#unrelated to that broken promise | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

explorevenus · 7 months ago

Text

doll parts ♡ leon kennedy x f!reader

nsfw (18+) - minors dni or i will call ur mom. and also the cops

word count: 3.6k

description: leon may not take the best care of himself, but he certainly takes care of you. it's his favorite pastime.

tags/warnings: vendetta leon, established relationship, unhealthy relationship dynamics, dollification, daddy kink, oral sex (f receiving), mirror sex

a/n: this piece was commissioned by my lovely bestie @dollfacefantasy, who knows me so well in that she knew i was foaming at the mouth for an excuse to write dollification w leon >:3 AND it's based off of that one scene in euphoria where nate dresses cassie up LIKE GET OUTTA TOWNNNNN I WAS SO JUICED TO WRITE THIS !!!!!!!!!!!!

my masterlist ♡

my ao3 ♡

fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ;w;

-venus ♡

You were mad. You were so mad, all the time lately, and you were past the point of wondering if you had any right to be.

It was late, nearly half past midnight, the only sound in the dim house being the unrelenting patter of fat raindrops on the windows. Leon, too, was late, like he so often was. Of course, you weren’t allowed to complain or ask questions about his high paying job, or his whereabouts, or the secrecy, where all those injuries came from or why he didn’t return when he said he would for the hundredth time.

All your life, you thought relationships like this existed only in fiction, the trope of the distant workaholic who dismisses his partner’s concerns with nothing but his wallet and his sexual prowess, piling diamond encrusted bandages upon months worth of neglect, bottled up grievances and novels left unsaid. It was a concept confined to old movies and paperbound romances as far as you were concerned, before you met Leon.

You weren’t unreasonable, and you weren’t dumb. You had gathered that his mysterious government job really was important and strictly confidential, and you trusted that he was telling you as much of the truth as was permitted by the powers that be. You knew he cared about you, you knew he would rather be home with you than running around at the beck and call of the most powerful people in the country. You knew it was never his intention to hurt you.

But your awareness of his love for you didn’t make it any easier to swallow the unending cycle of broken promises, nor the visible deterioration of his mental and physical health while his ‘work trips’ became increasingly frequent until they all started to just blend together.

You became numb to it after a while. It seemed selfish to demand his time and attention when he couldn’t help his circumstances. Even bringing it up made you feel like a monster, and it was all because you loved him so completely.

And you loved him so completely. You had seen him cry with laughter and sob with grief. You had seen him burn toast, fall asleep with the TV on, forget how to tie a tie, dread a mundane phone call, mumble to himself when he thought no one was listening. You knew his philosophies on life and love and death, you knew him heart and soul, and so too did he know you.

Thus, you just ate it, wore yourself down until you finally accepted that all those bottled up grievances, novels left unsaid and extravagant bribes were worth the privilege of being his lover.

Your eyes felt dry as you stared at the clock, counting in your tired mind exactly how many hours had passed since he was supposed to be home. It had been a long, rough day that would have been draining enough on its own, but the evening proved to disappoint even further.

Leon heard about the karmic disaster that was your day through a handful of rant texts you’d sent over the course of it, each one more unfortunate than the last. Sympathetic to your senseless string of rotten luck, he promised to cut away from work an hour early to return home to you with your favorite dinner and enough doting on to make your teeth rot. He did not, of course, come home early, and not only that, but he didn’t come home at all, and you couldn’t get ahold of him.

If this wasn’t such a frequent occurrence, you might have been more worried about his safety, or even more angry at him for leaving you hanging on a day like this one, but you had become so familiar with this whole song and dance that your feelings around it were dulled.

You were just about to give up and go to bed when your phone lit up with a notification. Following the several undelivered texts you tried to send asking if he was okay, he’d given a simple response that you knew would redirect the course of your whole entire night.

Headed home in 15. Be in the dollhouse

You had long since garnered that the dollhouse was more for him than it was for you, even if he seemed to believe it was the other way around. It was nice to be pampered and doted on and styled like a Barbie, until it became a way for him to avoid talking to you about anything important. But that was neither here nor there. Dolls don’t talk, and they most certainly don’t complain.

With a deep, measured breath you exited the bedroom and turned down the hall, to what used to be a spare room but was now more aptly describable as a boudoir. The door creaked open to reveal the delicate, feminine space, heavy satin drapes blocking out any potential prying eyes. Between two solid oak wardrobes was an ornate standing mirror, the walk-in closet to the right overflowing with opulent clothing that hardly ever saw the light of day, just the familiar warmth of Leon’s cerulean eyes.

At the other end of the room was an antique, three-mirror vanity, stocked carefully with luxury makeup, designer perfumes and every last tool one might need to style your hair, down to a box of satin ribbons in every color with which to tie it back. Leon was never one to do things half-way, and dolling you up was no exception.

