no one coming to visit anymore.

He was released with bedrest instructions. Vlad did not heed them. In his beater car, every cell of his body aching, he drove. At the materials lab, he disconnected his oxygen tank and moved through the lab space with the tube dangling loose from his nostril. No one was Vlad Masters’ friend. No one cared to stare long at his ugly boil-ridden face. No one stopped him as he hauled sheet metal, and supports, and bolts and wiring and resistors and power tools, checked out with a valid student ID, from the lab. The lab inventory room would not be seeing these back.

It was a prep bunker, buried beneath a vast lot of empty Wisconsin land, that Vlad hauled his materials. He and Jack had discovered it as freshmen. Poked through its bowels with flashlights and quipped and laughed over how eerie it was. Deep beneath the sheetrock, boxy rooms carved out of walls of stone. Shelf upon shelf of dusty canned foods, and shotguns sealed in cases fastened to the walls. The locks had rusted with water damage.

His arms ached until they throbbed, dragging beams of metal across the stone floor, scratching chalk-mark stains into the ground. His skin sloughed, inflamed, burning to the touch. Vlad didn’t bother to rest, because these injuries would never heal anyway. He hauled, and welded, and wired up his circuitry and resistors with a care and caution Jack would never have bothered to practice. He checked it against his math by flashlight. He took naps on the cold stone floor and woke with deep purple bruises on every part of his body that had pressed against the ground.

His appetite left him. His lungs filled with mucus. The boils on his face had spread down to his chest, his shoulders. The touch of his shirt chafed them, so he worked without one, a figure of skeletal rib ridges jutting from tight skin that bloomed with the projection of his shadow against stone walls.

He knew why Jack’s math was wrong.

A silly mistake. A stupid mistake. Anyone with half a mind for the paranormal should have realized the Ghost Zone was not so easily at your beck and call. Not without chumming the water with something it would rise to feast on.

And in that violent death, what would happen to the ghost? It would stay, wouldn’t it? If it successfully anchored the Ghost Zone to the portal it stood inside, then by definition the ghost would stay?

And was that death? Yes, in a way. But it was a death one would get to keep living. As opposed to the death Vlad was headed for, whose coldness and finality scared Vlad more than anything he could put to words.

He’d fixed the oxygen tank back to himself. He couldn’t work without it, hauling it about on a little dolly with him, back and forth, while he fetched and affixed the last of the plating he needed to craft the frame of his silent soulless portal.

He’d stolen a generator from the sports storage shed. It was meant to be enough to power the portable stadium lights they hauled onto the fields for late games, an absolute obelisk meant to cast light across an entire football field.

Surely, it contained enough power to kill one simple human.

Vlad fixed the last bolt in place. Jumper cables clamped generator to portal wiring. It was a pure skeleton. A paltry thing, like the bones of something already picked clean. Built in haste, sloppy, by a 19-year-old whose fingers were too inflamed to clutch a wrench any longer.

He could have asked Jack for help. Maddie. But he wouldn’t let them have this. They had to solve the portal on their own. They didn’t get to know his hard work. They did not get to save him.

Vlad would save himself.

A ghost anchored to a body. What was that? What monster was that?

Vlad moved. He coughed mucus from his lungs. It made it hard to breathe. So he moved slowly, and crouched, bony jutting angles, painted blotchy purple, all bruises and skin, sloughing away.

He crouched, because the portal he’d constructed was not large enough to hold him standing up. He bowed inside it, a small thing, a pathetic man of little life. He wheezed. He hurt. His eyes burned.

And he held in his hands the remote to flip the generator switch, and connect the circuit, and bring to life the math Vlad had so kindly corrected out from under Jack’s grip.

Vlad did not. Because throwing the switch would kill him.

Deep in his animal brain, his dying brain, he knew this intimately. It filled him with a drowning fear like paralysis. He did not want to die.

He would die if he did nothing.

It would be this one throwing of the switch which could save him. Which would burst the portal to life right through his heart. Electrocute it out of its rhythm, slaughter him like a pig on spot and… maybe… hopefully… drag the Ghost Zone here. And whatever he was, dead, would stay.

And whatever he was, dead, would be better than this.

Vlad held the remote in his clammy hands.

And from within the humming skeleton of his portal, his fingers caressed the on button.

…

The portal sung its happy contentment, mused in its healthy green aura, staining all the slabs of rock wall. Danny swiveled his head, recognizing now the bunker this had been before it had been a laboratory.

“I’ve harmed no one, Daniel,” Vlad concluded, his voice too measured for the horrors it had spilled forth. Too calm against the blossoming terror its words had wrought across Danny’s face. “I opened the portal to save myself. You’re lucky, Daniel. It was because of my fast thinking that your father is not a murderer. I took that honor from him.” Vlad’s head tilted to the side, suddenly sympathetic. “Although, you’ve maybe made the title whole for him.”

Vlad reached out, Danny shot away.

“Dad didn’t kill me,” he choked. “I did this to myself.”

“How lucky Jack is, to always dodge responsibility for his actions.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t. If you believed me, you’d have to accept you’re not wriggling out of this. There’s no denial you can bring home to your parents. If you believe me, then this is reality.” Vlad smiled, a playful glint to his fangs. “I suppose I should have more sympathy. I quite like being this way. It is so much nicer than wasting away to death, like I was. But you. You were healthy before this. This killed you, and it didn’t save you from anything.” Vlad cocked his head. “Such tragic fates, both of us, due to the carelessness of Jack Fenton.”

Danny shook his head. His heart beat—his human heart beat—all too fast in his throat. It made him sick. It made him feel like the walls were closing in around him. This was Vlad’s doing. Vlad’s trap. Vlad’s prison he’d been forced to join.

"That's not true. I'm not like you."

“Of course not,” Vlad said, sweetly. “How sweet denial is. Deny it if you like. Call me a liar. But if you ever want to come to terms with what your father did to you, consider coming to me. I understand you in a way no one else will.”

Danny gave no response. He gave no acknowledgement of Vlad’s words. He took to the air, phased himself up through the sheetrock that had been packed atop the doomsday prepper bunker. Up through the mansion, which had been built atop the portal beneath it, and not the other way around. Into the open sky, he breathed fresh air not stagnant and damp beneath the ground, bathed in light pure white from the sun and not tainted green like the bowels underneath him.

And he flew back toward the portal that made him, leaving Vlad with the portal from which he’d made himself.

...

(inspiration post from @ciestess)

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Slip Into Me part 2: Crash Into Me✨

QZ! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: I really really love this Joel, and I love @alltheirdamn for letting me scream about these two with her 🩵 QZ! Joel is making me swoon 💕

Summary: After getting caught in the rain, Joel pulls you into his apartment. But you get much more than you bargained for from the brooding, broad man. You might’ve just fell for his chocolate eyes and soft Texas voice.

Rating: Explicit 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 12.2k

Chapter Tags: Tension, yearning, teasing, protective and soft Joel, no use y/n, teasing, oral (fem receiving), unprotected piv, cream pie, age gap (female late 20’s, Joel is 50), switching POVs, QZ! Joel

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

  As the weeks go by in the sweltering summer, you start to see Joel Miller everywhere. When you’re organizing and polishing weapons for FEDRA, you sometimes see him walk by. He always looks like he’s on a mission. Furrowed brows, a scowl across his sculpted face, a large hand running through his tousled greying locks, a bite to his words when he’s deep in conversation with one of the FEDRA soldiers. 

   He seems to command people around him, acts as if he is the one ordering them around. You see they listen to him as he bites out a snarl their way, see the way they almost cower and can’t seem to keep eye contact when he’s giving them valuable information. You should be afraid of him, you think, but you’re not. You’re only intrigued more and more every single time you see him snap demands and push people to the edge. 

   He’s strong, broad, dominant. He likes to be in control, loves to push the soldiers to their breaking point like he did with Seth. He knows how to get his way, knows exactly how to play games with FEDRA. 

   He could snap the neck of any man that even tried to get their hands on him or order him around. His menacing gaze is all it takes for them to back off enough, drop whatever argument they try to start. You know this because you’ve been watching him on the streets when you work, stealing glances every second you can when you see the tall, broad man who saved you so many nights ago. Now you’re hooked. 

   You catch his dark brown eyes on you all the time, flicking amber shades your way when he catches you off guard while you’re working. You feel the heat in your cheeks burn hot when his eyes skate down your body, pretending like you don’t even notice. You notice, though. You always notice. 

   His looks aren’t harsh and threatening when he looks at you. His eyes are softer, jaw relaxed when he gazes your way. It calms you, like floating in a crystal clear lake in the middle of a quiet forest. Sometimes he nods your way, brushes against your shoulder as he passes you by on the busy streets, says a few words here and there in the dining hall. It’s like clockwork now, your favorite thing of every day is just to get your eyes on him. Even if it’s just a flicker of his broad shoulders disappearing in a sea of people or a brush of his fingertips in the dinner line.

   Sometimes when you’re focused on sorting through weapons, you can feel his eyes on you. He watches, stares with those hungry brown eyes. You’re not sure what exactly he’s hungry for, but you can tell he’s starving for something, begging for a taste of whatever that may be. 

   You feel his vision burn holes through your skin, feel the sweat glide down your skin when you look up and lock eyes with him. It makes you dizzy, makes you choke on a gasp when he focuses intently on you. He watches you day after day, this much you know. You don’t exactly know why, but maybe he’s trying to be protective, watching you from a distance to make sure you don’t get into any more trouble. You don’t mind. In fact, you prefer him to. Having a handsome, older man looking out for you is the last thing you expected here in the Boston QZ, but it made living here that much better. 

   He sees you shining FEDRA weapons day after day, watches the way you take careful attention to wipe every speck of grime off the sturdy edges of the guns. Sometimes you don’t look up, too busy working to notice him staring your way. 

   He tries not to look, careful to not stare too long, afraid he’ll awaken something he shouldn’t ever feel again. But when you lift your face and catch his eyes, he can’t help but stop and stare for just a few seconds too long. He thinks your eyes are the most beautiful shades of gemstones he’s ever seen, sparkling like glitter when they catch the rays of golden sunlight. 

   He sucks in a breath, clenching his jaw before he turns and gets back to work. He hates to admit that he finds you attractive, glowers at the fact that he cares what happens to you. 

   He shouldn’t dare start the cycle, shouldn’t walk the narrow ledge of developing feelings for a girl, especially a younger, absolutely gorgeous girl like yourself. He’d be a foolish man to even entertain the idea of thinking of you that way. But he’s fucked either way, so why not break his own rules. Hell, he already broke those rules when he fucking dreamt of you the other night. Your body splayed wide across his sheets, sweat collecting like rain over his skin every time he tasted the sweet jasmine scent of you, his lips crowding yours while your nails dragged down his back, your moans filling the shell of his ear with lust and want. 

   He snaps himself out of the moment and continues on with his day, giving you one more flick of his greedy eyes while you watch him walk the opposite way all wide-eyed and intrigued. He’s so fucking stupid for wanting you, but he can’t lie to himself that he’s not interested. Ever since he saved you from that piece of shit Seth, he’s wanted to take care of you. That’s the last thing he needs. Someone else to look after, but maybe he can keep himself away. 

   He chuckles to himself, scoffing at his own arrogance. Of course he can’t stay away, at least not for long. He’s fucking hooked off a girl that wandered into the QZ gates just a few months ago looking for a means to find a home. You didn’t come looking for him, but he sure as hell found you. 

   And now he’s fucked.

   The end of a long work day drags to a close when you scuff your feet over the warm pavement. The sky is murky, dark clouds collecting above you that threaten rain at any second. You make your way down the filthy streets, passing soldiers that brush past you and look you over as if you’re trouble. You just roll your eyes and huff, carrying yourself back to the warmth of your own falling apart apartment walls. At least there FEDRA can’t see you, can’t order you around like they do day after day.

   The humid air fills your lungs, the dark clouds opening up to patter rain down on your tired shoulders. Just a little longer, a few more feet and you’ll be inside. Almost there. Almost. 

   All of a sudden, you collide with a broad chest that feels like a thick brick wall. You gasp, thinking it’s a FEDRA soldier, eyes wide with fear until you look up and find familiar syrupy eyes, softer than the last time you saw them. Joel.

   He clasps a hand around your bicep and stops you dead in your tracks. “Well, look what we got here. In a hurry there, darlin’?” He smiles down at you, a crooked grin splayed across his plush lips, a trail of dust covering the top of his forehead, lines mapped out as he knits his thick eyebrows together. 

   Sheesh. He looks so good.

   “Just heading back home.” You give him a tight-lipped smile, not giving away the heat that builds underneath your warm cheeks. 

   “I see.” His eyes rake up and down your body, just a mere couple seconds. Enough to simmer heat low in your stomach. “You doin’ okay? Seth ain’t givin’ ya anymore trouble, is he?” His jaw ticks just the slightest, irises darkening as he thinks about the night he attacked Seth.

   You shake your head, crossing your arms to taper off the nerves running wildly through your veins. “I’m okay. Just getting by. And no, Seth hasn’t even crossed paths with me since that night he… since you…” Your voice falls off as you swallow the words. Since he saved you.

   He nods his head, a small smirk appearing like he might’ve said something else to Seth without you knowing. You can see him pushing Seth against the wall, his meaty hands wrapped tightly around Seth’s shirt, black eyes narrowing while he bites a sharp demand to stay away from you. And that’s exactly what you think he did. 

   Your eyes grow wide at the realization. He was like a protective watchdog, always ready to snarl his teeth and attack if someone messed with what was his. But you aren’t his, so why did he feel the need to even do that for you?

   His head cocks to the side, a lazy smile sliding across his lips, making his coffee colored eyes shine that much brighter. Jesus. He’s so fucking hot. 

   “Might’ve straightened him out. I’ve been keepin’ an eye on him. Don’t worry ‘bout him. It’s taken care of.”

   You stand there staring, mouth agape like you’ve got a speech impediment, words stumbling out of your mouth like you’re in front of a full gym giving a speech. “Oh. You didn’t have to… I mean, I could’ve handled it.”

   “Didn’t seem like it,” he mutters, dark eyes pooling in your vision as he shifts his weight, the tight denim button-up clinging to strong arms, biceps bulging with every moment he makes in the heat of the day. 

   You groan, biting the inside of your cheek before you say something stupid. He relaxes his jaw and gives you a smirk like he’s up to no good. When you don’t say anything else, he mutters another sentence. “FEDRA keepin’ you on your toes?”

   “How’d you guess?” you huff, eyes locked on his tightly.

   He chuckles and gives you a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “I’ve seen you around. Workin’ on shining those weapons. See how miserable you look.”

   You gawk at him, unbelief in your wide eyes. “So you’ve been watching me?” You cross your arms and cock your hips, one eyebrow raising as you wait for his answer.

   He pushes his thick fingers through his sweat-filled tousled curls and stutters, ticking his jaw as he looks carefully at you. “No, that’s not… I’ve jus’ seen you around the QZ. That’s all.” He leaves it at that with a disgruntled huff.

   You take your tongue and run it along your bottom teeth, assessing the lie that falls right out of his mouth. You know he’s lying through his teeth. You’ve seen him watching you, day after day. He can’t fool you, but you play along with his little game. “Hmm. Okay then.” He gives you one more cautious look and flexes his fingers, pushing them deep inside his pockets. 

   Before he can say anything else, rain starts pelting down, soaking through your worn t-shirt as you try to cover your hair. “Shit. C’mon, let’s get out of the rain.” He grabs you by your bicep and leads you up his staircase, out of the drizzling rain. You mindlessly follow him, thankful to get out of the soon to be monsoon. And then there you are, standing in his quiet living room, just like that day he took care of you after the FEDRA incident.

   “You want some tea?” he asks as he slams the door, sliding past you as he stalks into the dimly lit kitchen.

   “Ummm yeah, sure,” you answer as you watch him get some tea bags and mugs out of the stained cabinet.

   “Tea ain’t my usual choice, but it sure beats havin’ nothin’. Shit, what I wouldn’t do for a fresh pot of coffee,” he sighs as he starts to boil hot water over the stove.

   You lean against the chipped kitchen counter, twiddling your thumbs nervously as you listen to the rain fall softly on the glass window, your eyes looking up through your long lashes as you watch Joel work. He paces impatiently, tapping his thumb against the worn-out fridge, his denim button-up straining against thick biceps every time he flexes his arms.

   How can he be so hot and dismantled at the same time? It shouldn’t be allowed.

   Gulping, you take a breath and say the first thing that comes to mind. “How did you like your coffee?”

   He turns his head quickly, his threaded eyebrows relaxing slightly, giving you a once over, a move that makes you shiver in place. “Jus’ black.”

   “No creamer?” you smile.

   “Does it look like I like creamer?” He gives you a stern look, but all you can do is shrug and give him a tight-lipped smile to try to alleviate his grumpiness.

   “I dunno. Guess a tough man like you doesn’t like sweet things in their life?” 

   He ticks his jaw and laughs, running a palm down his patchy beard slowly. “Ain’t nothin’ sweet in my life, darlin’.”

   “Would you want something sweet in your life?” Your eyes grow wide at the realization of what you just said. You were basically asking him if he wanted you. What the hell did you do that for?

   His chocolate eyes grow a shade darker as he assesses you, one eyebrow raising in curiosity while his mouth stays in a firm line. 

   Great, now he’s even more grumpy.

   But ever so slowly, he answers with a hint of amusement in his deep voice. “Depends on who’s askin’, I guess.” 

   The room grows silent as you look down at your dirt-covered boots mindlessly, nerves pounding through your skull. When you have the guts to look up again, his eyes are still fixed on you. And suddenly, the room grows ten degrees hotter. 

   You’re about to say something stupid, but he drops his gaze and tends to the tea. Apparently, it started to boil over when sweat pricked the back of your neck after he looked at you like there was fire licking his dark brown irises. 

   You wonder what it’d feel like to lick along his…

   “Here.” Joel interrupts your heated thoughts and hands you a ceramic mug, the warm tea steaming out of the top, surrounding your senses with a hint of citrus and honey. He nods to the table and demands you sit, his eyes swarming yours as he takes a place across from you, a blue mug of his own in his large hand, fingers curled over the sturdy handle.

   You carefully sit against the rickety wooden chair, gently blowing on your tea, cooling it down just like your body needs. Joel puts you on edge, and it’s terrifying that you feel this way about him. You should be very afraid of a man of his stature. He could kill a man in a split second but oddly, that just makes you feel at peace.

   An awkward silence falls over the room, the pelting rain against the window the only noise to save you from your racing thoughts. He saved you, took you in yet again, gave you a place to shelter from the rain, made you tea. You should thank him. You will thank him.

   Taking a generous sip from the citrus flavored tea, you clear your throat and meet his dark eyes with yours. “Umm, thank you, again.”

   “For what?” He sets his cup against the dusty table and shifts his eyes back to yours, something like surprise taking light.

   “For getting me out of the rain and for the tea.”

   He nods his head, and a faint smile shadows his plush mouth. “It was nothin’. Don’t mention it.” A slight grunt leaves his lips when he slides to the back of his chair, his tousled curls moving ever so faintly with the movement. Silver threads line his sandy hair, and you can’t help but to wonder what it’d feel like to run your fingers through it. It probably feels like silk. Smooth and velvety. 

   Rain continues pounding against the brick building, shades of muted greys lining the outside sky, night drawing near. Your eyes shift to the corner of the room, and you notice an old acoustic guitar with worn-out strings, still intact. 

   Leaning forward and nodding to the guitar, you say, “You play?”

   Joel whips his head around and huffs when his knee knocks against the leg of the wooden chair. “Mhm. Played a long time. Found it in an abandoned building out on a run. Figured it needed a new home.”

   Taking a second to assess his calm features, you pry just a little more, clearing the air. “Would you play something?”

   His jaw ticks, threading his eyebrows together in concentration. “You don’t wanna hear me play,” he laughs, shaking his tousled curls in return. 

   “Please?” you whisper gently, making puppy eyes at him, hoping the innocent look can convince him enough. 

   He looks at you intently, his eyes softening just the slightest, flexing his fingers like he’s trying to resist. He wants to resist but ultimately, he ends up giving in when you push him that much further with a small smile.

   “Oh, Christ. Fine. Why the hell not?” He grunts as he raises to his feet, heavy boots dragging over the thick flooring. Watching him grab the rustic guitar and bringing it back to his chair, he collapses and crosses one leg over his knee and positions the guitar securely in his arms. “Jus’ don’t give me a hard time. The guitar’s out of tune, and I’m out of practice,” he scoffs.

   “I would never,” you smile, feeling a blush creep along your cheeks as his eyes flick to yours for just a couple seconds, enough to make your stomach flutter from the contact. 

   He drops his head back down and hums, taking a moment to run his calloused fingers along the thin strings, dust blowing in the low lighting of the dining room. After a beat of silence, he starts strumming, a quiet melody flowing through the room, making a gentle lullaby that could put you to sleep.

   You can’t help but stare in awe as his thick fingers meticulously strum along the cords, each note more beautiful the longer he plays. He’s well experienced, probably played for years before the outbreak, and it makes a small smile curl against your mouth as you watch Joel lose himself to the song. 

   “Future Days” by Pearl Jam. It takes you seconds to recognize it. It’s a song your dad used to play you in his truck. A song that meant a lot to you because it reminded you of the good days. Days where there was no worrying about being killed or mauled by a clicker, only worrying about getting through the days that were filled with sunshine and laughter. Days that weren’t dark and ominous like today.

   But Joel? He seems to light up the room, even through his grumpy demeanor. He’s got a soft side. He’s got passion. And music was clearly a passion of his in a time before this. 

   You can’t describe it, but you love watching him. The slight pinch of his eyebrows, the crease of the deep wrinkles that map along his tanned forehead, and his eyes. Dark chocolate pits that seem to sparkle every once in a while. Like right now. They’re practically glowing and God, they look so beautiful. You wonder what it’s like to drown in those shades of brown. You might just float instead of sink. 

   “Future Days, yeah?” You let the words slip out, his eyes immediately shifting up to yours while his fingers still fluidly strum along the strings.

   His brows pinch together in speculation, his eyes flicking over you in deep assessment. Clearly surprised at the words that just came from your mouth. “You know Pearl Jam?”

   “Of course I do. They’re one of my favorites.”

   He lifts a brow quizzically and looks at you dumbfounded. “Didn’t take you to be the type to like rock music.”

   “Guess you don’t know enough about me to make that sort of judgment, huh?” you banter off, crossing your arms across your chest and giving him a snide smirk in return.

   “I reckon not…” He continues playing quietly, the soft melody floating through your ears like the rolling tides of the ocean, waves crashing through your chest. His deep brown eyes meet yours again and then he just stares, something forming in his glowing irises but yet still leery. He’s not sure about you, but he’s damn curious, that’s for sure. 

   But you’re not far off because you’re more than curious about him. You want to probe deep inside that locked up mind of his. Maybe take a key and pry it open so you can paint a pretty picture in there just so you can see what makes him tick. 

   After a beat of silence, except for the strumming of cords and the pelting of rain, Joel speaks again. “You ever play?”

   You shake your head and smile. “No, always wanted to, though. Never got the chance to before all hell broke loose in the world.”

   “Mmm. I see,” he hums, and then he goes silent again. His eyes still roam over you, maybe even trying to unlock a piece of your mind. That’s what it feels like when he stares at you like that. All deep and intense, like he just might swallow you whole one of these days.

   “You give lessons?” you ask quietly, hoping your question won’t send him pushing you out in the cold rain.

   “Depends on the day. Depends who’s askin.” That’s all you get from him. It’s neither a yes nor a no, but you have a feeling that tiny crack of a smile that’s blooming on his lips means it’s a yes. And you can’t help but feel all warm and tingly from the anticipation of those strong arms around you, guiding your fingers, lips brushing against your cheek, eliciting commands that you just have to obey. 

   Joel Miller is a menace on the streets of the QZ, but deep down he’s got a soft spot. And you think you just might find it. 

   Minutes go by, maybe even an hour. You don’t keep track. All you can focus on is the quiet strum of the guitar, his wandering brown eyes, his hidden smile that peeks out at just the right moments, the deft fingers that guide along the worn strings. You’re hypnotized by him, and you just can’t stop looking at the tall, broad man with pretty eyes. 

   It’s not until he stops playing and sets the guitar against the wall that you see the faint glow of the digital clock reflecting off the black stovetop. Your eyes grow wide, and it doesn’t take long for Joel to see what you’re staring at.

   “Shit. It’s after 7:45 p.m., past curfew,” he murmurs, pushing a hand roughly through his tousled curls like he fucked up big time.

   “Oh no. I completely lost track of time! I’m sorry, I should go.” You push yourself forcefully out of the wooden chair and rush toward the front door. Just as you’re trying to pry it open, Joel pushes hard against it and growls.

   “No!”

   “No?” you ask shocked, standing back to look into those focused dark eyes.

   He sighs and shakes his head. “Y’can’t be caught outside after curfew, remember? FEDRA would have your ass.”

   Taking a moment to compose yourself, you snake your arms across your chest and mewl. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

   Joel flicks his eyes toward the leather couch and back at you, weighing his options carefully, and then he sighs. “Y’can stay here for the night.”

   Dropping your arms in disbelief, a soft awareness spreads over your surprised face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

   “‘M’sure. And don’t worry ‘bout it, trouble,” he smirks with the flash of his teeth. “Got a spot right over on that couch with your name written on it.”

   You chew your bottom lip and smile. “Guess thanks are in order then.”

   He laughs and stammers out, “Jus’ promise me to try to stay out of trouble, but I know that’s hard for you since your nickname is trouble. Ain’t that right?” A sly smirk spreads across his plush mouth, and an eyebrow ticks up slowly, like he’s calling you trouble all over again. You think it’s your new favorite word when it comes from his mouth.

   “Guess so,” you giggle, flipping your hair behind your shoulder.