Piece by piece, you stripped yourself of your clothes, hands moving as slowly and purposefully as his own would, as if by instinct. Just like a doll would be, you undressed to nothing but a pair of delicate lace panties, and you took your place at the vanity, your posture straight and your hands folded neatly in your lap.

All there was left to do now was wait for Leon, to stare at yourself blankly in the mirror and ruminate, to let your thoughts scream and echo around in your head until it would all collapse into silence, putting you in the proper headspace of an empty-headed little Barbie for Leon to play with.

You didn’t so much as flinch at the sound of the garage door opening, or move a muscle at all at the muffled thudding of his footsteps ascending the stairs. Your lips parted with a slow, deep breath, your posture straightening up one final time before the knob turned, and you watched the door open behind you through the reflection in the mirror.

He looked tired. To be candid, he looked like shit. It was evident he had left immediately from whatever dangerous, world-saving thing he was doing to rush home to you, not taking the time to change or freshen up.

Leon approached you gently, reaching over your shoulder to let his rough fingers cup your neck and throat, tilting your head up just enough to make you look at yourself, and to adjust your posture.

“Such a precious little doll, sitting so pretty for daddy,” He whispered, stooping down to plant a kiss at the crown of your head. His hands smelled like iron and gunpowder, and his breath smelled faintly of malted liquor poorly masked with mint. If only you could have confronted him about it. You just swallowed, staring straight ahead where he was directing your gaze.

Reaching over your shoulder, Leon’s steady hand plucked a detangling brush from the vanity, running his fingers through your hair carefully with his other hand. He felt through the length of your soft locks, mindful as always not to tug at any of the little knots he discovered here and there. Shortly after, he was running the brush through your hair with gentle veneration, delicate, even strokes that nearly threatened to put you to sleep.

Leon watched your expression in the mirror as your lashes fluttered, your head lolling back as if mindlessly chasing the attention. A low chuckle fell from his parted lips. “Feels good, huh? I’ll bet it does. Your hair is so messy, baby… You weren’t playing by yourself all day while daddy was gone, were you?”

He was teasing you. A subtle grin begged to tug at your lips, and you let it. Still, you were sure to shake your head ‘no’-- after all, you couldn’t have him thinking you had taken advantage of his extended absence to be naughty, even if you had been awfully tempted to.

Carding his fingers through your freshly brushed hair, he hummed in mock consideration for a moment, like he couldn’t decide whether or not he believed you. Finally, he turned you around in your chair to face him, tilting your chin up so he could give you a kiss. “I know my baby would never. Always the perfect princess for me, even when I’m not always the perfect daddy.”

That last part came out a little quieter, like he was ashamed to even say it out loud, but somehow still, it was the loudest part to you. You softened.

He noticed, and he, too, softened. The tension in the air dissipated a bit– it was still somewhere around here, likely waiting right outside the door, but it was no longer actively present, at least. Leon gave you another sweet kiss, this one to your forehead, before gently correcting your posture again.

Pushing your hair back with a soft, fluffy headband, he opened up one of the drawers in the vanity and began to take a few things out. First, a light moisturizer, which he massaged into your skin with a jade roller that was cool to the touch and just as relaxing as always. Your moisturizer was followed by a gentle under-eye balm, a thin layer of primer and a hydrating lip oil.

The way he moved was so fluid, so methodical, like a conductor before an orchestra, and you were his masterpiece. In Leon’s eyes, you might as well have been carved out of the finest, most expensive marble, and you were to be treated no less delicately.

He stepped out just for a moment to wash his hands, a clean slate for the next step of the process, your makeup.

You honestly don’t know how he did it. Judging by some of the techniques and products he would use, you could only guess he must have been doing his research online or something, though where he found the time to do so was another question entirely. His lines weren’t always clean, his blending wasn’t always perfectly smooth, yet somehow you always still felt he’d managed to upstage you with the finished product– perhaps it was because he could see you in a way you couldn’t see yourself.

“Daddy?” You chanced a whisper, but he was quick to press a finger to the plush of your lips, ever so gently.

“Shh… Just sit nice and still for me, alright, sugar?”

You nodded, and he resumed his work with a careful touch.

Soft brushes and plush sponges worked their way around the surface of your face, applying shadow and powders and liner, with Leon holding his breath now and then to ensure a steady hand. Your cheeks were rouged, your lips were glossed, your lashes were carefully curled and it was all topped off with a cooling mist of setting spray and a gentle kiss to the forehead.

“There you are, hm? My beautiful baby dolly,” He mused, reaching forward to tilt your head up by your chin, then to the left, then to the right, checking over his handiwork from every angle. Adding a dash of blush to the tip of your nose, he deemed your makeup complete. “Just perfect.”