   “Umm. I got a spare blanket and pillow y’can use. Let me go grab ‘em.” He leaves the room and leaves you waiting, slowly removing yourself from the entryway and making your way toward the tiny living room. The one with the sunken couch and white curtains that hang loosely around the glass window that leads toward the FEDRA infested streets. You’d rather not look out to see your prisoners that hold you captive in this city, so you divert your attention to the hanging portrait of a painted herd of wild horses that sits above the leather couch. It’s prettier than facing the outside world where nothing but turmoil and death lay. 

   “Here ya go. Hope this’ll do,” Joel says, handing you a fluffy white pillow and a soft beige blanket, warm enough to keep you cozy tonight.

   “Thanks, Joel. Really, I appreciate this more than you know.”

   “It’s really nothin’, darlin’. It’s the least I can do.”

   When your hand brushes against his rough skin, you freeze, gasping at the electric spark that zaps through your fingers. You think he feels it too because he jumps back and stares at the back of his hand, like he just got burned by your touch. 

   Gently laying down the blanket and pillow on the couch, you watch him carefully, mulling about what just happened. It was nothing but yet, it was everything. All it took was one touch, and he fucking set your entire skin on complete fire. 

   Breaking the thick tension, you help deter the awkward silence away. “How long have you been here in the QZ?”

   He looks back up hesitantly, and the flames in his eyes immediately die out. “Too damn long.”

   “How long?” you press.

   “Close to twenty years. Too fuckin’ long,” he scowls, something like anger contorting on the edges of his sculpted jawline. And you get a sense that this was never a home for him. It was just his own personal hell.

   “Oh. That is quite a long time… I can’t imagine being inside these walls that long,” you mumble, afraid to raise your voice beyond a whisper, not wanting to stir up a concoction of grief.

   Was that sadness beyond those deep brown eyes, golden flecks that reflect a hint of sorrow, tragedy, heartbreak? You’d like to know. Maybe one day you can scratch that surface, see what’s really under Joel Miller’s brick walls.

   “Exactly. I can’t imagine anyone bein’ here for even a year, but here we are. Jus’ some slaves to FEDRA. But I won’t let them boss me around. Hell, I boss them around most days,” he growls, a storm of violence in those pools of autumn darkness. “Fuckers can only make me do so much. One of these days I’m jus’ gonna snap.” A crack of thunder makes you nearly jump out of your skin, adding to Joel’s wrath that makes him fume and tick his jaw. He’s angry, as he should be. 

   “I see that. You really don’t take shit from anyone, do you?” You give him a small smile and surprisingly, he gives you one right back.

   “Maybe from Tess, but not anyone else if I can help it,” he chuckles, huffing out a long sigh.

   You shift your weight on the wood beneath your feet and drag your tongue along the roof of your mouth, preparing to ask something you probably shouldn’t. He’ll shut you down, maybe kick you out, have Tess knock some common sense into you. But you just can’t get the fascination and curiosity of what he does out of your head. Smuggling is dangerous, but wouldn’t you be in good hands with Joel? 

   Here goes nothing.

   “So, the smuggling. How’d you get in it?” you press gently.

   His eyebrows raise in response, and a quizzical expression bleeds down his face. “Why do you wanna know?”

   You shrug in response. “Because I’m curious.” 

   Keen eyes stare you down, and his jaw clenches at the words. “Well, you don’t jus’ pick that field. They place you there. If they think you’re good, strong, slick. If you can show ‘em you’re trustworthy enough, jus’ like a fuckin’ watchdog, then they’ll be breathin’ down your neck for you to smuggle for them.”

   “Sounds… interesting.”

   He chuckles, shaking his head in agitation. “Ain’t really interestin’ to be under watch of those lowlife scums they call soldiers. What’s interestin’ is gettin’ the fuck out of these gates. Bein’ out there in nature away from their hateful glares is what’s fuckin’ interestin’. You stay in these gates too long and you start to go a little insane.” He huffs, scuffing his weathered boot along the wooden floor in irritation, his eyes lit up like onyx flames.

   Clearly, he isn’t a fan of his job, but that doesn’t deter you from wanting to learn a thing or two from him. “Could you teach me?”

   His jaw goes slack, and his eyes widen at the question. “What kind of question is that? Didn’t you hear what I jus’ said?”

   “I heard you just fine. But I’m being serious, Joel! I want to learn!” you mewl, crossing your arms and jutting out your bottom lip like you’re pouting. You’re being ridiculous, but how else are you going to show him you really want this?

   “Nah, sweetheart. You’re too—”

   “I’m too what?” you spit, turning your head and pursing your lips tightly together.

   “You’re weak and you’re slow,” he boldly states, not even caring if he thinks that’ll hurt your feelings. He obviously doesn’t care.

   “Then teach me!” you stomp, throwing your arms down at your sides and balling your fists, just like a child who wants their way.

   “Teach you? Are you high?” he chortles, pressing his fingers against his temples in frustration.

   You take two steps forward and curl your fingers against the bottom of his denim button-up, desperate for a yes. But he pries them off and pushes your hand away. “Joel, please! I want to know how to defend myself, how to fight, how to survive. Show me how to do that.”

   He scoffs and shakes his head no. “You don’t know what you’re askin’, sweetheart.”

   “Yes, I do. Come on, please?” you beg, putting on the big puppy dog eyes, hoping that’ll be enough to persuade him.

   “I said no. It’s too dangerous,” he states with finality in his deep tone.

   “And this entire world isn’t?”

   Joel flinches and gives you a stern look. “Jus’ quit askin’.”

   You sigh loudly and groan. “Fine. If I find myself pinned against a wall by a soldier again because I couldn’t defend myself then I—” That seems to get his attention, and something changes in the light of his dark eyes. Something snaps, and he stands a little taller, his spine fully straight. 

   “Take out your knife,” he murmurs lowly, his husky voice almost coming off as a growl.

   “What?” Your eyes widen, and you’re shocked he’s saying yes in his own way.

   “Take. Out. Your. Knife.” He accentuates every syllable, snarling the words like he’s giving you an order. 

   “How do you know I still have the knife you gave me?” you question him, your tongue prodding at the inside of your cheek, eyes slightly narrowed in challenge. You shouldn’t challenge the Joel Miller, but it could be fun.

   “Take out the goddamn knife if you want to learn so badly. I know you have it. I can see it in the outline of your jeans.” He nods to the curve of the small knife in your front right pocket. Of course he’d notice that. He has the eyes of a panther. 

   “Oh, right,” you mutter, digging the balls of your feet into the floor, your fingers hovering over the pocket.

   “Well, we ain’t got all night, trouble. C’mon then.” He curls his fingers, demanding the knife, dark eyebrows furrowed together and his plush lips in a tight line.

   “What do you want me to do with it?” you ask, grabbing the end of the bronze pocket knife and pulling it free.

   “I want you to take it from me,” he states simply, like it’s as easy as writing your name in pencil.

   “Take it from you?” you scrunch your forehead together in question. That’d be too easy, wouldn’t it? 

   “That’s right. Take. It. C’mon now. Don’t be shy. Show me what you got,” he beckons, egging you on. Before you know what’s coming, he snatches it out of your curled hand, not even giving you a moment to flinch. 

   Shit, he’s fast. Just like lightning. 

   “Hey!” you shout, sweeping your arm out in front of you to try to steal it back. He steps back and wags the blade in your face, grinning a mile wide as he taunts you on.

   “Gonna have to try harder than that, trouble,” he teases, smirking devilishly your way as if this will make you snap.

   You shake your head and scoff, laughing under your breath. “You want trouble?”

   “Yeah, I really do,” he chuckles, tossing the knife in the air and snatching it back in a second. 

   “I’ll give you trouble, Miller,” you glare with narrowed eyes.

   His eyes darken with fire flecks glinting in his eyes, and he’s practically smoldering. He curls a thick finger his way and coaxes you forward. “Oh, I know. I’m counting on it,” he muses.

   And that does it. Those fucking heated brown eyes send you forward, nearly barreling into him, but he moves out of the way effortlessly, leaving you to run into the chipped counter. 

   “Nice try, sweetheart. You can be quicker than that though,” he jostles, tapping the edge of the bronze blade against his dark jeans.

   You huff and jump at him, curling your fingers around the end of his denim button-up just as he moves away. You lose your grip and tumble forward, almost tripping on the blue rug by the broken coffee table. When you get your feet underneath you again, you let out a frustrated growl. “Give it, Joel,” you demand.

   “Come. Get. It,” he bites out, flashing his teeth as a smug grin cakes his face. He’s having so much fun with this that it starts to get under your skin. One more wicked smirk and you bare your teeth and go lunging for him. 

   Just as you reach out and skim the blade, his body collides with yours, and then he pushes you against the peeling white wall, locking his arms tightly around you and caging you in, to the point where there’s nowhere to go. You’re stuck, trapped against his heavy weight, and you suddenly feel so vulnerable and breathless.

   “That’s not fair,” you choke out, your meek voice betraying you.

   “Not fair, huh?” he chuckles, slipping his hands closer to you, skimming the outer edges of your shoulders, the heat penetrating past the cotton of your layers as he slides down to the curve of your hips, pressing just enough to make heat rise like a tidal wave in your chest. 

   Oh, God. He’s so warm, and the way his broad chest feels against yours sends sparks shooting down your nerve endings. He’s so close that you can practically taste the sweat of his tanned skin. His lips probably taste like sunshine and sweet tea. And as you breathe him in, you swear you can almost feel him inside you, right where you need him most. 

   “You’re not playing fair,” you pout, mesmerized by the curl of his smirk, his mustache shadowing over his plush lips. 

   Whiskey. That’s it. That is what you’d taste if his lips decided to meet yours. And you want it, the rush of him kissing you. You need it desperately. You might just die if you can’t have just one taste. 

   He chuckles and twirls the edge of the blade around a loose strand of hair, making you gulp at the slow motions of the bronze weapon. “You think a soldier is gonna play fair with you? You think a raider is gonna go easy on ya? You think anyone is gonna let you off jus’ like that?”

   His dark eyes bore into yours, and there’s nothing playful about his gaze. Not this time because he’s trying to teach you this world isn’t kind, and you can’t always take the easy route out. “No…” you whisper, letting your eyes drop to the ground, right by his leather boots. 

   “No, they ain’t.” He tips the cool bronze end of the blade under your chin and pulls your gaze up to his, his eyes lighter and full of onyx shards that nearly have your heart in your throat. “Now try again.”

   You push him off you with a huff, banging your fists on his broad chest like that’ll do you any good. He barely flinches, only chuckles in amusement.

   “You think this is funny?” you scoff.

   “Maybe,” he laughs, tossing the knife back and forth while he stares at you with humor glinting in those dark eyes of his. 

   “Oh? What’s so funny, tough guy?” You reach out and swipe through the air, barely missing the handle of the knife. 

   Shit. 

   Another chuckle leaves his lips, and he just shakes his head in enjoyment. “You,” he answers plainly with a smile.

   “Me?!” you scream, trying your best not to lose control.

   “Yes, you. Think you’re so tough, but you’re jus’ a feisty little pussycat, ain’t ya?” he teases, throwing the knife out of reach while you work to slip your fingers around it, but it’s too far away.

   “I’m not a pussycat,” you seethe, your lips pursed in anger at the crude name.

   “Sure act like one. All teeth and paws, but you can’t even get a lick of a mark on me. Can you, pussycat?” The flicker of amber crosses his irises as he smirks at you with trouble written all over the creases around his eyes. He wants to get under your skin because he thinks this is fun. But all it’s doing is making you mad as hell. 

   “I’m not a cat,” you spit with venom on your tongue. “I can take you,” you challenge.

   A smirk curls over his mouth and his eyes lace with darkness. “Show me what you got then, trouble. Show me those sharp claws you got. Come. Get. Me. Pussycat.” 

   The taunting words out of his mouth start a fire in you, and then you snap from irritation. You go full force on him, punching your arms and clawing right and left, but he averts from your advances each time. 

   “Y’can do better than that, pussycat. Don’t fuckin’ hold back when I know that feral cat is deep inside you,” he taunts, his strong body zipping around the little space between the dining room and living room.

   “Give it,” you growl, eyes slitting with anger fuming from your body. 

   “Then take it,” he barks.

   You lash out again, Joel ducking and reflecting off each movement you give him. It’s like he knows exactly what move you’ll make next, like he knows everything before you can even think. And it’s frustrating when you know you have no chance at getting your knife back, unless he hands it over, which he won’t. Joel Miller doesn’t give up but neither do you. 

   Thunder cracks against the gloomy sky. And when he turns his head to look out the foggy window, you see your opening right there. Your body moves, your leg kicking out, trying to make him topple to the ground, but you’re too slow. His head whips around and instead of him falling, it’s you. 

   His foot catches the inside of your ankle, and he smiles as victory flashes across those dark brown eyes. You tumble down, your body free falling for only a second until you’re met with the harsh kitchen table colliding against your back. You grunt, pain radiating through every bone in your body like you just got knocked off a horse. 

   Joel’s broad body crawls on top of you, his hands snaking their way around your wrists and pinning them high above your head, to where you can’t move. The bronze knife falls to the table with a loud clatter, but you can’t wiggle free to get it. You’re completely and utterly stuck because Joel’s entire weight is pressed firmly against yours.

   Your eyes widen into large domes, your mouth suddenly as dry as a desert because this beast of a man is hovering over you, and it shouldn’t be erotic at all, but it’s hot as hell. You’re equally terrified and turned on at the same time. 

   “Like I said, darlin’. Slow and weak. Gonna have to work on that, won’t we? Pussycat.” A devilish smirk curls against his lips, and his eyes are lit with fire. The kind that’s dangerous and tempting, that’ll maybe burn you alive.

   You try your best to kick him where it’ll hurt, but he pins your leg down with his knee, glueing you in place to his large body. “I’m not a cat,” you snarl, bucking your hips up, but you’re only met with the leather of his belt and something that feels a lot like his cock hardening. You gulp at the realization and cower back down.

   “Maybe not. But you could be. All cute and feisty tryin’ to fight. Shit, might jus’ be a new nickname for you. But I think trouble fits you better,” he smirks proudly at the name he branded just for you.

   “You think I’m… cute?”

   His jaw slackens and the smug smirk is gone in a flash. Maybe he didn’t realize what he was doing, but he was definitely flirting with you. And maybe you invited that, kept it going, but the way he’s looking at you all soft and lost, just like a homesick puppy, is almost swoon-worthy.

   “No. I uhhh… that’s not what I was tryin’ to say,” he stutters, licking his bottom lip slowly as his eyes swirl with hesitation.

   “But you just said…”

   “Enough. I was jus’ tryin’ to teach you a lesson. That’s all.”

   “I see…” A hint of a smile meets your lips because a red blush stains his cheeks at the question. He’s flustered, just like you are.

   His tight grip doesn’t let up on your wrists, his broad body still laying on top of yours, hovering like a buzzing bee, his heart racing a mile an hour. You know because his fast breaths are mixing with yours as thick tension fills the air like the fog clouding the outside of the living room window.

   His eyes flick down to your lips, his golden flecked irises swirling with something like desire. Maybe he wants to kiss you. You think you’d let him because the thought of having his plush lips melded to yours makes butterflies flit through your stomach and other places you don’t want to think about. 

   He shifts his eyes back to yours, and your body hums with need. Those syrupy brown eyes could bring you down to your knees. God, they’re so beautiful under the dim light of the dining room, making them look like molten lava and painted sunsets on the beach. You could just drown in them if he’d let you. 

   He’s struggling, his body tight and his breath ragged, fighting something he doesn’t understand. You almost think he’ll kiss you by the way his eyes flick back and forth undecidedly. Joel Miller may not be weak, but he’s got something in that thick head of his that’s weak for you. 

   “Joel?” you whisper, watching the way his eyes widen when they stare waveringly at your mouth.

   His jaw clenches into a tight fist and then he’s climbing off you, freeing your wrists from their restraints, leaving you feeling empty and breathless with a need that thirsts to be quenched. 

   “I uhhh, got a shower. Y’can use it if you want,” he murmurs quickly, like he’s in a hurry to get away from the heat of the room because it’s stifling in this moment. And the way he was looking at you just a few seconds ago? It was like he wanted you. And maybe he does. Maybe, just maybe…

   “Ummm, yeah. Thanks,” you mumble, collecting your bearings as you smooth your shirt out, the inside of your thighs burning with desire. Joel lit a spark in you, and it set your core ablaze like fire.

   “Towels are in the first cabinet on the left. Jus’ help yourself.” He threads his fingers through his disheveled hair, nervously pulling at the strands like he’s in pain, like he’s fighting something.

   “Joel?” you ask again, calling his name like it’s the only name you know.

   “Yeah?” His voice is deep, clipped, like he wants to run far far away from you.

   “So. Does this mean you’ll teach me?” 

   His eyes linger on you for just a second too long, and the tick in his jaw tightens as he thinks it through. Eventually, he nods with a tight-lipped smile. “Consider that your first lesson. We’ll go again tomorrow.”

   “Really?” A large smile covers your face, and your eyes light up with glee.

   “Mhm. Don’t make me regret it. Goodnight, trouble.” He disappears through the thresholds of his room, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall, waiting for what? Something, but his door stays shut tight.

   You sigh and make your way into the bathroom, flipping on the lights. It’s a simple layout. Cracked tiles in the shower, a tan shower curtain, a small ceramic sink with a fading countertop, stained white walls with small water leak marks on top of the ceiling, a rugged blue mat in front of the tub. Slightly better than your rundown bathroom. 

   After finding a folded white towel in the cabinet and turning the faucet of the shower, you strip your worn clothes and step in, letting the grime and sweat wash down the drain in a swirl of sudsy soap. It feels weird being in Joel’s shower, but you’re grateful anyways. He could’ve said no, could’ve kicked you out, but he didn’t. He did the unspeakable. 

   He let you stay. 

   After relaxing for several minutes under the warm spray of the shower head, you cut the water and dry off, squeezing all the leftover water droplets from your clean hair, brushing your fingers through the tangled mess. 

   When you take a step out of the shower and onto the now damp rug, you freeze. There, right on the edge of the counter, is a folded up navy colored t-shirt that wasn’t there before your shower. Your eyebrows pinch together, questions rolling through your wide eyes. You didn’t hear him open the door, not when you were under the noisy shower head. 

   As you pick it up, you see it’s long enough to fall past your knees, and it’s soft and smells like Joel. A hint of pinewood and smoke lathering in the cotton of the material. You inhale his scent, breathing deeply in before you slip it over your head, the cool cotton molding to your body like a weighted blanket. All warm and cozy and his. 

   But why did he leave this for you? He could’ve left you to throw on your sweat-drenched clothes from earlier, could’ve given you some old ratty thing. But he didn’t. 

   Shaking your head in disbelief, you let the door click open with the twist of the doorknob and step out, your eyes falling on his closed door like you could walk right through it, breaking every barrier down he had built against him. But instead, you decide to retreat to the couch and snuggle into the thick blanket, the worn leather sticking to your clean skin, your head hitting the pillow in just the right spot.

   Visions of Joel flood through your mind the moment you close your eyes, remembering the intense knife lesson, his broad body hovering over yours, his dark eyes staring directly into your soul, tempting you to mold your lips to his. He wanted to kiss you, at least you think. And maybe you should’ve helped him take that leap, but you didn’t. And that’s your downfall you’ll always regret. 

   Sighing deep against the fluffy pillow, you toss and turn until you fall asleep. The soft pitter patter of the rain lulling you into a deep sleep after a brutal day in the heat. The last thing you see before you slip into darkness is the color of mahogany eyes haunting your mind.

   Joel tosses and turns, letting the slick sheets wrap around his legs, groaning against the mixed feelings that swirl around his conflicted mind. You. You’re the reason he can’t sleep or think straight. All he sees are the flashes of your pretty eyes, eyelashes batting against the deep blush that painted your cheeks crimson when he was hovering over you on the kitchen table, your wrists constricted around his fingers, just a breath away from his mouth meeting your glossy lips.

   He groans and lets the palms of his hands dig into the socket of his eyes, muttering curses under his breath. He doesn’t get feelings, doesn’t get wrapped around pretty girls’ fingers, but you have him wrapped tight like a noose around his neck, one step away from tipping over the edge to his death. 

   He can’t help himself, can’t fight off the way he wants you so fucking badly that he can hardly stand it. He shouldn’t want you, but here he is like a whiny dog begging for attention. He wants you to want him like he wants you. And maybe you already do. He doesn’t fucking know anymore.

   He should’ve never saved you from Seth, but he’d never forgive himself if he let Seth lay one more finger on you. And then he invited you inside to shield you from the rain, offered to let you stay, kept you past curfew when he knew this would happen. He should’ve sent you off to Tess’s apartment, but he didn’t. He didn’t do one goddamn thing that he should’ve. 

   And now you’re trapped like a fly under his watch. Because now… he’s never going to let another man touch you. Not under his radar. Not ever. Unless it’s him…

   It’s only a few steps from his bedroom to the couch, would only take a second to brush his palm down your cheek, let his mouth envelop yours, only a breath away from wrapping you so tightly around his tired body that you’ll never be able to let go.

   He’s being selfish, but he can’t help it. He fucking wants you, but only time will tell if he’ll fully give in to what he truly needs.

   You…

   A loud clap of thunder stirs you from your deep sleep, nearly sending you tumbling off the edge of the sunken leather couch. Another big boom explodes across the dark night sky and has you tossing the blanket aside. Your stiff body shakes from the thrashing storm as you push yourself off the faded couch, rubbing the sleep from your tired eyes. 

   You pull back the torn curtain and fix your eyes on the blackness of the storm, large lightning strikes splitting across the sky, reflecting off the foggy glass. Your slow breaths fill the room, your finger sliding down the windowpane, condensation dripping down the clear glass. You never were a huge fan of thunderstorms, unless they were calm. Slow, gentle rain storms were always something you loved but this? Well, it certainly had you on edge. 

   You spend the next few minutes pacing across the wooden floors, taking caution not to be too loud, not wanting to wake Joel up. You can’t sleep, can’t process that you’re in his apartment, in his shirt. 

   God, you really hope he doesn’t walk through that closed door because the only thing you’re wearing right now is his shirt and your lacy panties. Even though the length of the shirt covers your thighs, you still feel completely vulnerable and bare. 

   Chewing the edges of your long nails, you pace back and forth nervously against the wooden floorboards, careful not to step on a creaky spot. The thunder claps through the sky, startling you once again. You jump back with a jolt and hit the side of the coffee table, catching yourself from falling face down to the floor. But before that happens, you step on a particularly noisy wooden plank and an ear-splitting groan carries through the entirety of the room, alarming anyone who’s mere feet away of your mistake. 

   Shit.

   And in less than ten seconds, Joel’s door pops open with a squeak and out slips Joel. Your eyes widen at the picturesque view that stands in front of you. You gulp and step back, taking in the broadness of his entire body, like it was being displayed in a fucking art gallery. 

   His tousled curls are disheveled and pushed back, making his deep brown eyes somehow brighter, like the midnight moon. A short sleeved white t-shirt clings to his bulky arms, the large veins cascading and spidering down the entirety of his tanned arms. His grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, one hand shoved deep inside his pocket, the other running smoothly through his greying locks. 

   You’d be lying to yourself if you said you felt nothing for him because right now, your heart is thundering loudly in your chest just by standing in his presence, wearing his t-shirt. And suddenly, you feel exposed and completely naked. 

   “Thought I heard something in here. You alright?” he asks carefully, eyes locking like a magnet with yours.

   You gulp and push a lock of hair behind your ear nervously. “I’m fine. Just the storm woke me up, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I’m sorry if I woke you, I didn’t mean to,” you press, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of his shirt that clings like static to your clammy skin. 

   He holds out a palm to silence you, but he only shakes his head and laughs quietly. The sound reverberates down your body like music. “S’alright, darlin’. Didn’t wake me up. Wasn’t having much luck sleepin’ anyways.”

   “Oh, I see.” Your hands clamp together behind your back in a nervous fit of jitters, your mouth suddenly as dry as a desert. 

   Why the fuck are you so nervous? He’s just a guy, but then again he’s not. He’s Joel Miller, and there’s nothing remotely average about him. 

   “The couch comfortable enough? I know it ain’t much, but it’s the best I got,” he drawls, flexing his bicep each time he runs his thick fingers through his soft curls, making you nearly pant at the sight of the ripped muscles pulling at the edges of his t-shirt. 

   “It’s perfect, Joel. Seriously, you didn’t have to let me stay.”

   He chuckles and sighs slowly. “Like I said, it’s no trouble.”

   “Thank you.”

   Shaking his head slowly, he replies, “Gotta stop thanking me, sweetheart.”

   “And for letting me shower and borrow your shirt. You really didn’t have to.” Your fingers pick at the frayed edges of the t-shirt, your eyes widening when you see his dark eyes roam the expanse of your body, flicking his gaze up and down your legs at an extremely slow pace, your cheeks burning with redness seeping in. 

   You don’t know why, but his smoldering stare sets your core completely on fire. 

   “Again, don’t mention it. And uhhh… it looks better on you.” You nearly choke on the words that just slipped free from his lips, like it was all casual and not a compliment. He basically just told you how good you look in his clothes. And that in itself makes your insides smother with need. 

   “You didn’t have to, you know,” you laugh, eyes peeling to the floor, a nervous flutter kicking inside your chest. 

   “But I really did…”

   Your eyes snap back up to his, tension forming like the thick fog that covers the windows. And suddenly, the room feels much hotter than it should be. Almost like a suffocating sauna.

   He takes a step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath him, and then he takes another, one step closer to you. His eyes flick down your legs once more, his golden brown irises glistening with something like mischief and fire igniting with every glimpse of your skin. 

   The scent of pine cones and autumn permeate throughout the still air, igniting your heightened senses, kicking them into overdrive the closer he gets to you. His smoldering eyes rake over your body, a smug smile tugging at his plush lips, and there’s trouble written all over that smug look. The kind of trouble you wouldn’t mind falling into. 