Slowly, Leon turned your chair around again, allowing you to look at yourself, and yeah. Wow.

You looked gorgeous, you were glowing even. All of your best features were adorned with purposeful swipes of blush, shade and highlight, your eyes dreamy and sweet, your skin smooth and radiant. He let you look at yourself for a moment, just admiring the expression of awe on you– you were always exceptionally stunning, of course, but you looked all the sweeter in these sacred moments in which you recognized your own beauty.

Leon rested one hand on your shoulder to recapture your attention, his other hand coming forward to stroke your cheek. Your long lashes fluttered as you met his eyes in the mirror, a silent signal that your focus had returned to him. Now the hand that caressed your cheekbone was coming forward to take your own. He helped you up from your seat at the vanity and across the room, to the plush chaise lounge in front of that standing mirror.

The room filled with the quiet noises of rummaging, Leon sifting through drawers and racks of hangers stuffed with what had to have been thousands of dollars worth of designer, a stark contrast to his own attire of largely plain black shirts and jeans that had seen better days.

But you were his princess. Leon was just Leon, and Leon couldn’t possibly deserve as much as a princess.

Turning over his shoulder, Leon approached you with a simple pair of white stockings in hand, sinking to his knees right before the chaise lounge to put them on you. Your ankle looked so slight and delicate in his strong hand as he lifted your leg, drawing a line of kisses up the inside of your calf to follow while he rolled the stocking up higher and higher, until the hem reached just above your knee.

He repeated the action with your other leg, the movement of his hands fluid and practiced, but his breaths were becoming shorter, his kisses a little wetter and needier on your skin. Your own breaths were quickly falling in sync with his own just by watching him dial in on your sex, his calloused hands propping your legs up onto his shoulders so he could shuffle closer.

Gripping you by the hips to angle you up to his liking, he buried his nose into the seat of your thin lace panties and breathed you in deep, as though he were starving for oxygen. The tip of his nose nuzzled forward to brush your panties aside, and just as soon as your slit was bared to him, his tongue was darting out to taste it.

He spread it flat in a slow, languid stripe from your weeping hole all the way to your throbbing clit, his lips closing around the little bundle of nerves to coax it from beneath its hood. You sucked in a breath, your manicured nails printing into the lush material of the furniture you were perched on, trying as hard as you could to keep quiet and still, to allow him to guide you, to play with you as he so desired. Luckily, he wasn’t in too stern of a mood this evening anyway– you weren’t likely to be reprimanded for small errors like that, especially not while he was otherwise occupied.

“Fuck,” He growled lowly into your cunt, leaving white prints where he gripped your pillowy thighs just to ground himself. You could feel his body growing warm as he lost himself in you, lapping up every drop of your arousal with greed. For just a moment, his dilated, denim eyes flicked up to look at you, his rosy cheeks gently squished between your quaking thighs as he puffed out, “Just look at you, my dolly… Daddy’s favorite little toy…”

Your eyes screwed shut with pleasure as his hot mouth met your center again, and when they fluttered open, you caught sight of it all in the mirror. It nearly knocked the wind out of you.

Your dainty legs spread out over your gruff boyfriend’s broad shoulders, adorned in delicate white stockings that looked pure and bright against his tight black t-shirt; his sandy blonde hair damp and messy as he wedged himself between your thighs and drank from you like a fountain; your hair and makeup fit for a gala as your expression contorted with rapture… it could have been an oil painting.

Every swipe of his tongue up the length of you, every flutter along your swollen bud, every deep, wanton, needy groan had your eyes rolling back in your head, your thighs trembling and tightening around his jaw. Every inch of you felt featherlight with electricity as he worked his magic on you, more than capable of making you cum in three minutes flat, but opting not to for the fun of it.

Not that you were complaining. At times he could get carried away in his teasing, but tonight was not one of those nights. Leon wasn’t going to waste your time dangling you over the edge much longer than was strictly necessary. As soon as he noticed you were having trouble sitting still, quiet whines and sighs of pleasure occasionally slipping out from between your glossy lips, he knew it would be unfair to string you along any further.

Leon was practically making out with your folds, the room quiet aside from the slick sounds and lustful whimpers that accompanied his dining of you. Soon it was joined with the low, husky timbre of his voice as he groaned into you, “Gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna make a pretty mess all over daddy’s face?”

In all honesty, you barely registered his words, but all it ever took to get you nodding like a bobblehead was that upward lilt in his tone that indicated he was asking you something. That was all you needed to know that the correct answer was yes.

Smirking briefly to himself as he witnessed your eager and rapt approval, he doubled the intensity of his efforts, his hands wrenching tight into your thighs to pull you flush against his face, but more importantly, to keep you from wriggling away. He didn’t bother to shush you when a shocked yelp bubbled out of you, your body jerking in response to the added stimulation. After all, it was the response he was expecting, and the response he yearned for.

Your shaking hands darted forward to claw at his hair, half-lidded eyes catching your reflection in the mirror once more. Your skin was warm, your breasts heaving as your spine drew into a fine arch and your lips parted to gasp in all the oxygen you could get to your dizzy brain, heels digging into the prominent muscles in his back. He felt every quiver and twitch of your muscles and it only spurred him on. He ate you up like you were his last meal.

Your vision went white as your climax crashed over you hard– the sounds he made were obscene, a satisfied groan vibrating from deep in his chest at the syrupy sweet taste of your arousal. It was an essence he couldn’t possibly get enough of.

As you laid there panting, your legs shaking after the tension in them released, Leon’s eyes dragged up the length of your body with pride. He carefully pulled your panties back into place with a sweet kiss to the bow in the center of them and an affectionate pat to the thigh.

“There’s a good girl,” He hummed, crawling up from between your legs to kiss you, his mouth still warm and slightly slick with your own spend. “A perfect little doll. All I have to do is pull the right strings to get you to sing for me, huh, princess?”

Once more, you nodded, eyes fluttering shut just for a moment as he kissed your forehead. Then, he stood to his full height again, one hand taking yours and the other steadying you by the dip of your waist as he raised you up to join him, wobbly knees be damned. After all, he wasn’t finished playing dress-up yet. He took a moment to ensure you had regained your balance enough to be able to stand without assistance before opening up one of the wardrobes in search of the remainder of your outfit.

Moments like these only piqued your curiosity in terms of how his brain worked. Sure, you’d been dating for a long time and it was safe to say you knew him quite well, but his penchant for compartmentalization never ceased to astound you. He possessed the sometimes frightening ability to just switch his brain from one mode to the next.

You were brought back to reality once more by the feeling of his lips on your neck. He murmured into your ear, “Arms up, darlin’,” and he barely even finished saying it before you were complying.

You lifted your arms, and he slipped a new dress over your head. There it was, the compensation for being home late, for dropping off the face of the Earth again. The dress was flattering and soft, a delicate blush pink color with embroidered details along the bust and white lace hemming. He drew up the zipper without resistance, and as it reached its apex, the fabric hugged your form perfectly, as though the garment itself was made with you in mind.

Leon kneeled down to straighten out your stockings, and then the skirt of your dress, his eyes scanning over you meticulously in search of any little imperfections that might need fixing. Finding none, he wandered over to where he’d left his jacket, fishing a baby blue box out of the pocket. You had become quite familiar with that blue lately– Tiffany.

Nestled in the slender box was a dainty diamond necklace that now rested right at your collarbones, the clasp in the back secured with a smooch. He carded his fingers through your hair one last time before turning you around to look at yourself in the mirror, his hands rested on your hips, head stooped low to smother the crook of your throat in kisses.

“What do you think?” He whispered in your ear, nibbling gently at the shell.

“Beautiful,” You replied just as quietly, “Thank you, daddy.”

#venustext #sintext #resident evil #leon kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you

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hazelfoureyes · 6 months ago

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A Doe in Fall (part 7)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie Part 13 - The Release Part 14 - Someone like her smutty💦

Part 7 Recognition

It was time to start again. Alastor couldn't forget what his mother had wanted, even if she didn't ask it of him directly. And while he finds his comfort again in killing, Detective Brady finds a lead.

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, smut, reader's thighs as ear muffs, referencing cruel racists in the early 20th century south, reference to marital violence, pussy eaten, p in v sex, no creampie BOO, bad dancing, Alastor's southern accent, Alastor's mother, gossip, murder, greed , two idiots pretending they aren't madly in love, poor family planning, lots of 1920's slang with notes for your ease」

I think I fixed the broken tag list!

....it's been over a month. Here's nearly 9000 words of our favorite idiots. I feel weird labeling this smut now as...we are...kinda past the smut point and just making sweet sweet love. lol ugh gross. thank you to everyone whose offered help, donated, and shared the word about my mom! It’s been an immense help and has made her a little emotional (in a good way) <Florida stole my moms teeth— explanation and donation link> unrelated, anyone want some RadioDust?

Minors…. Minors. My inbox counts as interacting when you’re literally in there requesting smut. I know your bio has no age but baby honey darling I can tell by your writing. 🔞 Do Not Interact 🏠🚗

A development he knew was coming even if no one else believed him. A drug addict with debts to the local crime syndicates disappearing was neither suspicious nor a mystery. Everyone was confident it was obvious Tommy was at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain or halfway to California.

But not to him, not for Detective Brady. He had been on the beat for the better part of a year, convinced there was a connection between some of the disappearances in town.