   Thunder crashes outside, making you jump at the sudden explosion of the raging storm, putting you on edge even more than when Joel walked into the room.

    “You scared of storms?” he asks quietly, eyeing you closely, eyes roaming down your bare legs in slow motion, lurching your heart in your throat.

   “No,” you barely mouth, gulping as you watch his hand rake down his patchy beard slowly, his eyes devouring your skin. Fire burns hot in your core the longer you watch him. Maybe he’ll pounce, put the fire out himself or make it burn ten times hotter.

   “You sure ‘bout that?” He smirks, lighting the fire into a full on inferno. You’re burning.

   Another step closer, thunder vibrating in the dark sky behind you, his breath fanning warmly across your face, conjuring feelings that shouldn’t even be blooming in the first place.

   “I said I’m not scared,” you mutter courageously, holding your breath, scared of what you might smell if he takes one step closer.

   “Then why are ya shakin’?” He takes two more slow steps toward you, prowling like a starving wolf, ready to sink his sharp teeth into the side of your neck. 

   “I’m not.” But that’s a damn lie. You might as well be shaking the entire floor with the way you’re shuddering violently in place.

   Another step and then he’s toe to toe with you, the smell of mahogany and pine trees invading your body, making you want to just melt into the fragrance of his scent. 

   He smells like honeydew and a warm summer’s day. And you’re fucking addicted.

   “You are. Fuckin’ tremblin’, sweetheart.” You audibly gasp when he brushes a lock of hair behind your ear, lingering his fingers slowly down your jawline, pulling out need and yearning like you’re dying for just a drop of his taste, his tongue.

   “I’m not scared of the storm…” you answer calmly, your voice giving away with how badly you need him. 

   God, you want him. Almost as badly as you want to be out of the QZ.

   “Then what? You afraid of me?” He cups your chin and lifts your eyes up to his, pulling out a sound that almost sounds like a moan. He chuckles at that. You’re so embarrassed.

   “No…” you murmur, your voice deceiving you once again. 

   “Well, ya should be,” he smiles, his honey eyes turning into deep black pits, making you want to drown in his dark pools of lust. 

   “Why’s that?” you whisper, voice cracking when his other hand pulls you by the waist, your body flush with his broad chest.

   “‘Cause you scare the hell out of me,” he states with a sharpness to his deep timbre. 

   “But I didn’t do anything…” you mewl, too scared to back up, not wanting to break the thick tension that permeates like fire around the room.

   Another crack of thunder makes you jump, but he only pulls you tighter, his warmth coursing through your entire body. 

   “‘Course you did. Comin’ around here with those big, beautiful eyes. Tryin’ to sweeten up my life. Causin’ a bunch of ruckus and trouble. Who gave you the right, huh?” he asks accusingly; his voice soft but ravenous.  

   Your eyes widen at the meaning of his words. He called you beautiful. “Joel… I’m not trying to...”

   “Ya are. And I won’t stand for it. Won’t stand a goddamn second of it. Now c’mere and fix the mess you started.” 

   Before you can say anything, he cups the back of your neck and pulls your mouth to his. He crashes his lips desperately against yours, knocking the breath clear out of your lungs. It’s not soft or slow, it’s reckless and electrifying as you match his energy and kiss him in the same starving-like way. 

   You part your lips and let him slot in. His tongue dances wildly with yours, a sultry tango that spins out of control. You wrap your arms tightly around the back of his neck and he picks you up and wraps your legs around his hips, pinning you against the crumbling walls while you moan desperately into his mouth. 

   He takes his lips off yours for just a breath, enough to pant out a series of serenaded words. “Christ, you taste better than a cold glass of whiskey. Might have to brand you as my new favorite flavor, trouble.” He clashes his mouth back on yours, moans bleeding into each other like the whiskey that burns through his bloodstream.

   “Joel, need—” you whine between thunderous kisses.

   “Know what you need, sweetheart. Don’t worry. Gonna take real good care of ya, babygirl.” You moan at the name babygirl and let him whisk you away to his bedroom. 

   The door crashes against the wall as he barrels through the room, throwing you on his large bed, your fingers brushing against the cool sheets. He hovers over your body, eyes marinated in complete darkness, dying to sink his teeth in your skin.

   “You look mighty pretty in my t-shirt, sweetheart. But you’re gonna look even better when you’re completely naked in my bed.” You pant as he rips the t-shirt over your head, tossing it on the floor in a heap, leaving you in nothing but your lacy panties that are completely ruined. 

   “Jesus Christ,” he groans, taking his large hand and slowly dragging his fingertips down your body, slowly making his way between your breasts, down to the waistband of your panties. “Fuckin’ beautiful.” 

   You buck your hips up to try to get friction, and he just chuckles as he leans over and hovers his large body over yours, slipping his white t-shirt off until his hairy, bare chest is flush with your skin, igniting your nerve endings like the lightning that strikes the dark sky outside. 

   His mouth suctions to your collarbone, sliding up to ravish your neck, sucking and biting till you pant his name out, his fingertips trailing over your core. You suck in a breath when he takes his thumb and slides it between your clothed folds, rubbing light circles over your clit. 

   “J—Joel,” you gasp, a fresh wave of slick covering the lace with the friction he’s giving you.

   “S’that right, darlin’? Haven’t even gotten these off you, and you’re already fuckin’ drippin’ for me,” he smirks, teasing his fingers beneath your waistband, making you practically beg with your wide eyes and open mouth. 

   “T—take them off, please,” you whine, thrashing beneath his hold, begging for more. You want more, need more. 

   “That what you want?” he smirks, lust-filled eyes black as midnight, feasting those deep pits right on you, threatening to swallow you whole.

   “Y—yes,” you choke out, gulping when he brushes over your clit again, eliciting more slick in your lace. 

   He smirks devilishly up at you while he drops to his knees on the rickety floor, pulling you to the edge of the bed. You gasp when he takes his time pulling your panties down, savoring your naked body under the moonlight, licking his lips when he sees you bare and writhing for him, your slick reflecting in his glassy irises. 

   “Goddamn it. You’re so wet for me, sweetheart. C’mere.” He gives you no time to comment back until his large tongue is flat against your slick core, slowly licking a thick strip up the entirety of you. 

   “Ohhh,” you moan while he meticulously circles your puffy bundle of nerves, eyes blown wide at the mere bliss he’s giving you. 

   “Taste so fuckin’ good. Like sweet, sticky honey. Fuck.” He growls as he slips two thick fingers inside your dripping hole, caking his fingers in slick while he makes out with your puffy clit.

   You thread your fingers through his tousled curls, hear him groan as you rake your fingernails against the crown of his head. And when he hits that spot, you arch your back as he repeatedly curls his fingers against the spongy, sweet spot inside that you can never reach yourself. Your eyes roll back into your head, your body humming with electricity. And soon you’re every single lightning strike that flashes in the cold, rainy night. He’s the thunder that crashes through your veins, bringing you to life with every flick of his tongue and motion of his experienced fingers. 

   You’re right on the edge of coming undone, your hips writhing beneath him, slick covering his thick beard. The sight makes you want to spill right there just by looking at the glistening slick sticking to his beard, his mustache, his lips. And God, you fucking love the sight of him covered in you. 

   “Joel, I’m gonna—”

   “C’mon, baby. Come for me. Cover me, spill for me. Wanna taste jus’ what I do to you,” he growls, releasing his fingers and filling you with his tongue instead. He tongue fucks you fast and hard, making you snap as the feeling takes you over the edge.

   “Joellll—” you cry out, feeling the white-hot heat slide down your body, releasing a flood of arousal and slick against his mouth, covering him in your orgasm. He slowly laps it up like it’s the breath of life, consuming all of you until there’s nothing left between your thighs except his thick fingers and warm tongue. And then you’re nothing more than the glistening raindrops that pelt the side of the bedroom window softly. 

   “That’s my good girl,” he praises, crawling over you, crowding his sweat-covered body with your own, slowly lifting your legs over his shoulders. You have no argument, can barely speak, but you need him like you need air to breathe. 

   “Joel—need you. Need you to…” He stops you right there, smirking when he starts to pull his grey sweatpants lower. Dark coarse hairs appear, and you choke on a gasp when you feel just how hard and big he is against your thigh. 

   “Shh. Save your breath, trouble. Gonna need it for what I’m about to do to you next.” He smirks like the handsome devil he is, his pupils blown as he stares at you like his next meal. 

   His grey sweatpants and black boxers fall to the floor, and your mouth drops open as his thick, hard cock springs free against his soft tummy. He’s massive. Deep veins twist around the underside of his cock, his tip angry, red, and leaking precum. He’s so fucking beautiful from his glowing dark eyes, to his disheveled hair, to his broad body, and to his giant cock. 

   He’s all just so fucking perfect, and you want him to be yours. 

   “You gonna keep starin’ with your mouth wide open, sweetheart?” he teases, taking his tip and smothering it over your folds, collecting more slick as you groan beneath his touch.

   “Maybe,” you giggle, grinding your pussy against his tip, begging him to take you. 

   “You want this, sweetheart? Want me?” he asks softly, staring down at you with vibrant chocolate eyes, golden flecks glittering bright under the moonlight from the window. 

   “Yes, want you, Joel. Please, take me. I’m yours.”

   He smiles  and then he crashes his lips down on yours, smothering you in him. He pushes inside you slowly, stretching you out like you’ve never been stretched, moaning into his open mouth as he starts to rock back and forth, thrusting as deep as he can go inside you until you feel him bottom out.

   Pretty soon Joel’s matching your moans, an exchange of pleasure coursing through your bloodstreams. He feels like heaven each time he claims you with his cock, rutting deeper and deeper until you can feel him everywhere inside you. It’s a euphoric bliss, thunder crashing outside the window, lightning tearing through your veins.

   Joel Joel Joel. He’s all you feel, all you see, all you hear. He’s everything all at once. The missing piece you’ve desperately been searching for your entire life.

   “You feel so perfect, sweetheart. Takin’ me so well. Want you to come again. Come for me, baby,” he coos, teeth clenching with every deep thrust he gives you.

   “Ohh,” you moan when he takes the pad of his thumb and starts circling your puffy clit, putting just the right amount of pressure where you feel it the most. 

   “Come on my cock, babygirl. Let me feel you. Fuck. Squeezin’ me so tight,” he grits out, your walls clenching tight around his thick length. You scream out his name as you come undone around him, your release drenching his cock as you squeeze him. 

   “Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises, his dark eyebrows threading together as he concentrates to hold on. “Where do you want me, baby? Not gonna last much—longer,” he seethes, teeth clenched from his own building release.

   “Inside me,” you whine out, panting.

   He speeds up his thrusts faster and faster, and then he spills his warm seed inside you, both of your moans crescendoing together like a symphony of rolling thunder. He takes his time slipping out of you, dragging his release between your thighs. He grabs a towel from the bathroom and cleans you up, then pulls you toward the head of the bed until both of you are collapsed, panting breaths and glossy eyes staring back at one another.

   You both just lay there for minutes, bolts of lightning lighting up his beautiful, sweat-covered skin, igniting fire in his onyx eyes. He almost looks ethereal, so flawless that no one could touch him. But you touched him, and he lit you up like a thousand galaxies colliding straight into your heart. 

   Another moment passes and then he’s softly tracing the pads of his calloused fingertips across your cheek, mapping lines that connect right back to him. 

   “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers out, brushing a loose strand behind your ear as softly as the rain that patters lightly against the window. 

   “You think so?” you ask quietly, eyes wide and mouth dropped open the moment the word beautiful slipped off his tongue.

   He takes the pad of his thumb and runs it along your bottom lip, gently humming in response. “Yes, sweetheart. So beautiful,” he repeats, the words sounding like melodic music to your ears.

   “Joel, I—like you,” you say bravely, your fingers tracing the coarse hair on his broad chest.

   “And I like you. A lot,” he smiles, eyes melting into a warm, syrupy color. One you want to drown in.

   “Enough to be mine?” you whisper out meekly, afraid of what he’ll say.

   “Sweetheart… I’ve wanted you from the moment I set eyes on you. Wanted you the minute you stepped foot into my apartment that first time. Wanted you the second those beautiful eyes of yours tore open my soul.” His soft brown eyes are tearing your walls down, and you’re stunned in awe.

   “You… want me?” you breathe out, breathless.

   “Oh, sweetheart,” he chuckles, tracing heart shapes on your skin. “There’s not a second I don’t want you. You’re mine. Now c’mere.” He pulls you to him, his lips colliding with yours, and then you slip into the softness of him, tangling your body with his until you’re one.

   When the kiss ends, he keeps you against his warm chest, his hand running lazily through your hair, his lips brushing against your forehead. You get lost in his warmth, in his musk, in his woodsy scent that you revel in. He’s everywhere, surrounding you, melding into your soul. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. 

   You’re falling hard, fast, but he’ll catch you. Every brush against your skin just solidifies that, his lips making it official. You’re mine. His deep timbre lingers in your mind, and then you’re falling into a deep sleep in his arms while the rain soothes you into bliss.

[zoofzoofxx]

“OH MY GOD THAT’S JOOST KLEIN!”

(Pt. 2)

Pairing - Joost Klein x fem!reader

Summary - Following an attempt to ignore Joost and act as though nothing had happened, you both meet on a rainy day while waiting for the bus. He offers you a ride but first takes you out for a dinner and shows you the beauty of Amsterdam at night.

Genre- fluff, maybe little bit of angst.

Mentions - @dozcan123 , @multifilmfan & @mrschandlerbing

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

About three months back, something went down with Joost Klein. We chatted at first, but then I got busy, and Joost wouldn't quit trying to get in touch. I brushed off his messages until I finally blocked his number. After that, he stopped trying to reach out on other social platforms. I felt a bit guilty, but I figured he probably moved on. Sometimes I thought about unblocking him and telling him how I felt, but when I saw he was into Eurovision, I hesitated. 3 weeks ago, he dropped a track called Europapa, and it blew up. The song brought back memories of Joost, making me consider going to Eurovision with my sister. Lost in thought, a message from my best friend Zofia interrupted me, signaling her arrival. We decided to grab a drink and catch up, with Zofia's unexpected entrance and our trip to a nearby bar helping clear my head.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ 3 hours later ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

I checked my bus app to see when my bus will arrive. I still had 35 minutes left but the walk wasn’t short so basically I already should be on my way. I escorted my best friend to her place; she was completely wasted, and so was I. It was the usual routine - she'd get super drunk, I'd have to take her home, and then make sure I got back to my flat safely at night. I glanced at my friend before asking if she could at least get ready for bed and sleep. She agreed, closed the door, leaving me alone. I turned on maps to find the nearest bus stop direction, and just as I did, a few raindrops fell on my screen, signaling the impending rain. And sure enough, it started pouring. I began to run, and as I was about to cross the street, a car came speeding towards me, honking loudly, nearly hitting me. Shocked, I turned around, not knowing what to do. The car was already gone, so I tried to forget the scary moment and went to sit on the bench at the bus stop just a few steps away. Sitting there, rain pouring down on me as there was no roof over the bench, I stared at the ground, hoping the bus would arrive soon, even though I still had 10 more minutes to wait in the cold rain.

“Y/n?” A low male voice with a pronounced Dutch accent addressed me. I turned looked up to find a recognizable individual standing directly in front of me. I was taken aback by the sight of him drenched from head to toe, standing there as confused as I was.

"Joost?" I uttered, rising to my feet and adjusting my coat. An extended pause ensued, with neither of us certain of how to initiate this dialogue.

"It was you crossing the street? Please be more cautious next time," he began, causing my eyes to widen in surprise.

"I apologize." I glanced aside and then back at him. He appeared altered. His hair had brightened notably, nearly reaching a platinum blond tone. His demeanor was grave. It seemed like he wasn't content to see me, and frankly, I wasn't excited either.

"How are you?" Were the only words that escaped my lips.

"I'm good. Have you been drinking?" He inquired, moving a bit closer, though there was still a noticeable gap between us. I caught a whiff of his cologne once more. It was the same scent from three months back when he assisted me in zipping up my jacket.

"Tipsy, not drunk," I corrected him, settling back onto the bench, which was once again damp. I glanced down at my shoes, feeling embarrassed.

"I can catch a whiff of the alcohol from here," he remarked, and I simply pouted, unsure of how to respond. He moved closer and settled beside me. Our shoulders brushed together. In a sudden impulse, I rested my head on his shoulder, shutting my eyes and relishing the moment. It dawned on me how much I had missed Joost.

"Y/n, do you want a lift?" Joost interrupted my thoughts. I hesitated a lot, unsure if I should say yes or no.

"Sure." I say standing up. He stood up as well, and I just followed him. It was a 1-minute walk until we arrived at the car I almost got hit by. I sat in the passenger seat and inhaled the scent, Joost's specific cologne mixed with cigarettes. I yawned, leaning on the window. He started his car, and we drove through the city. There was complete silence between us until there was a loud growl. I covered my stomach with my arm and started to daydream about what I would eat when I arrived home.

“What are you doing?” I inquired as Joost made a sudden right turn.

“I’m starving, do you like McDonalds?” He asked and I furrowed my brows.

"I suppose so, but I've got some food at home, so I'll decline," I replied, earning a chuckle from the blonde guy.

"Ha, that's totally a classic mom move: 'We've got food at home,'" he mimicked, leading to a moment of silence as we both pondered our next words.

"It's on me." He stated, breaking the silence as he parked his car in the parking lot and switched it off.

"Please," he uttered, casting me those identical pleading eyes as during our initial encounter. Exhaling deeply, I release my seatbelt and unlatch the car door.

"Macdonalds around midnight just hits differently," Joost remarked as he savored his first bite of the Big Mac.

"Would you like some?" He inquired, flashing me a comforting smile.

"Thanks, but I'm good," I replied, smiling back, enjoying my chicken nuggets. I noticed Joost eyeing them, so I pushed the box towards him and nodded, signaling he could give them a try.

"May I?" He inquired, gazing at me. He looked very handsome. His beautiful blue eyes peered through his thick-framed glasses. He wore a Burberry scarf around his neck. His sharp jawline was what made him truly attractive.

"Sure," I replied, looking down, aware that I was blushing intensely.

"You know I've never tasted chicken nuggets," he remarks as he takes one, slyly snatching the sauce I was using. He sampled the nugget while I indulged in some French fries that I also relished. I glanced out the window; it was entirely dim outside. Then I shifted my gaze back to Joost.

"Why did you block my number?" He inquired out of the blue. I sat upright, unable to provide a response to his query.

"I was occupied," I replied curtly, feeling a bit anxious that this conversation might escalate. He simply nodded, unsure of what to say. After a moment of contemplation, he finally broke the silence.

"Occupied with someone?" He inquired, prompting me to tilt my head slightly. I needed a moment to ponder and craft a thoughtful response. I wasn't preoccupied with anyone. I was simply engrossed in self-care, focusing on my mental well-being, striving to improve my life even just a little. My daily routine felt monotonous - waking up, having breakfast, heading to work, eating dinner, sleeping, and repeating the cycle. I grew weary of this routine. I longed for my parents, my younger sister, and the carefree days of childhood.

“No.” I replied dryly, as I took my final sips of coke. Joost had already pushed the box back, but I nudged it back to signal that he can have the last nuggets. He accepted the food, pondering his response before blurting out something foolish.

“So you were occupied with…?” He prompted me to complete the sentence. I simply sighed in response.

"My mental health," I respond, causing his eyebrows to shoot up in surprise.

"You could have informed me that you were having a tough time. I would have been there to support you," he says, gazing at me with concern.

"I just needed some time to myself," I say, hoping to end this conversation.

"You know, I felt foolish when you blocked me. You could have simply mentioned you weren't interested in me, and I would have backed off," he says, sitting upright, with a hint of remorse in his eyes as he gazes at my hands. I was fidgeting with my sleeve.

"Feeling tense?" He asks, taking hold of my hand. I wanted to say no, but deep down, I knew I could only answer yes.

"No. Not really." I respond, attempting to avoid the eye contact he's seeking.

"Do you desire any more food?" He inquired, and I simply shook my head to decline.

"Let’s go then." He suggests, gently patting my back. We exited the building together.

"I can walk home from here," I say, glancing at him. He was tall and had a very masculine appearance.

"Can I accompany you home?" He questioned, and unsure if it was a wise choice, I sensed it might be our last meeting for a long time, or possibly never again. Nevertheless, I nodded, and he grinned. We began walking towards my house.

"I like your scarf," I mentioned, breaking the silence. He didn't say anything but gently removed it and wrapped it around my head.

"It looks much more flattering on you," he remarks with a smile, reaching out to grasp my shoulder, drawing me closer to him. Suddenly, he makes a wrong turn.

"That's not the route to my place," I mention, furrowing my brows. I was nearly sober.

"I know. There's a spot I'd like to take you to," he mentions as we reach the bridge. The wind was strong, messing up Joost's hair. He tried to fix it quickly, but it didn't really work. I couldn't help but laugh, and he rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue in response.

"Hey, what's so funny?" he says playfully, giving me a gentle push.

"Nothing," I uttered as he drew me closer once more, and I simply relished the moment. It dawned on me that I was thoroughly enjoying the time with the tall Dutch gentleman. A quiet interval ensued until we reached a bridge. It was truly a sight to behold, and I couldn't resist capturing it in a photograph. Stepping back, I ensured Joost was also in the frame. He glanced at me, posed with a smile, and shaped a heart with his fingers.

"Aww, adorable!" I say with a smile, and he approached without a word. I tucked my phone away, and Joost simply embraced me. No words. No sounds. Just two individuals embracing at the bridge. Two hearts beating in unison.

"I deeply yearned for you," is the only utterance he managed.

"I missed you as well," I reply softly, maintaining the embrace. We linger in the moment before eventually deciding to head back home as the chill of the evening sets in.

"When do you plan to depart for Sweden?" I inquire purely out of interest.

"My manager mentioned they're counting on me to be at the hotel tomorrow," I respond, nodding in understanding.

"Are you not keen on joining me?" He inquired. He had already asked me this question during our meal.

"I'd be happy to join, but I need to find a way to make some money," I respond, to which he pouts in disappointment.

"I comprehend. Please inform me if your decision changes," he states, and I offer a smile. Upon reaching my residence, we bid our final farewells. He mentioned I could keep the scarf but requested something in return. As I lacked valuable items, he noticed my bag and a small keychain, a fluffy pink heart. He inquired about exchanging it, to which I happily agreed, asking if he desired anything else, but he declined. We shared a parting hug, and he mentioned he would text me. After he left, I unblocked his number but never received a message from him again.

A/n - guys I’m so sorry this is so shitty 😭 I feel like I made so much grammar mistakes. English isn’t my native language so if you see any mistakes please contact me 😘 BY THE WAY I DONT KNOW IF YALL NOTICED BUT Y/N’S BEST FRIEND IS ACTUALLY ME 😍😍😍😍😍THANK YOU SO MICH FOR 60 FOLLOWERS ILY! leave a comment behind please it gives me a lot of motivation ✌🏻 I’m actually thinking if I should make a part 3 but idk lmk 😊 PEACE OUT 😇✌🏻LUV U GUYS 🥰❗️💋💋💋💋💋

[knoxic]

How to be a High Lady?

How they met

Eris Vanserra x Mate!Reader (f)

Summary: How they met and her discovering the bond.

wc: 3k

warnings: death of family members, fire (non explicit house burning/death by fire), cursing

a/n: Eris being 🤭😍😁😝🤗 whenever she's like 🤨🙄😠😒 is so important to me

part 1, part 2

For months now she tried to put herself back together, trying to move on, but being alone was hard, especially for someone who had always been surrounded by people. Her coven was her family, its oldest members helped her mother give birth to her, helped raise her, its youngest had grown up with her, they all made her who she was now. And they were gone.

Gone, and she wasn't even there to witness it. She was far away, traveling, enjoying everything there was to enjoy, not a single drop of worry in her head, after all, they had promised they'd be fine. She didn't even come back straight away, no, it was weeks after, their house had stopped burning long ago, what was left of it stood black and cold, filled with ashes and sorrow.

She had found herself a place to live but she didn't remember how she did it, everything seemed so... unrealistic, never did it cross her mind that this could happen to them. Days after she came back, when she absolutely needed to get food, she went out in the village to the same place her coven used to go, no one recognized her, maybe they never really pay attention to her or they just didn't care, a way or another, she was glad no one looked her way twice. On the way to her new home she heard whispers about a witch who lived in Autumn, thinking it was her, she stopped and pretended to be examining the bread basket they had placed in front of their bakery.

"Do you think she cursed him? I did see him limping yesterday." One of the males spoke, his voice had a weird accent, from another court then.

"What are you? An idiot?" The baker slapped him in the back of his neck, "That cripple always limped! I heard he asked her to fix his fucked up leg but she couldn't, so he did that." His hands, sprinkled with flour, gestured behind the other male, as if pointing to said 'that'. Her shaky hands dropped the apple she held, the direction the male pointed led to her old house, which meant that whoever this cripple was, he had burned her house, he killed her family.

She ran, faster than she ever had before. Her legs only stopping when her feet met the dirty floor, the rain and wind from the past few weeks had gathered around the ruins laying there, the walls had turned moldy, weeds grew where the tiles had broken. It was all a mess, and still her knees touched it, her arms braced her body, the bare skin of her thighs had gotten wet but she couldn't decide if it was from her tears or the rain, which she didn't even realize had started. She looked up, droplets of rain caressing her face, the sky lighting up with a roaring thunder.

She redeemed herself that day, not feeling sorry for herself for losing her family, she only felt sorry for the way they died and how early it had been for some of them. She found out her old neighbors had buried their bodies in the backyard of their house, their tombs placed one beside the other, straight away she went to her house to gather what she needed for a proper funeral, so that their souls could finally rest.

After that day she busied herself with work, working as a healer for the village, subtly gathering information about her family's murderer, filling herself with knowledge, learning whatever witchcraft she hadn't been taught and anything else that could be useful in the future.

At night it was difficult to shut her brain off, the only time she couldn't distract herself from the grief by focusing on other people's pain. Lately, whenever she managed to sleep, basically passing out from exhaustion, her visions came in the form of dreams, most of them just showed her what kind of help her clients needed. That was until she started seeing red.

A faceless head surrounded by red hair haunted her dreams, resembling a bird's nest from how messy it was, the noise of crackling fire in the background. It had been a week now and she couldn't manage to have a dreamless sleep, she never complained about seeing another person's life, she actually liked seeing their memories, most of the time it allowed her to see life in a different perspective, sometimes it wasn't a good one, but she still learned something new every time. Now she was really starting to hate these memories, whoever it was that demanded her attention was starting to get really annoying.

She set aside her job to focus entirely on the vision, spending her afternoons walking around the villages instead, occasionally stopping at restaurants or bakeries, visiting libraries and sitting around whenever she found a bench. Not once had there been any indication of who this person could be besides their hair, she didn't even know their gender, she caught a blur of the pale skin of a pointy ear but that was all.

If it wasn't for the tasty foods she got to try, her time would've been completely wasted. She met a redhead once but her hair was way too perfect, completely different from the one on her dreams, and she didn't seem in need of anything. After a whole week, she gave up, started meditating instead, clearing her mind and focusing her thoughts on that annoying redhead, wishing that whoever it was, would find their way to her.

For a couple nights, the dreams stopped, maybe it was the herbs tea she had been drinking before bed, or maybe they had fixed their problem themselves and didn't need her help anymore. The next morning she woke up and decided she'd spend the day in her village again, just to be sure.

The day had been going relatively normal, as soon as she stepped out of bed she started feeling a little lightheaded but didn't think too much of it, now as she walked through a small trail on the way home, a path she rarely took, she felt dizzy, her heart beating so hard she could barely hear anything else. She knew there was a bench a few meters away, if she walked a little faster maybe she'd managed before passing out, but she wasn't in that trail anymore, now she stood in front of a cabin. A very cozy looking cabin, from the open curtains she could see a male placing logs in the fireplace, it was too dark to see his face so she stood silently until he started the fire, she didn't know what she expected but... his hands lighting up with flames definitely didn't cross her mind. The log he held caught fire immediately, the male seemed to have no rush in placing it with the other logs, his eyes reflecting the flames like they also burned.

Her sight got blurry again and the familiar forest appeared around the edges, his face being the only thing clear, she couldn't, wouldn't, look away. The red strands of hair that brushed against his delicate eyelashes, his perfect nose, his flushed cheekbones, his perfect plump lips and his captivating golden eyes, she was fascinated.

"Are you alright?" A rough voice snapped her out of whatever that was. Only now noticing she had crouched down, one of her hands braced on her knee, the other massaged her eyes, trying to clear her sight.

"I asked you a question." The male demanded, a warm hand, way too hot to be normal, touched her shoulder.

"Yes, sorry," she closed her eyes and shook her head lightly, "Just dizzy, I guess." She giggled, amazed that she was so struck by a male she'd never seen before, and it was only a vision.

When her eyes opened, she was met with a the cleanest pair of boots she had ever seen, even with pieces of leaves stuck under the soles it still shined, beside his feet was paws. A heavy breathing close to her ear made her jump, her shaky legs pulling herself up and away from the small smokehound who tried jumping on her, landing on their owner's outstretched hand.

"Forgive me, he's young," the male adjusted the hound on his arms, cradling it like a baby. "I'm still training him." He said, locking eyes with her.

Those burning golden eyes that she saw just moments ago were now amber, looking at her so intensely she almost backed away.

"What?" He asked, his eyebrows furrowed. She supposed having a stranger stare her down would make her uncomfortable too.

"Sorry, I thought–"

"You keep apologizing..." he muttered, looking almost annoyed.

"I had seen you before." Her voice sounded weak, she was still processing that the male she had been literally dreaming about was right there, not to mention that the most vivid vision she ever had had just happened and it was about him.

Why?

"Well, you might have."

"Who are you?" She questioned and could swear he almost seemed offended.

"I– You don't know who I am?" He lifted an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. Gods, he really was annoying.

"I should?"

He laughed, a deep sound that she swore she could feel in her bones, the hound in his arms whined at being disturbed from his sleep.

"Yes." He dropped the puppy to the floor, her eyes followed the motion and finally seeing the many other hounds who surrounded the male, what the fuck?  "I'm Eris Vanserra." He gave out his hand for her to shake.

"Ah..." His hand on hers felt wonderful, a comfortable touch she hadn't felt in over a year. She distantly heard herself telling him her name but her mind was wholly focused on his touch, the firm grip he had on her hand, the calloused fingers that somehow still felt soft. Why was it so confusing? Not only was he the annoying male that prevented her from sleeping peacefully, he was also irritatingly beautiful. The Mother must be laughing at her face right now. It didn't even look like he needed help!

"You still don't know, do you?" The fucking smirk still hadn't left his face.

"Uh," What even was his name again...Vanserra? Fucking shit.

It was an explicit rule in her coven that they never came close to the Vanserra family. They didn't mess with politics and royalty, their family consisted of many types of fae, even mixed ones, the High Lord hated people like them. Beron hated lesser fae and therefore the people who liked them.

"You're the High Lord's son." Any good thoughts about him were pushed to the back of her mind by guilt, what would her family think if they heard her calling him beautiful?

"And suddenly you're pulling away..." His hand dropped hers after feeling her hold go slack, "Not fun to bicker with the High Lord's son is it?" The smirk on his face turned into a sad smile, his eyes dropping to watch the hounds at his feet. Now the small horde of smokehounds made sense.

"It's not..." she felt sad for him, "It's not smart." She couldn't tell him exactly why she it wasn't fun to be around him.

"Hm, right." His hands slipped into the pockets of his chocolate colored trousers, the hound closest to him perked his ears at the move, Eris slipped a hand out and gave him a bone shaped treat, his hand went back into his pocket and fished out several more treats for the rest of them. She watched amazed.

"So, are you going to tell me why you were crouching down here looking like you would pass out?" His head still didn't down.

"I was dizzy." She said simply, he didn't need to know the reason for her dizziness.

"I gathered that. Why?" He all but rolled his eyes.

"Why what?" She snapped.

"Why were you dizzy?" She could swear she saw the corner of his lip curl upwards.

"Why do you care?" Her braced her arms against her chest, cocking her head at him, he hesitated to answer.

"I don't. Are you going home or do you plan on being here all day?" He started walking around, glancing at both sides of the trail.

"You make a lot of questions..."

"And you seem hesitant to answer them..." He finally looked her way, his eyes filled with something she couldn't exactly place. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing you need to know." Her voice reached his ears like music, her attitude enticing him.

"I'm just teasing you, honey." He laughed, stepped closer to her, slowly enough that she could step away if she wanted to. She didn't. "May I walk you home?"

"You shouldn't." She suddenly wasn't so sure.

"That's not a no..." he cocked his head.

"That's not a yes either..." she mirrored him.

They stared at each other for a while, when his eyes drifted away from hers she took the moment to admire him, not noticing he admired her too.

"Sir..." A voice snapped them out of their little moment. The male stood a few steps away, clad in Autumn colors of armor. "The High Lord demands your presence." Eris nodded at him and he turned away, walking in the direction of her home.

"So, I should be going." Eris said after the male was far enough, the sad smile making its comeback. She wasn't sure what came over her when she answered.

"My house is that way." She looked at the corner the male had just turned.

Eris didn't say anything, only held his arm out and gave her a smirk. She took his arms and they walked silently, his smokehounds close behind, one of them keeping up with him like a shadow, the puppy found their way around her legs.

"He seems to like you, which is weird, they hate everyone." He gave her a sideways glance, "Did you enchant him or something?"

"I don't need to do that." She kept looking at the trail, pretending she didn't see him looking at her with a smile.

They reached her house in silence, a beautiful cottage, a small version of her old home, the front yard was filled with medicinal herbs, a beautiful garden she took pride on. When she tried to pull her arm away from him, his hold tightened, his hand resting on hers.

"Nice garden you got... Hm, Echinacea, Asiatic pennyworth, Calendula..." He patted her hand lightly before dropping it and looking down at her. "Are you a healer?" He smiled.

"Yes." She didn't offer more information.

"Good, always good to know a healer." He nodded. "Well, I must be going, have a good evening, My Lady. Hope to see you around." He bowed while gently lifting her fingers and kissing the back of her hand, when he straightened back his lips still carried that smile. What an adorable smile.

He turned away before she said anything, his hounds followed him with hurried steps, all but one.

"Eris!" She shouted, making him turn back quickly. "The puppy..." She pointed to the small hound at her feet, looking back at them both as if wondering why he was suddenly the sole attraction.

"Oh–" his hand rubbed the back of his neck, his mouth opened and closed but no sound came out, he glanced at another hound who didn't seem to care if the puppy was missing. "Well, keep him, he seems to like you better than me anyway." Eris laughed, his cheeks a tinged pink.

"What? No. I can't–"

"Please, if you're going to keep passing out in those woods, you might need someone to get help for you," he teased. "Besides, it would give me an excuse to see you again, I can train him for you, or teach you how to train him." She feared the smile he gave her at that moment, showing his dimples and perfect teeth, would haunt her forever.

She couldn't argue back fast enough, she wanted someone to keep her company, when she tried to reason with him he was already turning his back on her, whistling to the hounds as if showing that even if he called, the puppy wouldn't leave her.

Years later, she found herself going back home to him. That annoying redhead.

A couple months ago Eris had shown her the cabin he built for them, it was a dream they had in common, building their lives together in a small place. Eris had grown up in a large palace that never felt like a home, he hated the tall ceilings and the maze of corridors, the whole place was filled with servants and guards and still felt empty. She had grown up in a house perhaps too small for the amount of people that lived there, the children were separated into pairs, and they loved the arrangement, some of the adults were couples so they naturally shared rooms too, only her mother and another female had rooms for themselves.

They were raised in completely differently homes and yet their dreams were the same. All they needed was a house big enough to fit both of them comfortably and enough space outside to build more rooms in the future. Their love was the structure of their home and the backbone of their family.

She walked slowly with her hound, Cole, a nickname for Collected, because he's anything but collected. His tail kept bumping her leg, how he could still be excited even after walking for hours was beyond her. Her garden came into view first, then their porch, then she saw Eris from the open window. All of a sudden she was brought back to years ago, a chill running down her spine, to the first time she had a clear vision of him, the way he was moving logs around the fireplace, she remembered clearly how in the next few moments his hand would light up in fire. She had forgotten that vision thinking it was someone's old memory, but it was hers, he was lighting up the fireplace so she would come back to a warm home. Now as she stood there, Cole by her side, watching her lover, she couldn't help falling more in love with him, now she knows why this memory was shown to her that day, why it was so important.

Eris Vanserra was her mate, and now her heart and soul belonged to him.

Taglist: @callsigns-haze, @lilah-asteria, @mybestfriendmademe, @coldmermaidhologram

a/n²: I made Eris name specific plants used for... wounds... and preventing scars from getting larger...

a/n³: I literally sat for a moment looking at the screen like I had just written a murder scene (the first paragraphs of reader's backstory didn't faze me that much, what's wrong with me)

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5) Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB. Word Count: ~11k. Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could. THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

FIVE YEARS LATER

The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.

But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.

Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.

On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.

He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.

But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.

The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain. 

This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.

It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.

Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?

The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.

You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.

You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.

Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.

By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—

—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.

There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.

You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.

On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.

Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.

Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside. 

He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.

He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.

You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”

Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”

There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.

“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?

You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.

Your throat locks up with tears.

Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”

Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”

Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.

“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.

There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.

“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.

You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.

He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”

When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”

Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.

“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”

Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”

You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”

You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.

Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.

“You’re really not saying yes?”

Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.

Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.

“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”

You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.

Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.

After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.

“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”

This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.

He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”

This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.

“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”

You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”

Okay. Weird.

Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”

They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?

But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”

Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.

You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.

He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.

The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.

“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.

There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.

“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”

Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”

You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.

When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.

“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”

You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.

Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”

You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”

…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”

That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”

You squint at him. Liar.

“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”

A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.

Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”

Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”

Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.

It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him. 

You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!

There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.

“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”

Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.

You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”

Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”

The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.

Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.

You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—

—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.

In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”

Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.

The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.

He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.

The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.

It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already. 

Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.

Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—

You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.

“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”

You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?

He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”

You stop.

This is. This is new.

There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.

Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.

“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.

He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.

It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to. 

He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.

…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.

“Sammy,” you sob out.

“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”

He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.

“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.

Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.

“Take it off,” he rasps.

This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.

He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”

Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.

You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”

It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”

A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.

You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.

“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”

Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.

“Then don’t.” He begs.

If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound. 

You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.

You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”

Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”

The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.

You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.

“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.

You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.

This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.

Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”

And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.

Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”

“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”

“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.

Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”

Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.

The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”

As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”

Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”

Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.

Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.

“God, I love you,” he moans.

Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.

“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.

There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.

“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”

You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”

It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.

“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”

“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.

He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.

When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.

“Sammy!” You choke.

That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”

Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.

You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—

…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!

“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”

The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”

He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.

“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.

You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”

You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—

In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.

A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”

If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”

You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”

His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.

You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”

The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.

With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.

You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.

When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you. 

“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”

“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”

Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.

You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.

“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.

The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.

You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?

Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.

What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?

Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”

He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness. 

Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.

Lie to me, you’d begged him. 

…And Sam had.

_

The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.

Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?

Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.

The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.

Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.

To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.

You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.

“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.

…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.

You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.

You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you’d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…

Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—

…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.

“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1@lacilou@cevans-winchester @leigh70@ seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1

[cattordi]

a/n hi, sorry i’m advance about the ending it’s kinda awkward. this is part 3 to my “series”

summary it’s been over a year since the last time you and bucky, y’know ;), and he has something to tell you

pairings brothers bestfriend!mechanic! bucky barnes x post college! reader

warnings smut, pleasure kink, breeding, face fucking, choking, spanking, foul language, jealousy, fluff, angst, possessive!bucky, sir kink, rough sex, etc 18+ MINORS DNI

part 1 || part 2

lover

within a year, you learned so much about yourself—your desires— and they weren’t what the man in front of you had to offer.

“so you recently got of college?” jason ask as he whips his mouth with a napkin.

jason has been asking you out for a few weeks since you started your new job and you repeatedly let him down until a few days ago; and now you’re on a date a restaurant close to your job.

“yes, i graduated about three months ago.” you say. this whole “date” your answers to him have been short but he won’t take a hint.

“how was your graduation?” he ask and thoughts fill your mind of your graduation ceremony, everyone was there but him.

bucky.

james buchanan barnes.

just thought of him made you feel good.

“it was boring and long.” you mutter while taking a sip of your water. jason’s eyes meet your after a few unwanted seconds of silence.

he wasn’t unattractive, he just wasn’t bucky.

and that’s who you have been craving this past year.

emotionally and physically.

your brother mentioned him less and less as the year went on which confused you. but you missed him and even when you said you were done with him, you both knew you weren’t done with each other.

“y/n?” jason says and you snap back into reality. “you good? i’ve called your name like five times.”

“i’m sorry, i spaced out.”

“i can see that,” he begins and rolls his eyes in irritation which takes everything in you not to throw a chair at him.

“you were calling my name?” you question as he circled the ice in his drink around—annoyingly.

“yeah, i just want to ask if you knew who that was.” he snaps putting emphasis on the that.

turning your head slowly you see someone you didn’t plan on seeing ever again, bucky.

turning back around you start, “i don’t know who that is.”

yeah it was lying but you didn’t care.

“well he needs to stop staring.” jason groans, taking a bite of his steak.

you look down at your pasta, seeing it looking as if it hadn’t been touched.

so to get into buckys head, you indulge in your date a tad bit more.

grabbing your fork, you stab at the pasta and plop some in your mouth. you can feel his eyes on you—scanning your body.

“finally…” jason whispers to himself but you happen to hear. you cock an eyebrow at him and he laughs, “you’re eating.”

conversation sparks for thirty more minutes before your date comes to a close. “it was nice spending tonight with you.” jason says as he holds your door open to head outside.

it’s fairly warm outside so you don’t need to slide your jacket on. “it was nice hanging out with you too.” you say and smile at him.

he smiles back and silence falls over the two of you like a rain cloud in a cartoon.

“i hope we can do this again,” he begins and pulls you into an awkward hug. you fall into his embrace and wrap your arms limply around him.

after a few more seconds, you both part ways and you walk down the sidewalk feeling accomplished.

you know you managed to piss bucky off, you could feel it off him. the few times you’d catch glimpses at him, he looked like he could kill jason with his bare hands. only time would tell when he would-

“y/n are you fucking insane?” a familiar voice snaps you out your thoughts. “are you fucking insane?”

bucky was holding your arm tightly after he pulled you into a side alley. “no why?” you ask sweetly.

his hand closes around your throat so quickly you don’t even see it happen. “hm i don’t know. maybe because you’re walking home not even paying fucking attention. and then on top of that you act like you don’t fucking know me,” he begins and you can see the heat behind his eyes, “what type of man lets women walk home by themselves? i could kill him.”

with every word, he grip tightens to the point where you’re sure there’s marks on your neck.

his grip on your neck loosens, “james let it rest it’s been a year!” you groan and you can see every emotion pass his face.

“james? fucking hell y/n, you shut me out! i didn’t shut you out.” he begins, “you know i’ve wanted you since i met you and when i had you, you didn’t want me enough.”

“why weren’t you at my graduation?” you mumble and his eyes soften, “why weren’t you at my fucking graduation?” you yell and push him.

anger crosses his face again, “don’t fucking push me. i understand you’re upset but i have more of a right to be upset than you.”

you know it’s true but you can’t help but push his buttons, “why weren’t you at my fucking graduation?”

“i’m not telling you.”

“tell me.”

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

“y-“

“because i was to fucking afraid you’d break my heart again! and you fucking did. acting like you didn’t know me. that’s fucked up y/n.”

“it was so jason wouldn’t-“

“you know me y/n so never in your fucking life act like you don’t know me.” he groans before his lips attack yours.

like it’s an instinct you kiss back hard and with need. “oh fuck i’ve missed you.” he says, “but i’m not taking you here.”

the thought of it makes you wet and you rub your legs to create friction. bucky quickly takes notice and he chuckles, “such a needy slut.”

the sounds of him degrading you make you feel even more hot and bothered as he guides you down the street. you have a hard time keeping up with his steps but you make it to his apartment building and into his apartment in no time.

before you can take in your surroundings, buckys mouth is back on yours again. he backs you into his bed, causing your to fall back. “i missed you so much.” you whimper.

“i know baby.” he groans while pulling your leggings down revealing the black lace thong you opted to wear. “was this for him?” he ask and you stay quiet.

a hard smack lands on your thigh, “was this for him?” after his question he pulls on the band of your thong and snaps it onto your skin. “no.” you wince.

“no what?”

“no sir.”

“that’s what i thought.”

though you hadn’t talked to bucky in awhile, you always remembered how dominant he was. “sit up.”

you do so but you’re quickly pulled to the floor. as soon as bucky begins undoing his belt, you know what’s about to take place. “open your mouth.”

you do so slowly, he shoves his dick in your mouth forcing you to open wider. “fuccckkk.”

he thrust into your mouth at an uncontrollable speed, hitting the back of your throat each time. “mmmhphh.” you try to say around his length but the vibrations make him even more turn on.

‘you’re too big’

“you’re taking me so well baby.” he groans while continuously thrusting into your mouth. your grip on the back of his legs tighten as he slows his thrust down. “fuck!” he moans while pulling out your throat.

spit is rolling down your chest heading south. “y/n?”

“yes sir?” you mutter while looking up into his eyes. danger and mystery fill his eyes, “i’m gonna fuck every thought with another man out your mind.” he begins while pulling your onto the bed and flipping you on your stomach, “you want to know why?”

you’re so dazed you don’t answer until a smack lands on your ass and you gasp, “why?”

“because your mine.” and with that he rips the thong off with one movement and enters you. you gasp and moan at the feelings you’ve been longing for. “holy fuck i forgot how tight you were.”

“i’ve missed y- ugh.” you begin but his finger finds your clit as his other hands arches your back a bit more making him hit your g spot a different way.

“baby you feel so good.” he groans, his hips snapping into yours with desire.

he continues thrusting and rubbing your clit until he says something neither of you expect, “tell me your regret it.”

“what?” you moan.

“tell. me. you. regret. it.” he says sternly, smacking your ass with every word.

“tell you i regret what?” you say but he stops moving at that question.

“y/n..” he begins before pulling you into his chest and gripping your throat. “tell me you regret leaving me,” the thrust start again, “tell me your regret going on a date!”

the new angle he’s hitting feels ten times better. “tell me you fucking regret it.” he grunts while pinching your colt.

“i..” you begin but your orgasm is getting closer.

“y/n i swear if you don’t fucking say it.” bucky says before rubbing your clit again.

he builds your orgasm all the way up before slowing down, “bucky i was gonna cum.” you half whine while leaning into him for friction.

“well if i don’t get what i want, you’re shit out of luck.” he says and you purposely tighten around him, “you were too cock drunk to even understand what i was saying, so now tell me y/n. did you regret it?”

“yes sir.” you say and he starts thrusting again.

“say it.”

“i regret it.” you moan as he speeds up and your orgasm builds back up quickly. you lay your head on buckys shoulder as he continues fucking you maliciously. “oh fuck bucky i’m gonna come.”

“say it again.”

“i regret it.”

“say it again. i can feel you tightening around me.”

“i regret it sir.” a few seconds of panting and loaning pass before you speak again. “bucky i’m gonna-“

“say it.”

“i regret it!”

“say it.”

“i regret it!” this time you say it when as you come. white flashes take over your vision as you moan the loudest you think you’ve ever. arching your back into him, bucky fucks through your orgasm causing more and more pleasure as another builds up.

“holy fuck y/n, your pretty cunt was made for me.” bucky moans while his thrust become static. you immediately feel even more filled as bucky comes in you. “you feel so good.”

you fall one the bed with him still in you, at the feeling of your legs turning week. “bucky?”

his jeans are already pulled up when you look up at him. “yes?”

“i’m sorry.” you mumble. he smiled in return before hovering over you. “i want us to work, but you know how my brother is and.. i don’t know. it was easier to reject you than face the truth and what i wanted.”

“it’s okay.” he starts before plopping a small kiss on your mouth. “promise me something?”

“yes?”

“don’t leave me.”

a wave or sadness goes through you as you cup his face, “never. we aren’t done, remember?”

with that he smiles and rolls over so you’re on top of him. “i’ve never been done with you y/n. it’s just you and me.”

[redsrooftopprincess]

Gravity (Part 2)

This may be becoming a thing. There will be at least one more chapter and I have no idea what to call this thing. Maybe by the end I'll know. 😅

Gn reader x Raphael

Warnings: Hypothermia, language (but I think that's a given in a Raph fic?)

Part 1 Part 3

It had been one week. One week since he'd slipped. One week since the fever carried him to your rooftop.

You haven't spoken. More specifically, he hasn't spoken. Apart from texting you when he made it home like you insisted he did every night, it had been radio silence. You texted him before his patrol like you always did, and he stared at his phone, expressionless, before putting it back in his pocket.

What could he say?

He'd already had the conversation a thousand times in his head, and as far as he was concerned, it didn't need to be said. He didn't need you to let him down easy.

Because you'd mean it. Every damn word. You're sorry. He's your best friend. Nothing has to change.

But it would change, there was no way it couldn't. Things were different now.

That night had been the worst of it. He'd left not long after his confession. At that point, just the sound of your voice was enough to make him weep, and he didn't want to make things worse. Not that he thought they could *get* worse.

He made up some excuse about Leo calling it early, and ran.

He was running now, through the freezing rain, a sudden cold snap in the middle of spring, and hoping that between the temperature and the downpour hammering into his coat, he could think about anything else.

It wasn't long before he was considering ditching the coat. It was already soaked through, and weighing him down, which was hard to do.

That gave him pause.

He stopped, ducking under an overhang, and opened his coat, pulling the fabric back to expose his side. He twisted and looked at the small device mounted onto his shell just under his shoulder blade. There was supposed to be a little red light. There wasn't.

Shit.

They each had them. One of the first inventions D had come up with after they'd started doing patrols as kids.

A blizzard had suddenly torn through the city one night, and they were woefully unprepared with only winter coats. The cold dropped their body temperatures, and then them. Splinter had to hunt across the rooftops until he found them, asleep and hypothermic, huddled behind a construction dumpster.

Donnie didn't leave his lab for days. He blamed himself, he should have known the blizzard was coming, that their gear was insufficient, he should have had *some* kind of backup heat supply. No matter how many times his family told him otherwise, it was his fault, and he would never let it happen again.

So he built something to fix it. Raph didn't really get a lot of the specifics, but the overall was that the small devices "converted kinetic energy into heat that was then stored and distributed throughout the inside of their shells." Or, as Raph understands it, as long as you keep moving, you won't die.

One night a few weeks ago, someone had gotten lucky and he had taken a rusted rebar to the chest that had shattered on impact. His regulator had been damaged by the shrapnel, but the weather had already been warming up, and then the season hit and it was forgotten about.

The rain must have been the final nail, only the exterior was watertight. It was dead. He could already feel the cold and damp setting in. He needed to get home. Fast.

He set off, the only sound other than the roar of the rain was the gradually slowing heartbeat that pounded in his ears.

*Fuck* it was cold.

It wasn't long before his waterlogged coat became too much to carry. He ditched it behind an air conditioning unit, and kept moving.

Hailstones felt like bullets as they pelted bare skin, and through the sheets of rain, the haze of cold and exhaustion that had started at the edges was encroaching. It wasn't long before he was too tired to think.

He was moving on pure instinct, without even the presence of mind to pray he could make it somewhere safe. Somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny Leo was lecturing him for not hitting his emergency signal.