No one wanted to hear it though, most people didn’t even care the people were missing. Only the occasional wife, concerned how she would keep a roof over her head and food in her kid’s bellies with the man of the house gone. But other than that, no tears or chest beating for the missing men and women.

Which made him confident there were countless more unreported cases. Just because no one missed them, a crime is a crime.

But, no bodies, no blood, no crime scenes… he looked like he had lost the fucking plot to his colleagues.

The city didn’t want the bad press, not to mention the fact there was no actual crime to be reported. Someone up and left down? Okay, he was a wife beater? Probably left with his mistress. The cruel den mother of the home for unwanted kids? Her assistant takes the lead and she moves onto a new town to menace. Probably running from the people angry with her.

But he finally had something. Tommy was pimping out dancers, and even laid hands on one. Surely there was a man looking for revenge for that. Can’t knock around a man’s woman and have it go unanswered.

So he tried again to find the woman whose only name he knew was a moniker. Autumn Hind.

Every time Brady came to the theater, another excuse. You left early. You were on the roof smoking—- oh, you slipped out the back. Weekends were your off days, so that was useless.

“You’re obsessed.” Detective Freeman threw an eraser he’d picked off his pencil at Brady. He had seen the man devolve slowly over the past couple months.

“Thanks.” Brady was staring at his notes.

“Not a compliment, Kenny. Shit happens, people leave town. You’re acting like a handful of no shows are some conspiracy.” Freeman came to stand behind Brady, leaning over to read his notes, “How can you even read that chicken scratch?”

He clapped the notebook shut, “Every report was a person less than liked. What are the chances they all leave town in the middle of the night, last seen in the same general area?”

Freeman patted his shoulder, “Did you just ask me why a bunch of assholes,” he stood up and made a show of stretching out tired muscles, “who liked illegal hooch* and jazz with plenty of enemies disappeared?” (*booze)

Brady slapped his desk, “There! You said it! They had enemies. But what— what if they had one enemy in common. A bar manager or — or a,” he was still looking for that link.

“Kenny, the boogeyman isn’t roaming New Orleans killing people. If the higher ups don’t care, if the families don’t care, it doesn’t matter. Let it go.”

The sleep deprived detective sunk into his wooden chair, swiveling side to side anxiously, “Tommy’s mother cares.”

“Yeah well mom’s are famously bad judges of character.” Slipping on his jacket, he shot a worried look to his partner, “Ya gonna go home? Janet’s probably a mess. You’ve been keeping late hours.”

“Nah not yet. I gotta get to the theater before this dame goes ghost on me again.”

“Yikes, still? You’ve been chasing her for a while.” He was making a slow inching walk to the door.

“It’d be easier if I had some support. I gotta do this on my own time.” A deep sigh, well past the point of hiding his frustration with his colleagues and bosses. Freeman looked over the wrinkled shirt and wilted tie, evidence of a man losing his grip.

“Welp, good luck buddy. Hope you get to the bottom of whatever this is.” He gestured at the messy desk and disheveled man, “See ya tomorrow.”

Brady waved without looking up. His eyes were staring into the black leather of his notepad. Tommy was the only recent assumed victim with any real suspicion. The woman whose husband disappeared after going to see a show? Only enemy to him was her, and she wasn’t strong enough to take him down. Deadend.

Most recent, nice young man from up north. Went out for a good time, hoping to catch a little lady for some stress relief, according to his coworkers. Never showed up at work the next day. No one had a bad word to say about the man. Making him an outlier, but still. He was young, strong, soft spoken. Not an enemy in sight but no family to worry, either. Deadend.

But Tommy. Someone cared he was gone. He was in the jazz game, the drug dens, the illegal drink business, and had a heavy hand. He was the perfect bad man, right?

He looked across his desk. Bad men. The occasional unsavory woman. Maybe it was just their time. They pissed off the wrong people.

Or the wrong person.

Someone who worked downtown, someone into dance and drink, someone with nights free to do his work. Maybe a hired gun? No, some of these people didn’t have the money for that.

Plus, one person and so many missing? That would be unheard of, it’d be some kind of record for Louisiana.

A record Brady could claim.

When he entered the theater James, the manager who replaced Tommy, noticeably rolled his eyes, getting in front of the man. “It’s real bad for business to have a cop in here all the damn time. Come on, if you’re not here for a raid then could you be a little less obvious.”

Brady looked past him, “What do you mean?”

“You’re— what is it? What can I do for you?”

“Here again for Miss Autumn. Care to give her real name yet?”

“No can do. Ain’t my business to tell. She’s finished her set, asked to head home early.” Brady turned and kicked a chair over, a large man approaching behind the manager before seeing the hip badge and backing up. “Nah we’re not doing that. We’ve told her you’ve come by but she’s a busy lady. Several gigs here and there. Enough, you’re harassing the dancers now.”