He stumbles. He is so, so tired. The soft darkness of sleep is pulling at him like a rip tide. He drags himself to the next rooftop, barely touching down before he collapses.

[totaly-obsessed]

Could you write for leah but reader is her little sister and she's been like misbehaving at school so her mum asks her to talk to her as of she's being like bullied or something to get reader to admit it.

(Sorry I miss spelled something the first time and didn't realise I took the name out when I was fixing the mistakes)

Big Shoes to fill

Leah Willamson x reader fic

pt.2 here

-> Reader, Leah's younger sister is having trouble in school - mysteries get solved.

-> Talk of bullying, homophobia, (maybe child neglect?)

-> @ anon, I hope you like it - a little bit angstier than most of my stuff

➳ Masterlist

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Amanda and David Williamson had had enough. Since school started again, they have received nothing but bad news from their youngest daughter’s school – your school. At first, it was just forgotten homework, until you missed attendance a couple of times – then they made sure, that you did in fact go to school and classes. But after getting better, it got worse again – you had started to misbehave more and more, talking back to your teachers and being constantly rude to everyone around you.

It was stressful. Of course, you didn’t change your behavior overnight, and you didn’t change because you were bored – but nobody seemed to care. Leah had moved to central London a couple of years ago and your older brother Jacob moved to Australia – leaving you all alone in your parent's home.

They weren’t bad people or bad parents, but they were busy. Work. All day, every day. Both of them had already been older when they had you – Leah already eleven, and Jacob seven when she was ‘blessed’ with a younger sister.

The footballer loved to tell you how your first meeting went, boasting to everybody that you wouldn’t stop crying until she held you for the first time, falling asleep in her skinny, little arms. It was her favorite picture of you as a baby, even to this day.

When your principal called Amanda at work for the third time that week, she was done trying. Instead of picking you up, she told the man on the other side of the phone to let you walk home – no matter how much you whined. To his surprise you did not even complain, taking your bag and walking out the door – dull, tired eyes and an empty smile on your face. You finally did it. Maybe you never had to go back. Maybe they finally gave up on you.

Once you had arrived home you were drenched by the London rain, shivering as you made your way through an empty house, taking a shower before you started cleaning up your muddy footsteps. Everything was normal until no one came home. Usually, your mom would get home at five and your day by eight – but now it was already nine and no one was answering your texts.

The lock of the front door ruckled, and after a few tries, it was finally flung open. Like in a bad horror movie a silhouette was shown by lighting in the background – but after a deafening silence aside from the falling rain, Leah stepped inside. Her hair kept back in a beanie and a bag of take-out food in her hand – “I’m homeee!”

You took the food into the kitchen before handing her towels and dry clothes, leaving her to get changed. “You, my love, are the best sister, ever!” By now you had plated the food and set up on the couch, two glasses, and a bottle of wine. “I’m your only sister, Lee.” Her blue eyes softened at your weak voice. “I knowww, but you’re always so good to me.” She pulled you into a tight hug, almost afraid to let you go.

You handed her one of the plates, two slices of Pizza on it – your joined favorite – as she eyes the glasses. “Aren’t you a little too young to drink, Missy?” A sheepish smile was the only response that she got, and it was enough. Leah could see that something was up.

Usually, you had time to prepare when she visited, knowing of it beforehand – but today was different, she just showed up. You didn’t have time to hide the bags beneath your eyes, or do your hair in a way that didn’t look completely life-less – and she noticed. Of course, Leah noticed. She would always notice.

You ate dinner in silence for a while, just happy to be in each other's presence, having missed that feeling once Leah had moved out and you had gotten older. But when both plates were clean, Leah literally licking the crumbs off them, you couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m guessing you’re the one I have to thank for Mum and Dad being somewhere else?”

Your older sister swallowed hard, knowing that you would ask, but she had still hoped that she could gently lead you into the conversation. “Yeah, they’re at my place.” Leah’s place was a stunning apartment closer to the Arsenal training facility. As gently as she could, she took your hands into hers, immediately noticing how cold they were. 

“They told me that you’ve been havin’ trouble in school. What’s goin on Bug?” You hated that look. Leah’s eyes clouded with worry terrified you. She really did care, and while that was nice to know, it also meant, that you would hurt her, no matter what.

“Mom doesn’t know what to do anymore, and Dad- he, well he doesn’t either.” Of course, you knew that. Your mother's tired eyes nearly mirrored your own. But you couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand.

The silence was deafening, and your older sister tried to be subtle with her concerned staring. Sadly for both of you, Leah’s subtle was like an elephant in a fine China store. She really did try not to coax anything out of you, wanting you to feel safe enough to open up.

“School’s just not my thing.”

Both of you knew that you were lying – you loved learning new things and while school might not have the right topics for you, it was better than dying dumb.

The Arsenal player’s eyebrow was intimidating enough for you to just give up. You were tired of fighting your feelings, hurting yourself and everybody else.

“Why are you so rude to the people in your class?” She really was serious, there was no backing out now. “They are not nice people.” Her gaze hardened, her suspicions forming even further. “Why don't you like them?”

But she was met with silence. While you wanted to let her know, that those kids were mean ones, you didn’t want to tell her why they were so mean to you. It would break your sister's heart.

“Okay, what about your football team? Do you have any friends there?” Every time your eyes wandered up from staring at your joined hands to meet Leah’s, they snapped back down. The look in her eyes was terrifying. She seemed scared.

And it was all your fault.

“Oh, I stopped playing football.” Your parents hadn’t even noticed. You washed your own laundry, so when at some point your sweaty training clothes stopped showing up, no one noticed. The only one who did was your trainer – she was now missing one of the most known last names in English women’s football in her team.

You didn’t need to look at your sister to know that she was shocked, her stunned silence doing all the talking. “W-What to do you mean – You quit? But you love football!” You did. You loved watching Leah and her teammates play football, there was so much passion on the field, silent understanding, and mastered routines when they played. “Just drop it, Leah.”

Realization set in for the England captain – you were growing up. Gone was her little sister, who would do anything to be like her. The little sister who worshipped the ground she walked on.

“Why did you quit then? Mom didn’t tell me about it. Why didn’t you call?” You had downed the contents of your wine glass, stealing Leah’s as well. It scared her, just how tired you looked. “Didn’t want to interrupt your day, you’re a busy woman now. Mom always says that.” You took a deep breath, before making air quotes “Leah has more important stuff to do now, honey. Don’t call her, what if she is in an interview?”

The silence was suffocating. It never used to be like this, at least not that Leah remembered. “You would have never interrupted. I will always make time for you, Bug.” As much as you wanted to believe that, you couldn’t. No one made time for you. Not even your mom and dad, who used to do so many exciting things with all their kids in the house. But it was different now. With Leah and Jacob gone.

“A phone works both ways, Leah.”

The footballer was stunned. You were right. She was complaining to your mum, on and on, about how she didn’t know what was happening in your life – but she herself made no effort to change that.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Her confession and apology meant everything to you – even if you feared, that they were empty.

The wine bottle was now empty, and Leah still sober – but that was her plan, and it was working a charm, as your slightly slurred words started to pour out.

“I am so proud of you. You know?” A deep sniffle filled the brief silence “Winning the home European Championship, leading the team to the win, playing every game.” Your eyes were staring into space, as your sisters’ hands tried to warm yours, scared of how hollow you looked and felt. “But it’s not easy living up to that, you know?”

You once again grabbed the glass, disappointed when it was empty. But you didn’t get up to get more. “All everyone said when we went back to school, was how I would never be as good as you.” Tears threatened to fall from Leah’s eyes as things started to make sense. “That’s not true, y-“ but you didn’t let her finish her desperate try to change your mind. “It is true, Leah. I will never be as good as you – because I don’t really like football that much. Your passion and love for it, made you work harder to get where you are right now. I just played so that Jacob and you had something to talk to me about.”

Your whole life you had been pretending to love the game just as much as your siblings did – and when Leah thought back on it, she started to see it. You never had a team you supported, but it was always the one she had played for, or preferred. Not a single well-known footballer came to your mind when you were asked. The only answer you would give? ‘My sister, Leah. She is my favorite footballer of all time.’

“People had never been the kindest to me. I mean I could handle it when they just made fun of me for defending you. But after the win, all of a sudden everyone loved you, and then I was the one they were hurling insults at.” Tears made their way down the blonde's face, leaving a salty taste on her lips. “What did you need to defend me from?”

She knew it was bad the moment that your hands let go of hers. Seeking space. “Well, people knew. They knew about you and Jordan.” Sobs started to wreck her body as you desperately tried to soothe her by rubbing her back.

People were insulting her for being gay, and you stood up for her, making yourself the target.

“Bug, I- I don’t know what to say…”

The tipsyness started to make way for your guilt. She wasn’t supposed to know. You knew that it would break her heart, knowing what was happening at school.

“I hoped, that if I acted cold enough, people would leave me alone. But they didn’t. I tried to tell Mum that I wanted to change schools, but she was busy.” Now she understood. You tried to get yourself kicked out of school so that your parents had no choice but to notice and send you to a new one, where you could start over.

“I am so sorry. You shouldn’t have to go through that.” Your gaze finally met hers, gone was her baby sister. The teen in front of her was much too mature for her age, needing to wise up after being left all alone in the world.

“I know Lee.”

My god. What had she done? Leah Williamson was sure if there was an award for being the worst sister – she would have surely won it.

[vitaminseetarot]

PAC: Random Messages You May Need 🌈🎆⛅

Sup, y'all. I'm finally back for another pick a card reading. I really apologize if folks have not heard from me over the past month, I meant to get this reading (among other things) out a while ago. I have not been able to touch tarot for the past few weeks. Life has been… topsy turvy, to say the least. Heh heh. [sweating profusely]

I meant to have another game out and to have paid readings available by now--that is still part of the plan. What was meant for June will be in July. So this blog might go from 0 to 100 mph real soon, to move along with plans as intended!

I was loosely inspired by the Baker pride flag from 1978 for this group selection. These piles are pretty nondescript: each one contains a random message that may resonate with you. Pick based on whichever color of the Prism Oracle speaks to you most, and feel free to choose more than one. Take only what resonates.

Pile 1 - Strength (Red) Pile 2 - Happiness (Orange) Pile 3 - Illumination (Yellow) Pile 4 - Movement (Green) Pile 5 - Flow (Turquoise) Pile 6 - Trust (Blue) Pile 7 - Intuition (Violet) Pile 8 - Love (Pink)

Pile 1 - Strength (Red)

10 of Swords, Insight

You've been asked by the universe to put up with a lot, especially recently. You're reaching a finish line of a very long and brutal marathon. There have been too many times where you questioned whether or not to throw in the towel. If you have, you may also have questioned whether or not it was the correct choice. Sometimes, things don't work out, and it's better to move on. It can be difficult to hold everything up when one thing after another seems to fall apart at the seams, but either way you're being reminded of the light at the end of this long and turbulent tunnel.

Collect yourself, pick up what pieces you can. Time has shifted everything, but the essentials still stand. Gather the wisdom you have learned from this ordeal. There is still beauty to be found in the decay, glittering gems in the rough.

Maybe you don't want to get stronger. Healing may feel like a better option than grinding for difficult experience points. Give yourself the rest and repair you need. Let go of only that which is keeping you from starting again, but you don't need to throw the baby out with the bathwater. You've gained so much wisdom and strength, this trial wasn't without gain. Treasure it and begin anew.

Pile 2 - Happiness (Orange)

2 of Swords, Clarity

Whatever answers you seek are coming to you. Or perhaps they've already arrived; open your eyes and see for yourself. You may be wondering which path will satisfy you more. The process of reconciling this could take forever unless you lean on your gut here. This can't be decided based on intellect alone, for you could get stuck mulling it over for days. Imagining all the different possible outcomes could be taxing for your brain, so narrow it down. Eliminate the weakest links and home in on what excites you. It should feel like an "aha, yes!"

If you cannot see the answer right away, go within to the realm of imagination. Feel your way through. Visualize not just with sight but with yearning. Does the light of the sun make you feel hopeful? Does the cool rain make you feel relaxed? Would an art class expand your capacity to imagine many things, or would taking a science class?

The X mark in 2 of Swords is like a railroad crossing sign. Redirect that train of thought into brighter and more positive avenues of expression. Say "what if" as if you can't wait for something to happen. "What if I saw a shooting star tonight? What if my cute neighbor asked me out?" Let the future shine its beacon for you. It will all make sense in due time.

Pile 3 - Illumination (Yellow)

Ace of Cups, Reconciliation

Have you been staying up way too late trying to figure everything out? Please give yourself a brain curfew: no problem solving or saving the day after 10 pm! I'm getting that you may tend to ruminate on the same strong emotions. For some I'm getting that there is a crush here. There's inconsistent text messaging. I know it's easy to get too nervous about their reply, but try to wait until at least the next day to hear back. They may need time to formulate their words right. They may not even see your message straight away. Take it all in stride and sleep on it; if they want to reach out to you, then they eventually will.

For others in this pile, you may be going through a rough patch with another person right now and could be wondering how things will pan out. Give them time to respond, they could still be processing it. Stay on the more positive end of things with the idea that things will work themselves out. I feel like if you can manage this in a relaxed and non hurried way, the knot will untangle easily. The coffee in the Ace of Cups is very hot, so give it a chance to cool.

There is opportunity in your near future to make up for something that went awry due to a miscommunication error. You may get a chance to make up for a test, appointment, or an interview. You will receive grace for any mishaps. Remember that tomorrow won't necessarily be the same as today, so cherish both the good you have now along with the good that soon awaits you.

Pile 4 - Movement (Green)

IX Hermit, Devotion

Looks like things are progressing faster than you even thought they would. You may be blinking your eyes in partial disbelief: could this ball really be rolling? Indeed, thanks to your efforts, goals are being met and results are more evident by the day. You eschewed a lot of distractions to make this work, so give yourself a pat on the back for the level of commitment you put into it. Some of you in this pile may have just graduated, if so then congratulations! But try not to get too comfortable with your laurels, for you have a long road ahead of you in whatever you do next. This one completion is the start of many.

Does that thrill you? If so, wonderful! On the other hand, some of you may be feeling uncertain about continuing. You may be reviewing your options to see if this really is worth pursuing. Something that requires a lot of dedication and focus on it to the exclusion of all else… yeah, I can see how that can get tiring after a long time. There are folks who can get their Master's right after their Bachelor's, or have another child right after the first, but people can also happily move on to what feels more right for them instead.

It's okay to stop and assess your tracks if necessary. Taking time off is not the same as quitting. It's not losing motivation, it's recovering it. This is your passion and your discipline, not anyone else's. If you need to give other parts of your life more room to breathe, then do so with the confidence that your great work will wait for you.

Pile 5 - Flow (Turquoise)

4 of Wands, Hospitality

Have you been stuck with something for a while? There's a strong sense of a blockage that is being eroded away over time. This process can be sped up by allowing the ice to thaw a little more. "Break the ice." You may be wanting to open up and spend more quality time with other people but don't know how. Or you could be faced with meeting new people and being nervous about interacting with them. Even more so if they're roommates. A few people in this pile could be moving or have just moved. This is a chance to ease up and get to know new people.

This blockage could be a result of the past and of anxiety. The sound of a turning doorknob just jumpscared me as I typed the last sentence. You may benefit from learning about social anxiety and how to manage it. It's not an overnight job for you to fix this, though, but to just be aware of it and not allow it to get in the way of positive change in your life.

If you're struggling to figure out how to deal with meeting new people, I would suggest looking up videos or how-tos on social interaction, especially if a certain etiquette is required for an event. Learn about conversation starters and fun things you could do together like hosting a game night. Practice makes perfect, and over time the blockage will melt into the stream.

Pile 6 - Trust (Blue)

3 of Swords, Conversion

You have a very soft and tender outlook on life, which makes it all the more painful when reality doesn't conform to such a compassionate vision. It doesn't always try to respond to vulnerability in appropriate ways. Much of the time, this isn't from natural events as much as it stems from the ways in which people can treat one another cruelly. You've had some toxic people in your life who have put you through the wringer and attempted to squeeze every ounce of kindness they could from you. Making light of this pain to them only resulted in further deflection and antagonism on their part. The only outcome was to salvage whatever you could and pray for the best.

It is not your job to change their closed minded perspectives. They're on their own, here. Do not concern yourself with their messy inner world and lose any more of your energy. Also, do not attempt to regain what energy has been lost through bargaining either, as much as it hurts to press onward without looking back. You will recover, but you have to move on first and prioritize what you deeply care about most (you included).

There will come a time when your heart will be healed so you can see the brighter side of human connection again. All the beauty that your gentle soul is seeking is still there, shrouded by layers of protective petals that will one day bloom again and your life will truly flourish. For now, this is a time to give yourself all the comfort you can.

Pile 7 - Intuition (Violet)

XII Hanged Man, Spring

I get the feeling that you've been waiting quite a while for some good results to come in. This could either be from something that you started back in the spring, or are waiting to see results which may come around springtime. It is a season of flowers, so you may be waiting for this thing to blossom--that is, to be fully presentable to the public in some way. To have something to show for the time you put in. Like "hey, this is what I've been working on, this came from the seeds I planted." It could be growing in a direction unlike what you're used to, leaving you wondering how it could succeed in such unusual and burdensome conditions.

Lean on your inner guidance when it comes to the right timing. I don't believe that you're currently in a space where you need to push so hard for the best results. You can let things move at their own pace. Over tending to anything can end up in just as much trouble as neglect. There's only so much you can do before you have to let the flower do the growing and blooming for itself.

It's not always easy to sit in the place of uncertainty with the idea that doing more will provide more. But sometimes less is more. What you're creating is coming to fruition and may even turn out better than you expected. Trust in both the knowledge you've earned over time from learning lessons, as well as your natural intuition, to help you decide when it's time to take action.

Pile 8 - Love (Pink)

7 of Swords, Gossip

Let your heart lead the way here, not your worries over what others will think. Sure, you may end up with some people talking about you, but opportunities will keep passing by if you wait for everyone else to catch up to you. Leaning too much on everyone else's perspectives will only distort the vision you have for your own life journey. We all have unique journeys to go on, but unconditional kindness remains at the center of the Love card, the one thing that brings us together. Following life from a heart centered place may result in having others glance over and whisper, but that shouldn't distract you.

There is a rather delicate message here about dealing with friendships, colleagues, or possibly even family. You may have a tricky situation between several other people right now who have beef not with you but with each other. They may be coming to you to air their grievances and ask for advice.

If you care about both of these people, then it's best to approach this issue as diplomatically and impartially as possible and avoid feeding into the conflict. What would an enlightened mindset do in this situation? How would you want the other person to behave if they were in your shoes? Come from a place of pure compassion. They may choose to make amends or not, it's up to them. If their butting heads is bringing you down, it's always okay to step back and take a break. You are not responsible for what's going on in their heart, only your own, so protect yours well.

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2024, @VitaminseeTarot ™

[psblooms]

"난 너한테 뭐길래?"

now playing: ghosting ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ 1:24 ───ㅇ───── 3:43

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིˎˊ˗ angst sim jaeyun x fem! reader works word count: 754 content: implied drinking, situationships, ghosting (obviously)

note: my first official song fic (this was actually written like 2 years ago but not as a fic and I decided too put it here I hope you like it)

it was 2 am on a rainy summer night. and while everyone was enjoying their last month before going away for college, you were rolling in the warm comforter far from asleep. it can be blamed on the humid warm weather, or the noise of rain hitting the window. or rather, in the fact that the “person you were seeing in a maybe romantic light” had not answered your last text from eight hours ago and hadn't seen him in the previous two days.

in any other moment, this situation wouldn't be of importance to you and your overthinking mind, both you and jake were not the type to talk every day and be in constant contact with each other; but this time, you knew (or both of them knew) it was something different.

"are we okay?" said the last text you sent on the chat.  

you knew you had to give him some time, after all, you were the one who brought up the situation you were stuck in now. but still, the uneasy feeling in your insides was making rounds in your mind:

"Were you in the right place to bring it up?"

"what's going to happen to us now?"

your friends told you it was the right thing to do, they were on her side after plenty of sleepless nights wondering; but now, she had started to question everything. you did it to stop with the uncertainties of this relationship, to know where the both of you stand. and right now, you can no longer know if there is even a both of you.  

"what are we?" you asked finally in a loud enough voice trying to sound confident in an unpredictable place.

the night and the moon in a random house party were the only witnesses of the question, of the nervousness you felt, and of the surprised expression in jakes face.

you have always been an overthinker, everybody was aware of it.

it was not enough for you to open the messaging app every thirty minutes after sending that text, just to pretend she didn't care to not find an answer after trying to busy herself in those few minutes.

your brain refused to shut down for the day just as every night for the past two days hoping to catch a glimpse of the idea of jake thinking about you. even if you wanted to get used to waiting for an answer and consoling yourself thinking that maybe he was not using his phone and was not avidly ignoring you, the fact that you got to see a photo of the sunset sky before the rain came into town in his new post with the caption "the sky is so beautiful tonight". only added to your insomnia and overthinking.

it could pretty much be a coincidence, but after many sleepless nights on the phone with him talking about your fascination with the sky and your constant existential questions he was a listener of; it felt like he was talking to you.

which was a stupid thought to have, if he wanted to talk to you he would've answered that text.

you really started to regret ever even asking that question because here you are now - not talking- but deep down you knew it was the thing you needed to do. "what am I to you?" was the only thing you could think about after he kissed you last week.

It's three am now, and your mind is still replaying the last conversation you had, wondering if there was a sign of a breakup in it, honestly you didn't know where to find it. you didn't even know if that was a break-up.

what was there to break?

you were never something formal, and that was the problem. there were some dates, some kisses, and some drunk I love yous; there were the holding hands and the driving you home late at night, there were the midnight facetimes and the sleepy soft encouraging words. but there was never any implication of a committed relationship.

"are we okay?" you re-read the text for the hundredth time.

and at that moment, you found it, the sign you were looking for was right there, you spent so many minutes hating and blaming yourself for the situation you were in that you weren't able to see there was in fact, an answer.

"no answer" and "unread" that was it.

just like that. he had disappeared from her life,

just like a ghost.

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Secondhand News

John Price/ plus size F!OC

John Price chases after his sergeants sister, a soft and sweet wildlife rehabilitator in the rural south.

Tags: domestic fluff, critters, poor flirting, and eventual smut. There is also some background romance between the rest of the 141. Please Enjoy <3

Price bounces gently in the back seat of the old SUV, his hand curled over the rain guard from where his arm hangs out of the window. Content to let the warm wind wash over him as they speed down the bumpy gravel road to Darren’s home.  Pleased to see the landscape shift from seemingly endless plains of agricultural fields and miles of 2-lane highway, to dense and muggy bottomland filled with oaks and hardy cypress.

Ghost is sitting passenger, mask temporarily pulled down, scarred lips pulled into a knowing smile as he watches Darren fuss stubbornly with the worn out radio. Ghost eventually grows tired of the annoying swap between static and too loud classic rock, giving the knob a quick smack. He reaches over, tugging at Darren’s ear. “Jus’ listen to the wind.” he chastises warmly. Rolling his own window further for added effect. Darren wrinkles his nose in displeasure, growing antsy in his excitement to get home, but holding back his chatter. Price gives him about 5 minutes before he touches the radio again. 

This was a well needed “vacation.” Rather, they had been bullied into taking temporary leave, signed and expedited by Laswell herself before the boys could get swept up in another ultranationalist regime. They had been running for months, beaten and exhausted after Makarov. The near miss with Soap had worn heavily on them all, and another group was being pulled online to clean up the aftermath. After a few weeks of huddling with Soap,  John had intended to go home to his empty flat in Liverpool, drink himself silly and wait for a call, maybe binge the football games he'd missed in the chaos. Pay his mum a visit. 

However it had been Darren’s casual offer that brought him to this portion of the rural united states. Darren, the last to join his task force. A good friend and former teammate of Alex Keller. Price had been pleased with the man’s skills, stealing him like he had done with the others, and Darren’s presence had been invaluable in the hunt for Makarov, securing himself as part of the team as well as snuggling him in just as nicely with his other teammates.

Darren spoke fondly of his home, particularly of his baby sister, whom he fretted for and praised in equal measure. “Ruby’s sharp, smarter than me by a long shot,” he tells them, the 5 of them crammed into their favorite booth of the local pub, “She’s just on her own out there, I know she does just fine, but still.”

Price knew of her, had met her before, years ago at an awards ceremony. She was a pretty thing, all big soft curves and dark freckles on her round cheeks. He’d stolen her to his side most of the night, dancing and laughing, but circumstance had them parting without exchanging contact. Their time together had been brief, but he’d be lying if hadn't layed in bed that evening, hand on his cock as he thought about how the pretty warm thing would sound mewling underneath him. 

And maybe some more nights after that. 

Price had listened intently when Darren spoke of her. From what he could gather, she was in fact doing just fine. Having been the first to snag a college degree, something to do with animal sciences if he remembered correctly. According to Darren she ran her own small scale wildlife rehab. “Nuthin’ crazy, mostly just the critters folks find hurt or without their mommas” he’d explained in his soft southern drawl. Showing them videos of a fawn trying and failing to walk over his home’s hardwood floors, as a familiar feminine voice encouraged the babe to give it another go, biting off giggles somewhere off camera.

Her laugh was just as sweet as Price remembered, and he’d decided then and there that he would travel to the asscrack of southern america just to hear it again. 

It had already been discussed that Soap and Gaz would go to London, spend some time with Gaz’s family while Soap waited for his checkup with a neurologist.  Darren would return to his shared home with said sister, Ghost in tow. “You should come too Cap, take a break for a while, it’s outta the way, and we got plenty of space. Ru won't mind!” he’d beamed. 

Price had pretended to contemplate before agreeing in mock reluctance, hiding his smirk behind his glass as he downed the rest of his scotch. Sure, why not?

Price’s attention is pulled again as Darren makes another turn down an unmarked road. They trundle along the long gravel drive, through the trees until a house blooms into few. 

It’s a two-story, rustic looking thing, with off-white paneling, and dark shingles. The paint is chipping and weeds grow tall around the foundation. What looks to be tractor tires lay on their sides in the front yard, acting as makeshift flower beds for soft purple irises and yellow coneflowers. He figures the place has been around long enough to see several generations come and go. 

Price watches curiously as a gaggle of guinea fowl mosey around the front yard, pecking at the ground, unperturbed as the 3 men pile out of Darren’s vehicle. It’s quiet, save for the sound of rustling trees and the soft clucking of more fowl in the back. However, it only takes one slam of the car door to shatter the peace. A loud and vicious snarling and barking comes from inside the home. Something large and apparently very displeased knocking itself against the windows and door of the old house. Price half readies himself as the front door opens, a bulky gray pitbull barreling out and launching over the steps entirely in its haste to reach the men. 

The slobbering dog’s demeanor rapidly shifts from violent snarls to whining excitement as he recognizes Darren.  Lacking a tail to waggle, the dog’s whole ass-end shakes wildly as it bounces and sneezes around the sergeant, leaning against Darren’s legs bodily.

“Hey, Blue” Darren chuckles, leaning down to give the goofy dog a pat.   

Blue breaks away, wiggles turning shy as it snuffles carefully at Simon and Price’s boots, dodging away intermittently at any shift in movement, only to get distracted and start bouncing again as Darren coos. Simon is the first to earn the pup’s trust, angling his body away slightly and crouching. Hands clasped in front of him as he lets the dog get some more sniffs of his t-shirt, eventually Blue settles his heavy head on Simon’s tattooed forearm, trembling slightly in excitement as Simon gives him a rub between the ears. 

Next was John, who also crouches, offering a hand palm down for the beast to sniff. The dog obliges, standing stock still as it investigates very seriously. Snuffling with the fervor of a hog at every inch of Price. Eventually Blue sucks in one long drawn out whiff, gears turning as he processes.

The moments tick by as Blue finalizes his decision. Giving an answer in the form of a big bodily sneeze to the captain’s hand. 

Scan complete: Test passed. 

Pleased, the goofy mutt circles him happily, leaning most of his weight onto John’s legs as he stands. The white’s of Blue’s eyes visible as he cranes his head back to stare at John, wishful for a pat. Of which John obliges after wiping the snot from his hand with a good natured laugh.

“Blue!! Sorry he's a slob!” comes an apologetic call in the distance.

John looks up, heart fluttering like a teenager at the sight.

There she is. His pretty thing, swinging her way out the door and into the yard, looking slightly embarrassed. John tries not to stare at the way her soft body bounces as she trots down the steps. 

Darren is quick to snag her up in a bear hug, squeezing her hard enough to knock the wind out of her. She returns with equal fervor, the pair of them grunting with the force of it before setting her down, ruffling her hair to be a shithead for added effect.

She's just as he remembered her, standing a foot or so shorter than her brother. Bulky in the shoulders like him too, albeit much softer. All of her is really, with round freckled cheeks framed by wavy red hair that spilled down her back. Full frame on display in a plain tank and shorts for the humid summer air. 

She fixes her hair with a huff, elbowing Darren sharply before grinning at the men with an innocent smile. Fucking adorable. John can't help but smile back. 

Darren makes reintroductions, gesturing between them. 

“I’m tickled to see you boys again.” she chimes, and John wastes no time, stepping closer and offering a hand.  

“We appreciate the hospitality, Miss Martin” John replies warmly, his eyes crinkling in the corners as she accepts. Price’s hand engulfs hers, and he gives her a gentle squeeze, holding on a bit longer than necessary, taking brief pleasure in the way her cheeks flush. 

“Ruby’s just fine” she corrects with scrunch of her nose, pulling her hand away to greet Ghost as well.  “Sorry about this, I promise I got manners. Darri just told me you guys would be in later.” she says pointedly, giving Darren a look. The soft drawl of her accent was more prominent than her brothers, melodic and laid-back in a way that put Price at ease. 

“But I did fetch groceries” she chimes, jabbing a thumb to the black SUV. “Just got back with em’, just need them loaded inside and I can fix us some lunch. You okay with sandwiches Captain?”

“Just John” he corrects easily, “And that sounds perfect.”

“Well alright ‘Just John’, gimme a hand?” she fires back, “You two also, more hands is less work and this midday heat is the worst”

John gives her a curt nod, glancing at Darren who is giving him an unreadable look, and Simon who eyes him knowingly over Darren’s shoulder.

-

John stares at the back of the SUV. The woman had quite literally bought enough groceries to feed a whole army. Not to mention the extra large sacks filled with various feed for the animals. John wasted no time loading as many plastic sacks along his arms as he could, Darren and Simon following suit.  Hauling them in without a sound and dropping them on the kitchen table before fetching more. Ruby hurriedly putting away groceries as an assembly line of men deposited plastic bags along the floor. 

John also loads the bags of feed over his shoulders dutifully, trotting back inside, Simon close behind. 

“Oh, hey! I just needed the groceries in, I could’ve got that!” she exclaims upon seeing them, eyes wide as both men stand there. Carrying the bags with easy expressions, as if they weighed nothing at all. 

“Well I’ve got them, now where do they need to go miss?”

“Ruby” she corrects again, moving closer as if to take them herself. Neither one of them budge. 

“Okay, where do these need to go Miss Ruby?” he tries again, cracking a smile at her exasperated expression. 

Ruby shoos them outside, pointing to a corner of the porch for them to be deposited, before herding them back inside and to finally sit down at her small round kitchen table. 

The kitchen is outdated, with old floral wallpaper, and several well worn rugs placed over scuffed laminate flooring.  Faded red plaid curtains hang in the window, illuminating the plethora of cherry themed knick knacks and kitchenware she has displayed along the tops of her cabinets and countertops. He finds himself charmed by the cozyness of it, a welcome change from off white walls and overhead lights. 

Darren sits between them, chatting lightly about how the place was once his aunts, passed down to them after she met that fella in vegas. Price's eyes flicker between Darren and the pretty thing puttering around in the kitchen beside him. He loses himself a bit in fantasy, thinking how she would look with a ring on her finger, or wearing his clothes. He wonders if she loves antique malls and shady hole-in-the-wall burger joints. 

One step at a time. If Price could do nothing else, he could certainly execute a plan. He would just need to tread carefully. This was one of his sergeant’s siblings after all. 

He continues his scan, looking for more clues when a rather curious sound hits his ears. He shifts his attention behind him, watching Ruby pluck store bought grapes from the vine and into a bowl with various other cut up fruits. She examines each one, placing the grapes she deems suitable onto the tray and lowering the unwanted grapes into what he assumed to be a trash can at first. However, shortly after she brings her hand back, a loud and intense smacking follows, seemingly coming from the kitchen floor.

For a split second he is about to tell her it isn't good to feed dogs grapes before Blue comes waddling around the corner, looking properly dejected. The smacking, however, continues, making his brows furrow. 

What the hell?

Was there another dog he hadn't spotted?

Price sits up straighter in his chair, straining to see around the little mobile kitchen island. By now the noise has caught everyone’s attention.  He gives Darri a questioning look, who only meets him with a mischievous grin, shrugging his shoulders. Look for yourself. 

Curiosity gets the better of him, and Price eases himself up, leaning around the kitchen island carefully to finally spot the noisy offender. 

Chomping messily on the kitchen mat is a chubby little thing, with wirey white and grey fur, tinges of pink painting the tip of its little black ears. Its white mouth stained pink from its fruit eating. Is that a bloody possum?  It rises to its haunches, tugging at Ruby’s pant leg insistently before she lowers it another piece of fruit. It’s tiny pinky fingers snagging it clumsily before it shovels the fruit into its maw, chewing with comically loud smacks and tilting its little head back to help the food slide down.  Blue sits around the corner moping,  waiting patiently for his own grape that Ruby forbids in a soft voice. 

Price watches Ruby wrinkle her nose as pieces of fruit fall in a sticky mess to the floor before clearing his throat politely.

The redhead jumps at the noise, whirling to face him with wide eyes. She stands sheepishly, frozen as her eyes flick between Price and the very obvious possum sitting on her kitchen floor. 

She presses her lips together firmly, trying to seal in her laughter as she takes in Price’s bewildered expression. He raises a brow at her, tilting his head to the side in question, and stifled giggles break into a laugh, full and loud, the force of it making her soft body shake. Price laughs too, easing a little closer to get a better look.

“Y’gonna tell me what you got there? Or was I not supposed to see em’?”

“Well you see” she drawls, like a child trying to explain why she shouldn't get in trouble. ”I was gonna give a more formal introduction, but the little shit snuck in once he heard the plastic crinkinlin’.” she laughs, scooping the animal up with a flourish and stepping closer to Price. “This is Cotton, got him when he was just a baby. He’s not fit to go back into the wild, so he just stays with me, does ambassador stuff for the Game and Fish when they need him.” she explains, bouncing the giant rat in her arms like a baby. 

She shifts him to her soft hip, its pink tail twisting around her arm for security as it snuffles the air.  Ruby scoots close enough for Price to smell the shampoo in her hair, flashing him a grin and swearing Cotton doesn't bite (most of the time). Price studies the animal with an amused expression, letting it sniff his hand before scritching between his ears. He’s much softer than Price expected, the critter grabbing at his hand with cold little fingers, presumably looking to see if he has more fruit to part with.

Price watches as she takes a little tour to the table. Darren giving the possum a familiar, too rough scrub to the head before Ruby rounds to show Ghost. As she approaches the little bastard wiggles from her arms and onto the broad soldier. Scrabbling onto Ghost's shoulders and snuffling in his ears and hair. 

Ruby begins to panic, reaching for Cotton frantically, but Ghost holds up a hand, utterly unphased. He sits still, letting the little beast inspect him for a moment before snagging Cotton by the scruff and plopping him in his arms. There is a little amused huff from the large man, who lets the possum settle against his chest as if it were a house cat and not an oversized rodent. 

Price smiles at the sight. 

What a fun stay this will be.

Next

[charlottecutepie]

☥ Bunny meat (William Afton x fem!reader x Michael Afton)

Summary: He was a likeable middle-aged man who had wonderful children, his dream job and a beautiful wife. He never blamed himself for his own actions, or to be more exact, he never thought about their consequences.

author note: Ive been thinking for a very long time whether I should publish this fic here. this is my fav fic I wrote for fnaf, I especially like the way I portrayed William here. so please, if any of you would like to see this story here, can you leave a comment? It’ll help me to understand. I’m just unsure if I should post this fic here :’’)

tags: darkfic, unhealthy relationship, angst, smut with plot, p in v, dubcon, oral sex, rough and gentle sex, daddy kink, blood play, knife play, fear play, hurt/comfort, violence, gore/murders, child abuse, follows fnaf lore, moral and physical abuse, virginity kink, anxiety disorder, age gap, daddy issues, unreliable narrator, hallucinations, hidden pairing, William is sick, psychopathy, unhealthy narcissism

Chapter 2.

Chapter 1. Thoughts

Chilly spring night. Light wind and rain. It's so fresh outside that the opposite effect appears: you feel as if you are suffocating from excess air. Outside is your favourite smell of wet grass after the rain. Light smile appears on your lips, and you carelessly go out on the porch of your house, looking at the beautiful view in front of you.

At such moments, everything around seems to be a part of you, you feel some kind of connection with nature and this world. Peace, tranquility, two things what you lack in life.

Today was a bad day. Maybe tomorrow will be better? Tomorrow will be the same. And when will it be better? Does this hell have an end?

Your head is filled with bad thoughts. It feels like every day is getting a little worse than the previous one. You never understood why you deserved such treatment from your father. It was as if he was doing everything so that you wouldn't feel like his daughter. He never even called you that. Something bad happened in your family every day, mom and dad always argued, and you always ran into your room in a state of panic, anxiety. What if father does something to her? That's what happened a few years ago. When you called your aunt in tears, begging her to come, because your father broke your mom's leg and beat her to a concussion. You could have been next if your aunt hadn't arrived on time. That evening, the picture of father changed dramatically in your little child's head.

“Father” means something cold, something cruel. The one who can punch, beat, shout, scream. Abuse.

You live with this thought to this day, but the only thing that has changed is that now there is no father anymore. He died a month ago, which was a shock to your whole little family. You hardly remember what happened exactly on the day of his death, but you clearly memorised your mother who cried all night because she knew well that the only one who could work to feed the family was her husband.

And now, because of this husband she cannot find a well-paid job, because he took care to provide her with a serious disability. And you're too young to work, first you must finish school and university.

Your skin was covered with goosebumps, you went back into the house. Passing by mom's room, you made sure that she was asleep and went to your own one.

Tomorrow is another day.

…

June 22.

“Y/n, breakfast is ready.” you heard mom's voice from the kitchen. Telling her you'd be coming soon, you headed to the bathroom to comb your hair and wash your face.

On the dining table you saw a plate with your favorite breakfast. Pancakes with honey, it couldn't not make you happy. You smiled and sat down opposite your mom. Woman was in a joyful mood.

“Good morning, dear, how did you sleep?” she asked gently, examining your face expression. That's how your conversation started, about everything and nothing at once. She told something about her plans for today, for a week, about her friends, about how one of them gave birth again. You just enjoyed her monologue, sometimes nodding and shaking your head. It was nice for you to see a sparkle in mom's eyes, it was something strange and unique for you, but warming soul. “I absolutely forgot that soon is your birthday!”

“Oh, really? If you hadn't told me, I wouldn't have remembered…” you answered in confusion, fidgeting in your chair and twitching your leg. For some reason, the mention of your birthday made you uncomfortable. Probably because it will be your first birthday without your father. After all, when he was alive, you never really celebrated it. The maximum that was — sweets that your mother gave you in secret from him. You wonder what will happen this time?

“How are we going to celebrate?” Mom asked, smile on her face.

You looked at the floor, nervously fiddling with your shorts. You scratched your head, trying to think of something, but no idea came to mind. Your thoughts are empty again.

“It's your 18th birthday… We need to celebrate it well somehow.” for a second she paused, before looking at you with cheerful face. “Oh… Mr. Afton!”

Your eyes widened in surprise, because after the funeral, your family stopped communicating with Afton family.

“Mom, what are you up to?” you frowned. To be honest, you always got shivers running down your spine from his name, because your last meeting was at that cemetery, on the day of your father's funeral. Memories have entered your mind, forcing you to remember your last dialogue with Mr. Afton.

After the burial itself happened, you ran away from the crowd away. Your heart was racing like crazy, trying to jump out of your chest. You sat down on a wet bench, covering your face in hysterics. Tears streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto a puddle under the bench.

“Young lady,” a low-pitched male voice called you out of hysteria. “Everything is okay? You've been sitting here for hour.”

You opened your eyes and raised your head. Next to you was standing was a tall, middle-aged man with dark brown hair, dressed in black trousers and a jacket. He leaned towards you, holding an umbrella over your head. His face seemed painfully familiar, but because of the hysteria, you couldn't remember who it was.

“Oh god, Y/n? I didn't recognize you, little one. Why are you sitting here all alone?” he smiled broadly as he sat down next to you on the bench, still holding the umbrella for you. “Your mom is looking for you, she's so worried. Her beloved girl is lost.”

You recognised this man. It was none other than William Afton. One of your father's friends, he often came to visit you, and your family also visited him. You were embarrassed by ignoring his questions because you didn't know what to respond. He's been staring at your face the whole time.

“Come on, princess, I see how cold you are.” with these words, he took off his jacket, putting it on your shoulders. “I understand how hard it is for you, honey.”

You haven't received so many nicknames from any men for all your 17 years of life. Never, not once. His voice at some point began to seem more comfortable and soothing. Because of all the surging emotions, you burst into tears again in front of him, no longer hiding your face. William, not wasting a minute, threw umbrella and took you in his arms, so that your face was hidden in his chest. His cold hands stroked your hair, soothing you, calming you. It may have looked strange from out of context, but you really needed support in such hard moment.

“Don't cry, Y/n. You'll be fine, little one.” he talked and talked endlessly, but because of your own tears and sobs, you ignored everything, only burying your nose in his chest more.

“He's the owner of a pizzeria! Do you want to celebrate there? I'm sure he'll give us a discount in honor of such an event.” her smile never disappeared for a second. You were already beginning to doubt at how real her emotions were.

“Are you sure? We don't have much money anyway…”

“Never mind, I want you to finally have the best birthday, dear.” she winked and got up from the table, putting the plates and mugs in the sink.

Your lips curled at the thought of having to see William again.

[phyrestartr]

Till Death Do Us Part (Miguel x Reader)

Miguel x Husband!Reader W/C: 9.5k

#NSFW, exhibitionist kink, praise kink, hurt/comfort, infidelity, toxic relationships, brief verbal abuse, mending relationships, mentions of medication, mentions of mental illness, difficult/complex feelings and emotions, things work out in the end, nobody dies, the zombies aren't that important, old men just really going through it

Note: I cried a lot writing this lol please also cry and enjoy! (I also tried my best with the Spanish and tried to reference good sources, but I apologize if it sounds whack lol I only know EN and JP o(--( )

-- Till Death Do Us Part --

"(Name), where the fuck are you?" Miguel ran his hand through his hair as he watched the news, as he stared outside at the cascade of chaos. He waited for you to pick up the phone. He'd already called so many times, but you weren't picking up. Why weren't you fucking picking up? 

"Miguel, he's probably fine," Dana cooed as her arms looped around him from behind. "You need to worry about what we're gonna do." 

Miguel shook his head and shoved Dana's arms off of him. "Our daughter–Gabriella–" 

"You mean our daughter?" Her tone was vile. So, so fucking vile.

"Shut up," Miguel barked before ripping the phone from his ear when your voicemail picked up again. He shot you another text, asking where you were before his fidgety fingers scrolled the log up and down, cruelly reminding himself of the messages he'd ignored from you just a few days ago. 

November 18th 7:04am babe come home 7:04am please 12:19pm we can talk about it  12:20pm we'll figure it out 12:46pm gabi misses you 9:34pm call me tomorrow

November 19th 7:35am you still ignoring me? 7:40am gabi wants to call you 7:41am you gonna answer if it's her? 8:05am i'll tell her you're busy with work 9:50pm i miss you

November 21st  9:56pm call me

November 23rd 12:01am i shot someone  12:01am i had to 12:01am but i can't stop thinking about it  12:32am i need you  1:12am please 2:07am miguel

November 30th 7:16am miggs shit's crazy outside 7:17am lock the doors, don't let anyone inside 7:17am maybe stock up on food first idk this might take a while  7:18am but DON'T help anyone who's bit or injured 7:19am they evacuated gabi's school but i don't fucking know where they're going 7:19am i'm gonna find her, i promise 7:20am i love you. stay safe.

December 2nd  3:05am i love you 3:06am i'm sorry

Miguel rubbed his eyes. He sped past his own wall of text starting from that day, December 3rd, and sent another plea, another wish that you'd respond back sooner than a week from now.

"Oh my God, just give it up–" 

"Dana, shut the fuck up, just shut up." 

He called you again. 

And this time, you answered. 

Miguel's heart jumped. "(Name)?" 

"Babe?" You sounded like you were panting, like you were straining against something. "Are–are you okay? Where are you?" A string of coughs punched out of your lungs in rough staccato, pinching Miguel's nerves with every ghastly beat. He was scared. He was so fucking scared. 

"I--I'm," Miguel stammered, still unable to have that conversation, still too much of a coward in the end. "Does it matter?" 

"Just keep the doors locked," you continued. "Keep 'em locked, and…and I dunno if you're in a tower or a house or fucking whatever, but don't leave until things get quiet." You picked yourself up from the ground, Miguel could tell by the scratch of gravel echoing wherever you were. "Don't get bit. Don't help anyone who is bit. Put yourselves first." 

"But, I–you–do you have Gabi?" Panic gripped his throat as jets flew overhead, high above the city. The engines roared a gruesome apology, a sound Ouranos himself must have made when his own children slew him, so filled with godly enmity. 

Then, molten death rained on the city. Miguel stared at roaring explosions dotting the cityscape, watching pillars of flame feed into the world's chaos. His hands trembled when the same carnage screeched through your phone. 

"I'll find her. I-I promise, Miguel, I'll find her and--and I'll–shit."  

There was gunfire. Gunfire encased in wild snarling. It devoured the crack of plastic hitting concrete, the noises you gasped out, the–

Silence.

Miguel hated his mind. He hated how it remembered that one moment so clearly, like it'd happened just a minute before the present. Sometimes, when he felt like torturing himself more, he wondered what your face looked like in those last moments. He wondered where your life flickered out. He wondered when he'd see you stumbling through the streets and have to put a bullet in your head. 

But he'd force good memories to the surface when he found the light growing too dim; that confession and first kiss, starry nights spent lazing on the hood of your jeep, the look on your face when you finally held little Gabriella for the first time–it all chased away the darkness. It all made him feel whole again, it let him see clearly again. But with clarity came the difficulty of accepting what he'd lost.

He found a way to do it. He found a way to talk about you, too. It was hard not to–your old colleagues, other officers of the lost world, were an integral part of the Alchemax colony. Jeff Morales and George Stacy, amongst a few others, had known you, and by proxy they knew Miguel.

"He was a good guy," Jeff had mentioned when the moment felt right. "Bragged about having the best-looking and smartest partner around. Now, I ain't gonna say he was right, but he wasn't wrong." That brought warmth to Miguel's chest, but guilt smothered it too quickly. 

"Never stopped talking about your daughter either." George smiled when he recalled it, but it was something small and morose. "Gabriella, right? Yeah, he said she was a smart cookie. Kind of a brat, apparently, but hey, with that guy as her father? Hah! I'm not surprised." 

Miguel liked having them around. He liked the happy memories they brought to your name.

But on bad days, vulnerable days, Miguel wanted to break their necks and watch them turn so he could kill them again in their undeath; they still had their children, their families. How could they bring up what he'd lost while they still had everything? 

Today was one of those days, too, one where your memory hurt just a little more than usual. Maybe it came with the snow whirling in the blue-drenched outdoors, or the sudden darkness the world lost itself in. But he knew the frostbite decaying his heart came from the eternal proof of your lost existence:

December 2nd  3:05am i love you 3:06am i'm sorry

Why did you apologize? Miguel sighed, and carded a hand through his hair as he paced Alchemax's halls. Enough of that, Miguel. You need to focus. Focus. 

And once he stepped foot in the control room, the routine morning check commenced: doors remained sealed with no record of tampering, security cameras still functioned, the solar panels still collected more than enough light to keep things rolling. Good. Perfect. 

"Hey, hey, how's it lookin'?" Peter asked, a cup of coffee in one hand and his little girl tucked in the other arm. It would've been a wholesome sight, if Peter hadn't ruined it with a too-loud slurp from his mug. Ugh. 

"Fine," Miguel grumbled. "Everything's in the green. Nothing to worry about." He ran a hand over his face with a sigh. "Just have to clear the snow off the solar panels later today." 

"Oooh, snow! It is that time of the year, huh? December already! Who woulda thought. Time goes by pretty quick when you're not worried about getting eaten all the time." Peter looked at his little May and cooed. "Isn't that right, Mayday?" 

Miguel rolled his eyes fondly and shook his head. "If you're that excited about snow, I'll put you on shovelling duty, Parker." 

"Oh, wow, I'm suddenly deaf and can't hear you." Peter shuffled away in his stupid slippers and stupid bathrobe. "Oh, right, right, MJ made bread! Can you believe it? I feel like I haven't had a bread-carb in forever! We really gotta do another supply run or we're eating canned beans all winter long. Y'know what? I'll put it on the 'to-do' list!" 

Miguel threw a glare at Peter over his shoulder. He was annoying, but he wasn't wrong. They did need more food, more supplies, more ways to sustain themselves. Scavenging the dregs of supermarkets and convenience stores wasn't cutting it anymore; there were too many mouths to feed, and shitty, packaged foods wouldn't suffice much longer.

Miguel braced his hands on the centre console after pulling up a satellite map of the surrounding area. The lab they called home laid nestled away from prying eyes of citizens, making it a safer place to start to rebuild the semblance of a normal life. Though, at the same time, it made it more difficult to get in and out of the city in good time. They had to pick their destination on the map, calculate the time it'd take to get there, and then execute the plan with little to no hiccups. It was hard. It was a pain in the ass. But it had to be done.

Miguel took his time scanning through the map, trying to spot any buildings they hadn't already marked off as empty and not worth the trip. These days, they had to get creative, they had to think of places that'd have food where people wouldn't expect, where the average scavenger wouldn't think to look and–

"Shit," Miguel breathed before rushing to move the map. "How could I forget?"

He spotted a small building on the map, one they'd never ventured to, one they never thought to go to. A chain link fence surrounded the perimeter, giving about five metres worth of breathing room around the building. Clusters of huge garden pots dotted the area randomly, along with whatever outdoor trees and shrubs that'd survived all these years on their own.

Miguel covered his mouth as he smiled.

"You might've just saved us, viejo." 

Because you were a country boy. A farmer's son. 

You convinced (begged) him to pull over, to go to the new garden store that'd appeared not too long ago. Miguel, far too smitten with you, couldn't find the heart to say 'no' to the excitement buzzing in your voice. 

The store was filled with beautiful plants, ranging from common houseplants, to tropical rarities that Miguel never knew existed. All sorts of bushy plants, tall single-leafers, and vining beauties lined the displays and bathed in the gentle, constant mist raining down on them. It really felt like a tropical jungle landed in New York. 

You'd sauntered over to the seed section while Miguel wandered through all the store had to offer before finding you again. You had several sachets in your hands and scanned the shelves for anything else that piqued your interest; they were all vegetable seeds, stuff like corn and green beans, tomatoes and onions, but the occasional herb showed itself as well. 

To Miguel, raising vegetables seemed like a cute hobby. But to you, raising crops meant revisiting your childhood. 