With a snap, Brady had his finger in the manager’s face, “Whatcha gonna do? Call the cops?”

“She. Isn’t. Here. What the fuck do you want? For me to tie her up and bring her to your station?”

That’d be ideal.

A month, nearly. Coming once or twice a week to try and speak to you but every time he missed you. He was going to snap if he heard one more time you were gone. Maybe everyone was in on it. Maybe you werenin the back right now laughing at him.

Brady scanned the room, “Where’s she live?”

“How the fuck would I know— please, leave.” James gestured to the doors.

He lifted his badge up, waving it at the patrons seated closest to him, “Yall know it’s still illegal to partake-,”

“Jesus! Enough!” The manager pushed him back, flashing an apologetic smile to the guests, “She moonlights Sundays at The Dime near the park on 5th, singing for a friend. That’s all I got about her life off stage. Will you fucking go?”

The detective perked up, “See, was that so hard?”

Finally, he could feel his fingers grasp the shifting shadow that was his only lead.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“I never said sorry.”

You turned your head, not expecting him to say something serious. Waiting, he didn’t add explanation. Sorry? What had he done… ran out of milk? Forgot to bring in the towels before it rained last week? A quick search of your memory yielded nothing.

“For what?”

He was staring off in front of him. “For putting you in danger before. In the park. I am sincerely sorry.”

You’d somehow almost forgotten. It’d been weeks. Every bad feeling that night had brought you had been carried away by good morning kisses and gentle words before sleep. Nearly every night was spent in his bed, Alastor dropping you off at your apartment when he went downtown for work. The incident in the park was a different lifetime already.

Had he really put you in danger? Or had you rushed into the danger of his hobby to feel closer to him?

“I put myself in that situation. You didn't throw me at that guy. I don’t do a damn thing I don’t want to do. You should have learned that by now.”

Tough act for a woman who jumped up to pour some man’s coffee.

You shook your head, you had to stop equating doting on Alastor as a show of weakness. It wasn’t. Even if admitting that meant admitting you were wrong.

But he had put you in danger’s way, he knew it. “No, you wouldn’t have ever been in that situation if it wasn’t for me.”

Your laughter bounced off the car windows, “Alastor, you met me getting choked to death by a strange man. People will always make dangerous situations for women to be in. Don’t act like you’re special.” A sly smile to ease his anxious heart. “I’d rather be in danger for you than just because I’m a woman. If it’s gonna happen anyway, might as well be worth something.”

His hand slipped onto your thigh, expression softening before his own smile grew again, “Don’t lie to my face so easily. I am very special, we can all agree.”

You looked around, the two of you alone in his car on a side street, “All? You know the trunk is still empty, right?”

“Oh, is that so? You’re quite dangerous yourself, I nearly forgot why we were here.” He patted his pockets to make sure he had what he needed. “When I give you a wave, back up to me, okay? Don’t leave the car. Just drive off if-,”

You kissed his cheek, “Shut it. Not a chance. Go give em hell, baby.”

Alastor crumpled against his steering wheel momentarily, your words cutting his heart open in a most wonderful way. He could never have predicted getting kisses before beginning his dark work. What had he done to deserve this? Perhaps proof someone in hell was in full support of his actions. Straightening his back and checking his hair and glasses in the mirror, he flashed you a smile before slipping out of the car.

When Alastor said he was ready to begin killing again, you were a mix of excited and scared. Excited for normalcy to return but scared of the dangers presented there in. You’d been dodging the blue eyed detective for a while already, and moving forward meant possibly making mistakes he could grab a hold of. Not mentioning the risk of someone hurting Alastor again…but for your part in everything, you and Alastor found a compromise.

A deal had been made. You’d stay in the car and bring it to him when he was done. He had asked you flee if something went wrong but you both knew that wasn’t going to happen. Crawling into the driver’s seat, you tried to remember what he had taught you. How to get it started up, how to make it go backwards. How to make it go, in general. You’d never driven a car. Well, not until Alastor insisted on teaching you. Driving up and down the long stretch of road he lived on, Alastor white knuckling the door handle as you jerked the car forward with every failed shift. You had started on his land, but he feared for his home's safety with you behind the wheel.

Your hands slipped down the steeling wheel, big and round. Your mother would’ve had a hoot had she seen you in the driver’s seat. Clearing your throat, you leaned into the back of the car and double checked the canvas was properly secured.

Another man tonight. The few times you’d both gone out for leisure, having preferred to spend time alone at home, Alastor had gotten gossip that piqued his interest.

You remembered the way the woman’s hand touched his arm when she leaned in. “You didn’t hear it from me but it’s best to avoid French Study on Thursdays. Real piece of work slipping something in drinks and robbing people.” He reported what she had said back to you. It’d panicked you, realizing you were closer to being on Alastor’s list than you’d realized.