"You wanna get some?" Miguel asked. He looped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as he read all the different seed names on display. 

"Yeah. I mean…maybe. Dunno if a vegetable garden'll go with the house." You laughed softly, a little self-deprecatingly, before you reached to put the packets back. "I just–I don't know." 

"I think it'll work." A smile warmed Miguel's face as pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. "We can make a greenhouse. A big one. In the backyard." He kissed your neck next. "You can show me the farmboy fantasy." 

You laughed, turned in his arms, and kissed him. "Done."

Miguel crept up to the garden centre with Hobie and Gwen in tow. Travelling anywhere from the safe confines of Alchemax was something of a nightmare, but Miguel was used to it–despite being the man who knew how to run the building, he too often volunteered to head out on supply runs himself. He needed the space to think, to feel the darkness they’d found themselves in, and to feel the light of the sun on his skin to remind himself it wasn’t over. Because it was far from over. 

The garden centre was surrounded by chain link fences encircling the entirety of the building, the very same ones Miguel had seen from the satellite’s view. Honestly, he found himself surprised to see just how good the place looked–the windows were mostly intact, the fences hadn’t been torn through, the doors were still sealed, and a row of crippled undead and frozen re-deads dotted the perimeter, but none were inside. It didn’t seem like any had ever been inside, actually.

“That’s…kinda weird, right?” Gwen murmured as she adjusted her toque. “This place feels like…like it never went under, or something.” 

“Damn near stuck in the past, I’d say,” Hobie agreed. He looked to Miguel. “Fishy’s an understatement, yeah? Might be some not-so-dead-yets in there.” 

Miguel took a deep breath as he thought. “It’s a plant store. Not the highest priority for scavengers like us.” He headed forward, grip tight on his hunting knife. “Try not to shoot. Not unless there’s a runner.” 

“Better not be any runners,” Gwen grumbled. “It’s December. Hopefully they’re all freezing to double-death right now.” 

Hobie scoffed a smile. “If not, we just give ‘em an early Christmas present, hey?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure they’d love their brains blown out.” 

“Eh. I would.” 

Miguel rolled his eyes as the youngins bickered softly behind him. There was no point stopping them–trying to dad them out in the wilds of New York just gave Miguel a bigger headache, and too often ended in a louder match of bickering and scolding, which then often resulted in the undead stumbling their way. It was always a mess. Maybe he should stop bringing the dynamic duo with him. 

But you’d known them. You were fond of them, too, always letting them off the hook with a slap on the wrist when they were caught vandalizing buildings or stealing from stores when they were teenagers. You laughed when you told Miguel stories about them, about how Hobie’d call you “officer tall, sunny and handsome” to get on your good side (which worked), and how Gwen would try to bribe you with car-washings and babysitting to get you to not tell her dad what happened. You knew they were good kids, just bored and too smart for their own good. Miguel knew that, too; the two of you were thick as thieves back in the day, total petty-crime masterminds. Maybe Hobie and Gwen were your dark apprentices, in a way. 

Miguel smiled faintly. He missed the days where you both broke into abandoned buildings, haunted houses and everything else inbetween to fool around and fuck. It’d always be filmed, much to Miguel’s embarrassment, but watching the videos back always made him feel…wanted. Appreciated. Like a rare piece of art. 

You’d always cheese it up and make it sound like some sort of bad porno or found-footage film, like you didn't just break into Chuck E. Cheese to fuck in front of the creepy animatronics. Breaking the law got you excited, as ironic as that was for a future cop. Miguel thought you were a freak. Miguel was kind of a freak too, though. 

“Fucking God,” Miguel moaned, somehow louder than the squeak of the table hosting your feverish coupling. His hips bucked and rolled against yours in a desperate attempt to keep up with your brutal, delicious pace, and his thighs dug into your sides with his hands clutching to your shoulders for dear life. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you mumbled into his ear. Miguel’s body gave a sharp, involuntary jolt, kickstarting the sudden crescendo of his well-earned euphoria. He let his voice be heard as he arched off that shitty table and up against your solid frame, his hips still rutting and moving in sync with your own. You groaned too, letting yourself be just as loud in the midst of him tightening around your heavy, thick cock pummeling into him. 

“God, lookit that pretty face,” you growled when you pulled back to see how fucked out he was. “You feel good, huh? ‘M I makin’ you cum hard?” Your hand slapped the side of his ass, and Miguel whimpered sharply. “You’re so good, baby, so fucking good. I’ll make you cum again, yeah? Make you cum while you–while you take everything I got.” 

You were terrible. Horrible. A monster in the sack, and apparently in front of powered-down robots. You did what you promised, and ripped another orgasm from his exhausted, over-stimulated body before reaching your own blissful undoing with a rude grin on your stupid, annoying face. 

It made for good content, though.

They reached the front gate without problem, only to find it locked with hefty chains and thick padlocks. If there were people in there, then breaking through the first line of defence wasn’t their favoured option–they didn’t like other survivors, no, and they didn’t work with them without good reason, but they weren’t in the business of sabotaging them, either. 

“Hobie,” Miguel beckoned, muffling the chains’ clanking while holding up one of the locks. 

The young man smirked and flicked his old lock picking set from his pocket. “Don’t mind if I do, coz.” 

He unlocked everything in record time. Miguel thought of you for a moment, and wondered if you’d taught the young man a few nefarious tricks since you, too, were an expert sneak. But Miguel pushed the thought aside as they all carefully, slowly, painstakingly unwrapped the linked metal from the fence, and pushed it open with just as much care to keep the noise to a minimum. It’d be a shame to ring the dinner bell in such an untouched place. 

They relocked one of the padlocks for peace of mind before wandering towards the front entrance. The doors’ windows were boarded neatly and meticulously, Miguel noticed first. He crouched down and noted something blocking the small gap between the ground and the door, but the faintest reach of light still reached through the few cracks that remained. 

“Lights’re on. Front’s boarded,” he sighed before backing up. “Might be a different way inside. Looks like there might be people in–” 

“Miguel!” Gwen whispered. He looked her way, and saw her point to a decrepit shed nestled up against the side of the building, right underneath a large window. Shoved against it laid a single, heavy pot flipped on its end, serving as a sort of stool to get up on. But the lack of snow on the newfound path gave Miguel pause.

“I’ll check it out,” Gwen said before nimbly scampering up the side of the shed. 

Miguel frowned. “Gwen–”

“Relax, I’m just gonna look.” But Miguel did not relax, especially not when she rose on her tiptoes on that shitty, rickety shed roof and peered through the window before her eyes grew wide with a soft woah. 

“Whatcha got, Gwendy?” Hobie asked, approaching the shed himself. 

“You two–” Miguel warned. He looked around cautiously, his body aching with primal instinct–they weren’t alone. There had to be someone else here. Gwen and Hobie had to realize that. They were smarter than this. They wouldn’t do anything stupid. They wouldn’t be hypnotized by whatever was in there and throw caution to the wind to get it. Right? Right. 

…Right?

Excited, Gwen smiled and glanced at the two before looking back at whatever she saw. “There’re–there’s…trees? And bushes with veggies and–and wow, you were right, Miguel.” 

“Well, I say we hop in there and snag a few to bring back, yeah?” Hobie suggested. “Reckon they grew on their own?”

“No,” Miguel scolded. “They didn’t. Come down, right now. We need more people for this.” 

“I’m juuust gonna...” Gwen reached for the window, and Miguel’s anxiety peaked.

“Gwen.” 

“Just a little–” The window groaned as it popped open. 

They froze. They died as statues for a single, long moment, rejecting the need to breathe, letting their eyes freeze solid in winter’s mercy while their ears pricked, searching like the alert deer suspecting death stalking nearby after a misstep on a brittle branch. 

One minute passed. 

Then two minutes. 

Three minutes.

But the birds kept chirping, the world kept spinning, and Ares didn’t come to collect their battle-worn souls.

Gwen looked at her group with a nervous smile, a guilty thing that said, “oops?” 

Miguel was furious. But now was not the time to argue or yell. He could let her father handle that back at Alchemax.

But someone grabbed her, and yanked her inside.

Hobie didn’t hesitate. He jumped up to where Gwen once stood and took the plunge after her, scrambling up into the window, but that same someone shoved him, sending him plummeting down to the frigid concrete. Miguel rushed to his side when he hit the pavement with a choked-back groan. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Miguel rolled him on his back. “Hobie, you fucking idiot.” Miguel’s panic ebbed just the slightest bit when he saw the punk blinking away stars instead of losing consciousness. 

Click. 

Electricity burst through him. Miguel ripped his revolver free of its holster and returned aim up at the shadow in the window. The tired winter sun illuminated a barrel of black metal, and the small, tawny hand holding it steady. A child. A kid. He was pointing a gun at a kid.

“We don’t want any problems, kid,” Miguel called up. He tried to relax, but he couldn’t; children who grew up in this world were ruthless. They were cruel, unrelenting, and unapologetic towards  their targets. He couldn’t blame them. It was all they’d known, all they’d been taught. But they were only as cruel as their teachers made them. Some of them still held on to shreds of humanity. 

And judging by that unwavering hand, Miguel feared their adversary was at least a confident shot if not a full-blooded monster.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Hobie groaned. “We just–we just want some seeds ‘n shit, ‘at’s all.” 

The small hand faltered a bit. Seems she still possessed sympathy. But a voice, deep and thread-bare, called to her. She looked over her shoulder for a second, before pulling the window closed and locking the latch behind her. 

Panic lanced through Miguel as anger possessed Hobie. “I’m gonna snap that kid in half–” but the creaky hinges of the front door opening cut him off. Miguel aimed toward it, and Hobie did the same once he got himself together, but then–then Gwen peeked out. 

“Guys!” Her hand fluttered and ushered them to come. “You’re not gonna believe this! It’s–” 

“Daddy?” A young, gentle voice asked, and Miguel’s gaze snapped to her. To her. To the little girl peeking out from around Gwen. To his baby, to his tiny world, long lost but never forgotten. To–

“Gabriella,” Miguel breathed. 

“Ho-ly shit,” Hobie commented.

Gabi’s eyes flooded with emotion. She sprinted to him, nearly slipping and tripping in the snow before jumping into his arms and holding on tight. She was so much older now, so much bigger; her tiny face used to bury into his stomach, but now she had her head tucked up against his chest, staining his jacket with heavy tears. 

“It’s okay, mija, it’s okay. I’m here, Daddy’s got you.” Miguel kissed the top of her head. He fought back tears of his own, but did so so pitifully with broken, bewildered laughs and shaking breaths. He pulled back and looked down at her face, her beautiful, beautiful face, and carefully wiped away the wet trails freezing on her cheeks. “I–you–L-Look at you. How’d you get so big?” 

Gabi smiled and sniffled as she wiped her eyes. “I-I, um, finally ate my veggies.” She took a breath to try and still the quiver in her lungs between thoughts. “Y-You have so much grey in your hair now!”

A few beats of warm laughter left Miguel. “Yeah, no thanks to you. Spent all this time worrying about you, kid.” His hand, so used to killing and defending, trembled as he brushed flyaways out of her face. "Listen, I–I'm gonna take you somewhere safe, okay? You won't be alone anymore." 

Gabriella blinked. Her small hands clutched his jacket. "What? But–"

"She's not alone." 

Miguel almost didn’t look. He didn’t really believe what he just heard. But when he risked it, when he managed to wrench his gaze away from his daughter and back to the heavenly light of the front entrance, he saw you. The man who'd been haunting him for years. The man who'd been keeping him warm at night. You, his lover. You, his husband. 

(You, the man he betrayed.)

"She hasn't been alone," you said, the words punctuated by hazy clouds of warmth–proof you were alive, that you weren't an illusion, not this time. "I promise." 

You looked so, so tired.

But Gwen was grinning, and even Hobie smiled with a lack of irony as he walked to you and gave you a hug. 

"My man! Officer tall, sunny and handsome in the flesh!" He clapped his hand hard against your back but you hardly wavered. You offered a smile, and hugged him back, short and sweet. 

"Hey, Hobie. Behaving?" 

"Eh. Sometimes." 

"Good enough for me." You let him go and scanned over all the survivors, your eyes not lingering on anyone for too long. "Head inside. It's warm, there's food. We'll talk. Gabs?" 

"Okay!" She hurried to corral everyone inside. "In, in, in, we gotta lock up for the night." Her gaze turned to Miguel as he hesitated, still watching you with glazed eyes. "Daddy, are you–?" 

"I'll be there in a second, mija." And, thankfully, his baby girl read the room better than he could have at that age, and let you two be. 

You looked over your shoulder, so like a predator making sure his cubs were inside and safe before prowling through the night. A man enchanted, Miguel followed you, watching you re-lock the gates they'd slipped through, and lagging behind while you checked the perimeter with thorough hands. Miguel would give anything to have those hands on him right now. 

He didn’t know where to start. "(Name), I–" 

"You said you could take her somewhere safe, right?" You asked before you turned that timid, unsure gaze back to him. "You meant that?" 

The words took too long to register. "I–yeah, I meant it. I mean it." Miguel forged courage out of trepidation and used it to fuel his journey to you. "We have a colony. The old Alchemax building, you remember?" 

"The one that was supposed to get torn down?" You wondered. 

Miguel nodded. "Yeah, that one." 

You kept walking. "Didn't we fuck in your office there?" 

A smile threatened Miguel as he followed like a lost puppy. "We did." 

"Ah. Always liked that building. Liked that desk, too." You shrugged. "Comfy, all things considered." 

Miguel hooked his finger into your belt loop and pulled you closer to him. "Then you'll be happy to hear it hasn't changed." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

You almost laughed, Miguel heard it. But you pulled away from him, and wordlessly finished up the perimeter sweep. 

"You should stay the night," you mumbled on the way back. "Pretty sure it's gonna snow." 

"Might make it harder to get back tomorrow," Miguel said, following you inside and watching you bar the door again. "We came here by foot." 

"No truck?" 

"None." 

"I'll take you back, then. I got a truck." 

"You make it sound like you're not coming." Anxiety gripped Miguel. "I'm not losing you again." He held onto your arm tightly.

You looked troubled, glancing between the hand on your arm and Miguel's eyes. "Did Dana die?" You asked. 

Sickness coiled in Miguel's stomach. "What?" But his tone was too deep, too dark. 

You shook your head. "No, I–I'm sorry I don't know why I said that, I'm just–" 

"We both know why you said that," Miguel said through clenched teeth. 

The way you looked at him, eyes full of bristling hatred for the woman who'd stolen away everything from you, set alight an ancient sort of fear in Miguel’s core. It was so like that night, the one where you'd found out. 

Gabi was still at daycare. You were at work. Miguel was supposed to be at work, too. It could have been the perfect crime, one full of sinful lust and infinite rapture. 

But you came home early. 

You didn't even say a word when you walked into the bedroom and found him tangled in the sheets with Dana, with the woman he'd convinced you to think was a surrogate, not someone he was fooling around with and just so happened to knock up. You had that same stare, rotting with hatred, infested with betrayal, all for the woman underneath your husband. Miguel loathed that look, but he found some sick joy in hurting you, too. Because he hated you, for some reason. 

 Dana laughed when you walked out, some smart comment about how pathetic you were dancing off her plush, scarlet-stained lips. Miguel scoffed a laugh, too. You really were a coward, weren't you? 

(But you weren't.)

Miguel finished with Dana, and she left. He heard her say something to you, something light and playful and damn hurtful, but Miguel didn't say anything. Nor did you. 

He found you in the living room after he'd pulled some clothes on like it mattered. He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, staring hard at your profile while you graced the ground with an empty gaze. Your hands clasped and unclasped slowly. Your head nodded shallowly. 

"You're really not gonna say anything?" Miguel goaded. 

"What am I supposed to say?" You offered. 

Something. Anything. 

Miguel laughed, mocking, and sat down across from you, on a mirrored couch, across the glass coffee table you'd picked out together. 

"How long?" You managed. 

Miguel hummed in thought. "How old's Gabi?" 

That got a reaction out of you, something Miguel craved so deeply; your eyelids fluttered in disbelief, and your lips parted to suck in a sharp breath. You looked hurt. You looked like you were feeling something.

"The prenup says you keep what's yours, I keep what's mine, yeah?" 

Miguel's smile faded. "What?"

"Gifts fall into that category. I’m keeping the Jeep." 

"Wait–" 

"I'll find a lawyer in the morning." You got up, and Miguel snapped. 

"You're not even going to fucking ask why?" He yelled, pursuing you into the bedroom. "You don't wanna know why I'm fucking someone else? What the fuck is wrong with you?" 

You ignored him. Miguel's temper flared. 

"Fine! Fine, fuck it, I'll tell you. You don't excite me anymore. You don't try, you don't wanna fuck me, you don't wanna do anything anymore–" 

"Miguel–" 

"You're not the same man I married. What happened to you? When'd you get so–so pathetic and weak?" He took a pause to breathe. Or maybe gasp, more like, as the stabs of panic started to overtake him. "I hate you. You can't leave me." 

He braced on the door, trying to get his bearings on his own, but you were quick to his side. With a strength Miguel loved and adored, you eased him down and fell in slow-motion with his shaky frame secured in your arms. 

“It’s okay, Miggs. You’re okay.” Your fingers combed through his hair slowly. You held him tight,  and convinced him to breathe with you. In and out. In and out. In and out. He breathed to the rhythm of your heart, as it turned out. Slow and steady. Hurt and bleeding. 

“We’ll figure this out, I promise.” 

And he believed you. 

That’s why he took off the ring, and left first thing in the morning. 

Hobie and Gwen passed out after eating their fill of stew. Miguel was beyond annoyed, but couldn't find it in himself to wake them up and leave, not when you were undecided about going with them, but very much wanting him to take Gabi. 

Honestly, he didn't think you'd still be hurting after all this time. Dana was something of the past, a succubus that followed the steps of opportunity and wealth wherever it may go. That's why she wasn't with the group anymore. That's why she left him when he needed her most, and jumped in a truck with strangers while he bled out, alone, in the solitude of an abandoned pet store. 

Chills raked his spine, breaking off chunks of bone when he thought about it. He'd never been so fucking scared in his life. He wished he could have called you to come save him. He wanted you to be the one to walk in there and find him, crying and dying, because you would have stuck by his side through all of those moments; if he hadn't let his emotions get the best of him, if he hadn't made so many stupid decisions, he would've been with you. If he died that day, it would have been in your arms. 

"Hey," you murmured with a gentle touch to his shoulder. Miguel jumped, and your eyes softened. "You okay?" 

Miguel swallowed thickly as he nodded. He looked around, grounding his mind through the touch of your hand, the duo snoring and slumped against bags of soil, and the gentle flickering of the propane campfire keeping the space warm. You taking a seat beside him helped, too. 

Copper eyes took a moment to pace around the old garden centre; true to the outside, it was more or less untouched on the inside, just more cluttered with haphazard barricades and half-done projects. Miguel watched his ghost walk through the isles, once filled with tropical plants, but now replaced with beautiful, healthy trees raised by your hand. It was no wonder Gabi grew up so strong. 

Speaking of--"Where's Gabi?" 

"She's in the next room. Watering some seedlings." You smiled for a fraction of a second. "Putting her green thumb to the test. Tryna show her old man up, I guess." 

Miguel smiled though his eyes stung. "Sounds like an O'hara." 

"Yeah, I thought so, too." 

You shared a few broken beats of laughter before silence fell, just like the snow beyond the door. Then, shyly, like you'd never done it before, your arm reached around his waist. Miguel didn't hesitate to lean his weight into you, though, and that arm didn't wait to pull him in closer right after. 

"So. You still hate me?" Miguel dared to ask before the dancing cinders.

Your hand smoothed up and down his side thoughtfully, soothingly. Miguel melted against you more with a sweet, content sigh. 

"I never hated you," you whispered in return. "Never." 

Miguel made a little sound, something caught between surprise and relief, while your words sunk deep into his thoughts. You didn’t hate him. You didn’t hate him. 

“Then come back with us.” 

“Miguel–”

“There’s no reason to stay here,” Miguel bit out, frustration egging him on. “We have shelter, we have water, showers, rooms, beds–we have everything.” 

“What about food?” You asked quietly.

But Miguel didn’t have an answer; food was the reason they were coming out here, to find more ways to create sustainable living, to try and make life work again. He couldn’t help but look at the trees and bushes bursting with colourful fruits and vegetables, showing off years of dedication and hard work through the literal fruits of your labour. Miguel didn’t know how hard it was to get there. He didn’t think he wanted to know. 

“...It’s a work in progress,” he grumbled instead of admitting the truth. “But we could use your help.”

Your warm fingers dipped under layers of clothes to find the searing skin of your past lover. To Miguel, it almost ached. He hadn't been touched in so long. He hadn't felt your hands on his bare skin for even longer. It intoxicated him, filled his mind and blood with wants and needs–things only you could fulfil for him. 

"I won't leave you hangin', promise that. I just–I need to figure out how this is all gonna work." You looked around the room, taking stock. "Lots of gear we'll need, lots of shit to move. I'll send you back with whatever's already picked. Not worried about the cold with those. The trees are another story, don't want 'em to go dormant while–" 

Miguel kissed you. Sloppily, and wantonly, but with genuinity. Your hands scrambled to hold onto his massive frame when he leaned into you and almost knocked you off the discounted garden bench. This time, you were the one who made a cute, surprised noise. 

And you were the one who kissed him the second time, but it was smaller and shier coming from you, not so eager to consume like Miguel. Your calloused hand held the side of his neck, and your thumb ran along his jawline thoughtfully when you parted, noses bumping and nudging together in a weak nuzzle. 

"I guess you don't hate me anymore?" Your whisper ached Miguel's heart. 

"I never did," he confessed. 

"Then why did you say it?" 

"I don't know." He traced the curve of your lips with tired, weighted eyes. Your cupid's bow had a nice shape to it, so soft and pillowy, meant just for him. "But I didn't mean it." 

"I need a better answer than that." You swallowed down what Miguel could only guess to be a tincture of fear and sorrow, or maybe rage and betrayal. "I've lived with–with that for a long, long time." Your eyes glistened with unspent grief, suddenly. "I need more than 'I don't know.'" 

Miguel's heart lurched. He hadn't bore witness to the consequences of his selfishness before, not with you, not during his affair with Dana. He'd only seen you grow distant across that coffee table far before that god-awful night. And back then, he wanted a reaction. He wanted something like this out of you, but now, he couldn't fathom why.

"Mi amor, I–it's hard to put into words, and I was a stupid kid, and–hey, hey, don't--don't cry." He wiped away the bravest tear to fall first before you turned away, back to the flickering blaze, and rubbed your face roughly. 

"Here's my guess," you muttered. "You wanted to fuck, and I couldn’t–I just–it was hard for me. Or maybe it wasn’t hard, maybe that’s a better way to put it.” You rubbed your face, and held your head in your hands. "The, ah, the medication, the anti-depressants or whatever, they were fucking me up. I didn’t wanna fuck you. I didn’t wanna do anything. Then I was in training to join the force. Wasn't home, and when I was, I was too tired to take care of you and Gabi, so I focused on her. And that made you go back to Dana. Again." 

Bile scorched the back of Miguel’s throat. "You knew." A realisation, not a question. "You knew we–that she and I–" 

"Yeah, that she wasn't a surrogate.” You picked your head up from your hands and stared at the fire, unseeing. “Because she was dating Gabe at the time, and you were with me." You sighed and let a deep, venomous grief finally escape from the space between your lungs, from the spot where that thing had festered like a disease for too many years. 

"I could let it go the first time, turn a blind eye because she gave me–gave us–our daughter, but–the second time? With all the shit you two said?" You shook your head. "I just--I couldn't–I wish you'd just told me what was wrong. I wish I'd told you what was going on with me, too, 'cause I know all the shit that happened is my fault, too.”

"Dad?” Gabi's small, hollow voice rang. The both of you turned to her, but you were the one who got up. 

“Baby,” You said with a hushed tone, somehow so comforting but so afraid. “Hey, you done with the watering?” 

“Uh, yeah, but…um, is everything okay?” Her gaze flicked between you and Miguel. He could almost hear her little mind firing on all cylinders as she tried to parse what they were talking about. “You look sad.”

You crouched before her and took her hands in yours. “We’re talking through some things, honey, it’s alright. We’re figuring things out.”

A light of worried realization illuminated Gabriella’s gaze. Miguel fidgeted and futzed with his clothes as he looked away, unsure of how to deal with her accusatory revelation. How much did she know? Did you tell her anything? No, no, you wouldn’t do that, you wouldn’t dirty her memory of her father like that. You were a good man. You were a better man than Miguel. 

“Oh,” she whispered. 

You nodded and brushed some hair free from her freckled face. "We’ll be alright, baby. You just get some sleep, alright? Tomorrow's gonna be a busy day. Lots of loading up to do." 

Gabi whispered the softest okay before giving you a hug. She paused for a moment, before running to Miguel and throwing her arms around him for a few precious seconds before running off to the loft to sleep. 

You sighed, then, and Miguel did too.

You turned to him. “Look, you–I don’t know why I’m starting shit right after you…you wander back into my life,” you murmured, going back to Miguel and straddling the bench before taking his hand and squeezing. “I’m sorry. And I love you. You know that, right?”

That pang came back in Miguel’s chest, but this time, it was warmer.

December 2nd  3:05am i love you 3:06am i'm sorry

Miguel squeezed your hand back and this time, he was the one tearing up. “Mi amor, you don’t need to–you’ve done enough apologizing already.” 

"Miggs, don't say that. I–" 

"Stop. Stop it." Your husband straddled the bench, too, and scooted closer to you until he was more or less in your lap, his heavy thighs draped over your own. 

"But–" you started, and stopped as Miguel cupped your face with both hands and squished your cheeks. You sighed and leaned into his touch when it eased up. "Baby–" 

"Me arrepiento de lo que hice," he whispered to you, "espero algún día puedas perdonarme." He let go of your face, and found your hand to kiss its back. "Te amo." 

You smiled. Something real, something happy. Something that stayed around for more than a few seconds, and made the corners of your eyes crinkle with the beautiful way you'd aged. Then, you kissed him. 

"Te amo," you murmured back, your lips still touching his. "We'll figure this out. Work it out. We have the time." Your lips pressed against his again. "I'm not giving up on us." 

This time, Miguel cried.

It took some time to transport everything to Alchemax. It took a little bit longer to get you there, too. 

But you got there eventually, ready to stay for good, and ready to put Miguel's mind at ease. 

Your old friends and coworkers greeted you, clasping their hands on your back and hugging you tight until you couldn't breathe anymore. You smiled, too, and asked them how they were holding up, if your husband was keeping things in line. You couldn't help but remind them that you in fact hand the handsomest and smartest partner in the world, too. 

They let you get acquainted with the building pretty quickly, probably seeing the haggard, exhausted state you'd lived in for five years and wanting to let you unwind for the first time in a long time. And that called for a hot shower, food, and some sleep. 

"I'll take you to your room," Miguel told you as you both left the common area. 

"My room?" You retorted, sounding mighty confused and damn near insulted. 

Miguel blinked and looked at you. "Yeah. There's enough for–" Oh. 

"What's yours is mine, yeah?" You said, stern and a little bit spicy. "Then your room is mine. And your ass is–"

"Câllate," Miguel cut you off with a smile. "I'll take you to our room." 

He led you there with a bit of a spring to his step, and you kept up with as much enthusiasm. The room was nothing special, featuring nothing more beyond a mediocre bed, uninspired furnishings, and random knick knacks Miguel had left here over the years. But it was home. Your shared home. 

"Huh." You looked around the room. "I think that coffee table woulda looked nice here." 

Miguel scoffed a laugh and rested his hand on the small of your back. "You think so? I think it'd clash." 

"Yeah, well, you have bad taste, hun." 

"Oh, wow, you're really gonna say that when I'm married to you?" 

"I'm the one who confessed first. I'm the one who proposed. Pretty sure it's safe to say I picked you." You leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. “And I have good taste.”

Miguel felt his face get hot. "Shut up and take a shower." 

"Your wish is my command." You set your pack down by the bed before sliding open the door to the ensuite. Miguel watched you like a hawk, his prey drive skyrocketing when he caught swaths of your bare skin peeking out from the washroom. He wanted to watch more, but you deserved a little privacy. 

"Oh," you said, peeking out from the doorway. "I, uh, kept my phone through everything. There're some photos of Gabi, if you wanna check it out." You vanished back into the bathroom and Miguel heard the water turn on. "It's in my pack! In the shitty little phone pocket thing." 

"Yeah, I–okay, I'll take a look, thanks." Miguel smiled, and rummaged through what you'd brought with you before pulling out that beat up phone with the charger still plugged into it and kept together with bandages of tape. Colour him impressed. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and went straight for the camera roll. There were loads of new pictures ranging from Gabriella when she was littler, to pictures of animals that Miguel guessed Gabi had a hand in.

There were old pictures, too. Mostly of Miguel, as embarrassing as that was, but the baby photos took over his reign once that perfect little girl entered your life. It made Miguel wish he’d taken more photos, that he hadn’t thought it was too cliche and embarrassing to capture every moment. He used to say shit like, “Do you have to take a photo? Can’t you just live in the moment?” but you’d stick your tongue out, give him a pinch or a bite on his cheek or something else in retribution. Because you didn’t care, you wanted to look back on little memories. 

He scanned through photos until he caught one that sent a rush of red to his features; it was of him, on his back, eyes teary and face alight with a fierce blush as you, well, obviously fucked him stupid. It was the only one of its kind. Maybe you forgot to delete it? Maybe–

The videos. Oooh, now that had Miguel excited. Miguel scanned through the other folders, but found nothing, much to his dismay and relief, seeing as Gabi probably had free access to your phone. 

But then, he spied a locked folder. 

The first password he tried worked (your anniversary because duh. You were such a sap), and a whole catalogue of videos and pictures were unleashed. 

Miguel glanced up at the washroom door before he skimmed through. He remembered all of these places (but the geo tags helped, too. Christ, you were so organised with your exhibitionist porn), ranging from IKEA after closing, to an abandoned amusement park. He still didn’t know how you picked out these places, or how you knew how to get into them without getting in heaps of trouble with the authorities. 

He tapped on a video and bumped the volume up a couple notches, just so he could barely hear; it was him on his knees, on a rusty old ferris wheel, staring up at you like you were God himself as he gripped your thighs and did his damndest to give you the blowie of a lifetime. Your sighs and soft moans rippled through the speakers like waves lapping at the shoreline. Present Miguel rubbed his mouth, worrying at his bottom lip before licking the dryness away. 

“Good boy,” You whispered on the other side of the camera. Your hand came into view and carded through dark locks before cupping his cheek. Miguel of the past turned into your touch and took your thumb into his mouth while his hand took over stroking your length from base to tip over, and over again. 

Miguel swiped to the next video. He was on his back this time, in your shared bedroom, if that duvet cover was to be trusted, while your fingers plunged deep inside of his heat and tore loud moans and gasps from him. He remembered this; you called it an experiment before you bullied his prostate with three, thick digits.  

"How's that feel, gorgeous?" You purred. Miguel swallowed thickly, both in the video and in the now. His hesitant hand crept down his thigh slowly, like he was trying to hide it from himself and call it an accident as he reached to palm himself through his jeans while he watched. He almost felt guilty. But that's what made it better. 

"Good. Really fucking good." His past self rocked down against your fingers, choking on a needy whine as his eyes slid open, and found you. "I need you, mi amor. Please–" 

"I know, babe, I know. I'm almost done here," you promised. You tilted the camera down to his stretched hole to catch what you did next. "Then you can have whatever you want from me." 

You pressed your pinky in, then, and Miguel of the present bit his lip as his shocked gasp and shaky cry pierced through the speakers. Miguel still couldn't describe the deranged pleasure he got from having half your hand in his ass, nearly to the point of fisting him. 

Miguel switched to a different video quickly. The next one was in the Jeep you loved so much. You were both out camping for the weekend, something you loved and Miguel had learned to love; that stupid red truck became home for so many long weekends, it became host to long hours of napping and intimacy, it turned into one of Miguel's favourite places. 

The video started with you adjusting the camera and squinting at it while Miguel’s younger self bitched and moaned in the background. 

"I'm just making sure the tripod's working 'n shit, babe, just gimme a sec!" You whined back. 

"My dick's getting soft," Miguel threatened, so blasé but annoyed at the same time. "Come on, viejo." 

You pulled away from the camera, grinning smug as a fox, and scooted back to your lover. His past self was lounging, hair and clothes already a mess from the prologue to this movie, as he watched you.  

"I'm here, I'm here." You kissed him, and Miguel could almost taste the s’mores on your tongue, the coffee on your lips. "Sorry, just wanna make sure it's perfect." 

"Oh, yeah, 'course. Gotta make sure your indie porno looks good." 

"Hey, one day we're gonna look back on this! It's worth it, baby, trust me." 

"Whatever. Just kiss me," Miguel demanded with a laugh. And you did as you were told, kissing his lips, then down his chest, then–

"Knew you'd like watching 'em back." 

Miguel jumped, nearly dropping the phone as he jerked his hand away from his clothed bulge. "I, uh–what?" he asked dumbly as he stared at your built frame leaning against the doorframe. God, you were still an impressive specimen. He wished that loose towel would just drop from your hips already.

"Our, ah, home videos." You grinned, so much like that fox from the past, and paced to Miguel. "Nice looking back, ain't it?" You cupped the underside of his jaw and tilted his face up. "Got you a lil' excited, yeah?" 

You weren't wrong. With a hammering heart, burning skin, and tingling nerves, he couldn't deny he was stuck deep in a pool of desire and need. And now with you handling him like this–fuck. He was in trouble. 

Miguel nodded weakly. "Yeah." He took a deep breath. "Just a little." 

“I’ll help.” You eased onto the bed and took great care in settling behind him. "Let the video play," you whispered against his neck before leaving a possessive kiss. 

Miguel leaned back into you. He watched you pop open his jeans and slip a hand down, down, down, until your warm palm met his aching length. A shuddered breath escaped him when you felt him up, pulled him free, squeezing and stroking in all the right spots; it'd been so long since anyone touched him. It'd been so long since he touched himself. 

"I, ah, don’t think we–did we lock the door?" Miguel heard himself moan in the video, and he dared another look; your head bobbed between his thighs while fingers pistoned into him. He wondered if you would do that to him again. Maybe tonight. 

"Nope.”

“Shit.”

"Mmmh. You want me to stop jerking you off so you can lock it?" 

"No." 

You chuckled. "Okay." 

Your hand still worked him slowly and thoughtfully while lovers of the past filled in the rest of the silence. Miguel's hips bucked, and you hummed, so pleased with yourself. Pleased with yourself for pleasing him. Something Miguel found self-value in.

"I think I, uh, I think you mighta been right," he murmured to the air, trying to control his voice. Your gentle hum of intrigue spurred him on. "I think I need you to fuck me more than I realized. Need you to want me, ‘n…take me." 

“Yeah?” You asked before sinking a bite into his neck. “Figured you had somethin’ of a praise kink. Makes sense, in hindsight.”

Miguel gasped when you picked up the pace. “Fuck–I’d call it…mmmmn, I’d call it a-a love language–”

“Huh, didn’t know there were six love languages–”

“Sh-shut up, shut up, you know what I–what I mean–!” Miguel bit down hard on the inside of his mouth as his hips rocked up into your cruel, talented hand. He was close. How embarrassing. “I, uh…physical touch. Words of affirmation.”

“‘Needing my husband to fuck me and tell me I’m sexy.’” Miguel moaned and dug his head back into your shoulder as you chuckled. “That sound about right?”

“Viejo,” he whined, setting the phone aside to be forgotten. “I–”

“I know, baby; show me how hard this love language makes you cum.” 

It only took a few more strokes for Miguel to come undone. His teeth clattered together as he strained to keep his voice on lock as a forgotten rapture ripped the air from his lungs and electrocuted every vessel in his body. He clung to the other arm that’d come to wrap around his chest and hold him against you while you worked him through the motions, slowing down, accommodating the way his body reacted to the blinding pleasure. There were words said, probably encouraging ones muttered into his shoulder, but Miguel didn’t have the mind to parse the meaning of what you’d said. 

“Y’know,” you tried again when Miguel’s mind levelled out, “I think I have a praise kink, too. But a complimentary one. One where I like praising you.” You rested your chin on his shoulder and hummed. “Hm. Who woulda thought.”

“Hah. Good to know you’re still annoying,” Miguel said with a chuckle. He scrunched his nose up when you licked the side of his face. “(Name)--” 

“No.” You bit his cheek this time, and he sighed. You did, however, feel his softening cock start to come back to life again. “Want me to lock the door now, old man?” 

“Yeah,” he breathed. You got off the bed, letting the towel fall where it may, and Miguel finally gazed upon his lost treasure. “And set up your phone. We need to update the archives.”

You grinned when you turned back to him, and Miguel felt so at ease. 

There were still things to work out: the mental illness you hid from him, the cheating Miguel tried to hide from you, the little secrets you both kept wedged in the darkest cracks of your minds. But with you with him, the man who refused to give up on their bond and their love, Miguel felt safe indulging in mindless pleasure you so generously gave to him. Neither of you were about to seal away the past again, but if you could share in the good of your relationship while acknowledging the bad, then hope wasn’t lost; it was found in the moment you’d pulled his old wedding band from your pack, and slipped it back on Miguel’s finger that night, murmuring the words you said in a church so long ago:

“Till death do us part.”

[shapard]

Hi!

I was wondering if I could request a second part to your Alone fanfic? Maybe them clearing things up if possible because it definitely was heartbreaking to see how he reacted as well as the reader being pushed away

Hope you’re having an amazing day and no rush!

Alone🪐 (Pt. 2)

Lucifer x ex!reader

Pluie sur la ville

Part 1 < Part 2

Angst, use of drugs, drama

A/n:Hellooo! I couldn't help myself to put a little salt in the wound. Maybe a third part? Who knows. Here ya go, hope you enjoy<3

Music was blasting through the small Radio. The Room was filled with piles of rubber ducks and other creations. 

In between the Mess there was Lucifer humming the tune of the music, while he worked on his new duck project.

Duck after Duck, to blend out the heart ache he felt after loosing you.

His Usually perfect clean hair was a complete mess. His outfit hasn’t been washed in a long time and his eyebags only worsened with each day that passed.  

Lucifer created and worked every hour that past and yet he can’t just forget about you. You were always in his mind.

Usual you would come up to him and pull him out of his obsession. And this smile of yours. It was warming and welcomed. Most Important it was home.

A soft knocking on the door made Lucifer halt. His head spun fast towards the door, “Come in.” a squeak left the rubber duck as his claws pressed into the soft plastic.

Lucifer hoped, he hoped you'd come through this door with this smile of yours. Hoping the last weeks were just a bad dream.

The door creaked open and one of his servants came in to bring him his breakfast. 

Disappointed Lucifer turned back to his now broken rubber duck. He cursed under his breath and started to begin with a new one. 

His Nails dug into the plastic and the rubber duck broke in his hands. You used to do his breakfast. Or he'd surprise you sometimes with your favorite pancakes. Even though you loved waffles more.

"Oh Y/n."

____

Meanwhile you were having the time of your life.

You were Partying day in and day out. You lost track of time a while ago but who cares? Hook up after hooking up and flirts after flirts.

Each day in a new apartment because you couldn’t afford one on your own. A beautiful life!

With a sigh you sat down at the bar getting another drink. The bartended watched in worry as he mixed you the next cocktail.

“That’s not healthy anymore.” He finally spoke up. Your hands grasp the cocktail in his hands, snatching it away like a kid with its candy. “We’re in hell! Who in their right mind is doing something healthy in here!” With a huge gulp you chucked down the cocktail. 

Two large wolf hounds threw you out of the club before you could complain.

The bartender sighed as he started to clean the glass. “For hell standards you’re overdoing it. When was the last day you were sober?” You raised your hand to answer the question but no answer.

You don’t know.

“See.” The bartender said as he leaned towards you. “As much as I love you company, you should rest.” 

It’s true. 

“Your cocktails taste rotten anyways!!” You shouted into the club. Swaying from side to side you walked without any destiny through the streets of the pride ring. 

You’ve drank almost every day. And every time you got a bit sober you gulped down another shot. Your body wasn’t anymore in its best shape and at last you didn’t feel like yourself anymore.

You thought breaking up with Lucifer may fix the issues and trust issue that began to unfold but no. Your life is nothing more than an empty pitch.

Yet you’ll never want to see Lucifer again. You wished you haven’t met him in the first place.

Opening your vox phone you watched the old picture of you and Lucifer. Happy. By surprise rain drops fell on the display. Except there is no rain.

Touching your cheeks you felt hot watery liquid. You were crying. Overwhelmed by all the sudden feelings you fell onto the rock sidewalk, scratching a bit of your knee.

Your sobs gave you few side eyes from other sinners. You didn’t care.

_____

Even after all he did to you. After all this suffering you miss him. His soft side, his warm side, the lovely cuddles.

Heck you even miss the sex that was filled with love. You looked down at your shivering hands as more tears pearled onto it.

“Oh Lucifer.” 

Lucifer was staring at the family picture of Charlie, Him and… you. His clawed hand travel down from the canvas scratching a bit ink off the painting. He breathed in hoping he could get even a whiff of your scent but after all it smelled like oil paint and nothing like you.

His gaze met one of your old paintings. Do you still draw and paint these amazing art pieces? Lucifer watched you day in and day out as you focused on your drawings.

With a deep shaky breath, he went down to one of your private drawers. Lucifer Opened it with force and the lock broke under his strength. A small painting was in it with his name adored.

The deep crimson inked ribbon was wrapped around it. Crimson is your favorite color. Always been. 

You were obsessed with his eyes, you even started to draw them. He opened the ribbon and ripped the Canva out of its white-golden paper.  It was a painting with you and him. 

Your first date under the Sakura tree in spring. A pained laugh escaped his throat as he remembered how you sneezed around because of your allergies. 

That’s how you two met. 

Lucifer felt guilty for all those horrible things he has done to you. He hurt you not only mental but even physical. Only because of his insecurities, depression, and self-hatred.

It is no excuse for what he did to you, but maybe when he’ll explain you’ll understand him. Maybe you'll come back to him. “I Miss you Mon Chérie. Come back to me, please.”

____

The whole Hazbin crew was in the lobby looking down at your unconscious body.

Angel found you in the middle of the streets passed out. You look rough. Your hair was a whole mess, and you look much skinnier than before. 

“What happened to her?” Husk breaks the tension as no one dares to say a word. “I don’t know.” Charlie was worried. Her dad hasn’t talked to her since you asked where he was. Were you two fighting?

“Maybe we should call Lucifer.” Vaggie finally says what everyone had in mind. Charlie nods, only he could help. Her finger pressed hesitant on the call button and not a second later her dad’s voice spoke through the speaker.

"Heyyy Charlieee." Lucifer's bright voice lights the lobby. Charlie looked over to her girlfriend who gave her a thumbs up. With a deep breath she started to explain the situation.

"We have a itty bitty problem..." Charlie said slowly and Lucifer stayed silent this time waiting for Charlie to continue. "So, Angel was coming back from work," Charlie rolled the r, nervous how Lucifer would react, "And hesawY/npasspidoutinthemiddleofthestreet." The silence was loud. Vaggie's hand was now on her face as she shook her head.

"What? Charlie, love. You have to talk a bit slower so I can understand?" Lucifer laughed nervously. With another deep breath Charlie tried again. "Angel dust saw Y/n passed out in the middle of the streets-"

Not even a second wasted Lucifer was standing in the lobby. Lucifer black clawed hand went through your knotted hair. You needed a bath and medicine. Your forehead was burning like lava.

Lucifer bid a short goodbye and went fast to his private suite. 

Lucifer knew you’d be mad if he undresses you after all what happened. Yet He undressed you and brushed the knots out of hair as your body laid in the bath.

After you were fresh and clean, he put you into one of his own pajamas. He silently sat down waiting for you to wake up. 

After hours you finally woke up.

To your surprise Lucifer was lying beside you and snoring lightly. ‘This must be a dream’ Your hand went up to his cheek and you stroked his golden hair strand out of his face.

“It’s so mean that you’re so pretty.” Lucifer shifted under your touch and your hand quickly moved to your chest. His eyes flutter open as he looked at you with those beautiful red eyes. 

“You’re awake!” Confused you tilted your head. Awake? Isn’t this a dream.

You moved out of Lucifers reach, gaining more distance between you two. Lucifer stood up worriedly. “Don’t fucking touch me.” You fell backwards from the bed landing harshly onto the carpet before he could help you.

Lucifer raised his hands in defeat. As you pointed with your index finger on him. “Y/n, we have to talk.” 

His words ring in your head and the old hurtful memories filled your mind. “There’s nothing to talk about Lucifer.” Lucifer hissed at the disgusted tone of yours.

A hand grabbed yours when you tried to leave. “Please Y/n. My Evangeline. I Apologize.” The nickname ripped only old wounds open.Your e/c hues stared cold into his broken crimson ones. He was about to cry.

“For hurting you-“ You laughed bitterly. “If you think, I will come back at your pathetic excuse of an Apology then you’re wrong.” You shook your head in disbelieve and Lucifer looked at you in pure shock. 

“For what Lucifer?” Lucifer looked blankly into your eyes. No words left him, but you can see it in his eyes. He’s afraid that you’ll leave, again. 

“What can I do then?!” Lucifer grabbed his hair in frustration. “Y/n! I need you! I’m such a mess without you. I love you so dearly, please.” His voice cracked and your heart with it.

“I don’t want you to love me because you need me! I want that you need me because you love me!” A cry left Lucifers lips as he looked back up to you. You were frustrated too and the pounding headache only worsened your mood.

Before you left the room you shortly glanced back to him. “Are you the king of hell because you’re Lucifer Morningstar? Or are you Lucifer Morningstar because you’re the king of hell?” 

“Lucifer you abused me! And at last, you Ignored me like I didn’t belong here. Now after weeks, no, Months it’s Lucifer Morningstar who I’m talking to. Not the devil king who keeps his mistress in his castle. Lucifer it’s over!” Your rant leaves Lucifer speechless. He begins to wonder again why he did all those horrible things to you. 

The things he promised never to do.

“One.” You muttered under your breath. “Only one more chance."

Lucifers legs gave up under him. But this time he forces himself to get up. He’ll not let you go without a fight.

“I Love you Y/n. I never stopped I- fuck. I know I messed up but let me fix this- fix us. I want you by my side,” His finger nervously stroked on the small velvet box in his pocket, “As my Queen. Please give me one chance!” You turned around to face him. His eyes were red from all the crying. His face was wet. 

The bitterness in your face was tasteable. But maybe if you give in, he'll leave you alone.

@i-have-no-life-charlie @sirenetheblogger @concentratedconcrete @ylovei @cimadreamer @ayanazoldyck @froggybich

A/n: This was a looot. Did any of you see a reference 👀. Asking for a friend.

💫

[faust-the-enjoyer]

Anonymous asked: I saw you need requests This is really self indulgent, feel free to ignore Can I request Simon Riley with a freak out moment hurt/comfort? Thoughts going crazy, dots are connecting that aren't even related, overall hard time thinking straight (he means none of what he says btw, he's just unable to think straight). Reader and him get into an argument about how long he's gone, and long distance and he says something like he might break up with her if it gets too hard. She's like wtf?? Bc they've been together for over 2 years and he's just willing to drop her over something like long distance. He says things like: "wtf even is love? How do I know I even really love you?" And reader says "love isn't just a feeling, it's a fucking commitment" and he says "then I'm not ready for it" They almost break up and she's sobbing but she helps him calm down and he breaks down once he realizes what he said to her and promises he didn't mean it? She's heartbroken but understands and they just comfort eachother? I had this happen last night and you said you need ideas so I figured I'd pop in

Promises

Tags/warnings: fem!reader, sfw, hurt/comfort, use of pet names/terms of endearment, mentions of a breakup, crying.

A/n: I hope everything is ok with you and your loved one anon 🥺.

-Divider by (saradika-graphics)!

Rain hits the window of your living room as you sit down next to your lover, he gives you a small smile. He seems distressed, he's been thinking about your two's relationship, and his emotions have been building up, forcing him to freak out in his own mind a couple of times this week, although he's been quiet about it, you know something's wrong. As you sit down next to him and cover your legs with a blanket, you turn to him. "Simon?", your voice is quiet, he turns his attention from the tv to you, muting it with the remote, "Yeah love?", he turns to you, "You've been gone for too long this time...", it's true, he only came back a couple of hours ago after being away for a couple of months.

He lets out a sigh, "I know love, it's not in my hand, you know that.", "I know, but...I...I want you to be around me, I want to be around you, this long-distance thing is just....it hurts too much Simon...". His head starts racing with thoughts, thoughts that have been eating away at him for a good while now. "I know it hurts, it hurts me too.", his voice has an edge to it now, almost as if he's holding back on something. "Can't you do anything about it? can't we find any way for us to communicate a little better when you go on those missions?", there's an urgency in your voice, and he's getting closer and closer to his wits end, this is only adding more stress on him from his own emotions. "I can't do anything about it, so...then...", his voice is a little sharper now, "If it hurts too much for us, if it's too rough on us, then maybe we should call our relationship off...".

Your eyes widen and your jaw drops a little, "What?!", you look shocked. He lifts his hands to rub his temples as you speak, "Simon, we've been together for almost three years now...why would you even think that?", you can see his hand shaking a little as he rests them on his forehead, "We've been through so much these last few years, and we managed to still be together, now you just wanna...break up with me? over not being able to see me or talk to me enough? Over long distance?", although you're not crying, your voice is starting to get a little shaky. His eyes are slowly becoming tear-filled, "How do I even know that I love you? How would I really know? I don't think I know what love is...". He looks like he's on the verge of crying, but a tear is already running down the inner corner of your eye.

Your hands go to his face, and you turn it to face you again, "Simon....love isn't....it isn't a feeling that you experience...it's a commitment, it's dedication Simon...", you're desperate, your eyes are begging him to understand this, but he looks at you, and you can see his lip quiver ever so slightly as he opens his mouth to speak, "Well...then I'm not ready for it love...". Your eyes widen again, and as you start crying, your hands come up to his face as you start speaking again, trying to hold back your sobs, "So that's it? we're...we're just...over now?", his eyes soften and become full of tears again, threatening to roll down his face as his hands come up to wipe your tears away, "Simon....Simon please...let's just take our time and talk about this...let's think about this...please...I know you're stressed out...I know...but please...", your voice breaks as you start sobbing but he starts nodding, and you bring him in for a hug, laying his head on your shoulder, and you can hear the faintest sound of a sob come from him.

It seemed like hours, hours of you rubbing your hand up and down his back, hours since you both started crying in each other's arms, but in reality, it couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes. He leans back and looks into your eyes again, panicking, "God....I....I'm so sorry I said that love....I swear I didn't mean too, I swear I didn't, I don't know what came over me, I-", the panicked apologies and explanations kept falling out of his mouth over and over again. After letting him let all of it out, you hold his face again and wipe at the tears on his cheeks, and you put both of your hands on either side of his face. He sniffles and kisses the palm of your hand, "I promise I didn't mean it love, I swear...", his tone is full of desperation, he really is being honest. "I know baby, I know....you've been thinking about this for a while now haven't you....", he gives a small nod, "...you just seemed...really overwhelmed...".

Although it hurt and upset you, although he's worried and uneasy, although you both seemed a little lost, a whole night of holding each other and talking about your feelings, your expectations of your relationship, and what you want in it seemed to calm the both you down, especially Simon.