“No, the issue isn’t the stealin’. It’s what he does with the people with,” he had been delicate as he said it, taking another long sip of whiskey, “other things of value. And the fact this man has no need to steal. It’s ridiculous! His family has been land ownin’ and well off for generations.” Alastor was always impassioned when discussing the things he hated, even when slipping into drunkenness. His accent came through when he had too much to drink, his real accent. The accent his mother had. “You robbed men for power balance, for their assumptions you were easy to manipulate to begin with. He? Uh, Him? He’s just a piece of shit. He thinks he’s better than everyone else. And no one would report him ‘cause his family name.”

His drink spilled a little, when you had offered to clean it he just slipped the button up off. He lost his usual classy air as the bottle emptied. Which you actually liked.

The benefits of drinking on his back porch was no need to worry about decorum. Music was softly spilling from the open window behind you, Alastor’s prized record cabinet spinning the newest presses.

“It’s like there’s a little bug under my skin,” he wiggled his fingers over his sternum, “It’s gonna dig into my bones if I don’t cut it out.”

Despite your own drunkenness, you nodded and followed along, “So, ya gonna kill ‘em?”

Alastor pouted, making you snort, “I don’t want to think about that right now.” He enunciated every word clearly in his practiced and professional voice.

You’d ended the evening playfully arguing the merits of prohibition on the jazz scene and watching Alastor dance around the wrap around porch. But the conversation hadn’t ended for him.

Little hints he was still focused on it popped up over the following week. Alastor randomly asking you how it felt to be drugged, did you wake up in pain? Embarrassed? Scared? You caught him staring at the greenhouse from the window one morning, lost in thought. Before he had finally said he wanted to go out again, you understanding what that meant, you’d seen him turning a dinner knife over and over in his hand impatiently.

And now here you were. In the car beside a park late Thursday, Alastor having done some scouting while you’d finished up early at the theater.

It took hours. Which was good, it meant Alastor wasn’t rushing. He liked the stalking aspect of killing, of watching someone from across a room knowing exactly how their night would end. And as that man whose name would soon be buried with him alternated smiling and barking orders at staff, Alastor felt his stomach flutter. Like watching a slab of meat slowly turn over the fire. The crueler he was, the worse he acted, the more Alastor found his fingers tapping on the bar with anticipation. Perfect. Damn yourself more. No fake smiles or double faces, no, people like him didn’t even try to play the game others were forced into. Born with money and land already theirs, they didn’t even know the rules.

But Alastor did. Alastor mastered them at the tender age of 14. When he realized his father’s features were a shield. His mother’s lessons on manners and charm his weapons. The first time he was in mixed company, when someone leaned in and whispered a cruel “prank” he had planned for a young dark skinned woman on the other side of the room, he understood. They pulled back and smiled at him, and he managed to muster one of his own. Just smile, they’d take it to mean whatever they wanted it to mean because they thought he was of the same mindset. They assumed it. Like so many other things people would assume about him as he grew.

When he told his mother the story after getting home, she shook her head. When he had asked her what he should have done, she set down her book.

“Well, I’d love to say you should have stood up for her. But I’d also like to have my son above ground.”

He asked her why she couldn’t have both.

“Sweetheart, we don’t usually get the choice to do either, let alone both.”

He offered a solution, after a moment of thinking, “I shoulda buried him first then.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if that was how the world worked?” She returned to her book, “If God just struck em down dead as soon as they hurt people. Better yet, before.”

It would be nice. It was nice. Because Alastor couldn’t wait for God to make the world his mother mentioned. He grinned ear to ear, gloves a second skin, as the man crawled backwards in the grass like an animal cornered. His heart was pounding in his ears. Where to cut first? The gut, his family fat and soft from the money they made off the labor of others? The pale neck of a man who never spent a day outside, instead indoors drugging strangers for sport? The chest covered in a fine cotton shirt he didn’t appreciate?

He wished he had many arms, as many as he could imagine, to slash and tear in tandem.

“What do you want? Money?” the animal asked him.

Alastor shook his head no. No, he didn’t want money.

“Do you know who I am?”

Alastor nodded. “That is precisely why I am here.”

Would he beg? Cry? Bargain? Experience told him it’d be the latter.

“Alright well, if you know who I am you know you’re making a mistake. Here.” The man opened his wallet and pulled out a few greenbacks, holding them out for Alastor. Alastor’s smile softened slightly, remembering tossing you a wallet once before.

He reached down with his left hand to take the money, but instead grabbed the man’s wrist. Swiftly, quicker than the man could process, he took the knife tucked into his belt behind his vest and stabbed the man in the stomach.

Staring into his eyes, he could see his own image looking back at him. Smiling.

Alastor grabbed your face with both wrists, hands bloody and one still holding the knife, and kissed you when he’d flagged you down.

“Is this for bringing the car around without running you over?” Your eyes glanced at the knife beside your head. He apologized, tossing it into the trunk.

“No, just happy to see you.” A mischievous grin that made your knees weak, his body shimmied closer until he was pressed against you, stealing another kiss. His arms stretched out to keep from bloodying you. Your fingers slid up his cheeks to return the kiss. “Thank you, dear.”

When you returned home, to his home, that is, you took to task bringing in the laundry he’d left on the line and putting away the things still on the counters from breakfast. You couldn’t resist going to the second floor room and looking down into the greenhouse. You couldn’t see perfectly well, but you could see nonetheless. Alastor didn’t want you in the greenhouse yet when he was working. He said it was the ugliest parts, the kind that would sure give you nightmares or rob you of your appetite.

Considerate. But, it only made you more curious. Would you be sick if you saw? Would you never eat meat again?

What would you do if you didn’t have any reaction at all?

You watched Alastor leave the greenhouse and lock the door behind him, so you hopped down the stairs to meet him in the hall beside the kitchen.

He’d been sweating, shirt open to reveal a thin white undershirt, and under his arm was a canvas roll. He lifted it up, “Tools. Rinsed them off but I’d like to dry them under the electric lights.” You grabbed the aprons from the wall hooks, Alastor letting you slip it over his head and tie it for him. “Why so tight?”

“I like the way it makes your waist look.” You’d seen him wear it when making biscuits. It made his shape so clear. It reminded you of watching water drip down his sides and roll off his hips in the shower.

He beamed, “I’m listening. What exactly do you like about my waist?” Sharp brows raised as that friendly tongue peeked out at you.

“Hush.” You cooed.

You stood on the long side of the table, him at the short, and took turns wiping the tools dry and checking the other’s work.

As he grabbed each one he would tell you what he used it for. Holding up the garden shears and explaining the point along the blade that had the strongest force. The advantage of curved pruning blades when used on a human body. His eyes were gleaming as he spoke, looking so lovingly at each item like it was a loyal pet.

He finally noticed you were grinning and chuckling softly, so he dropped his smile for dramatic effect, “What? What’s so funny?”

Shaking your head, you set down the next item for him to inspect, “Nothing. You’re just so cute when you’re talking about your passions. Your face lights up from the inside out.”

His breath hitched, smile actually lost as he processed every syllable. Your turn now to notice him staring as you looked up from your work. You recognized that look though, the wide eyes and serious lips. The air of the kitchen felt like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm rolled in.

Alastor set the tools back onto the canvas one by one and carried them to the counter. Before returning he picked up a small knife and set it near the edge of the table.

“Come here.” He nodded his head to space in front of him. The way he said it, that tone, made your heart begin to skip beats.

You slid between him and the table, Alastor lifting you up with a startling ease and setting you onto cool wood. Kicking your legs a little, you set nervous hands onto your lap. You wanted to touch him. To pull him by the apron straps into you.

“How do you always say the right things?” He closed the distance between you, one hand on your neck while his mouth came to your ear. “The things I didn’t know I wanted to hear?”

Swimming. Your mind was swimming. “Why is your idea of right the same as my idea of the truth?” You could feel the grin. Sighing into your ear, down your neck, his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you off the table enough to press your core into his clothed erection. Even through his pants and the apron, you could feel him clearly. When did he get so hard? You always wondered in those moments if it was the topic of discussion. Or the knives. Or your need. Biting your lip wasn’t a thought out action, but Alastor loved to see it. Rolling his hips into you in response.

“Wanna go upstairs?” you asked.

He shook his head, slipping off his glasses.

“Oh no, don’t even wanna see me?” You teased, but firm hands held you tighter to him in response.

“I won’t be letting you get far enough away from me for that to be a problem.”

When he leaned down and his lips so very gently pressed into yours, you could feel it. That missing something from before. It was in the air, it was rolling off of his body and dampening your senses. A desire, a drive that you felt that first time you had sex with him in that apartment above the theater. A motivation that was lacking last time in his bed.

His eyes were staring down into yours, waiting for your response. Eagerly you replied by chasing his mouth with yours. A chain of kisses as you tried to ever remember enjoying kissing another person as much as him.

Not a single soul. Why did it feel like this was all you ever needed? Eyes closed and lips on lips, hands in his hair, it felt like you’d been holding your breath all of your life. His body on yours was a gasp of air.

For Alastor, he couldn’t even think of breathing when around you. Let alone when your mouth was on him. Every time you touched him all he could think about was the word ‘affection’.

So when your tongue swiped up his lips, he moaned as he opened for you. Not because he was new to kissing someone with so much lust. He’d grown accustomed to the things you did to him. No, because you were a fever that had taken hold of him and your kiss the medicine that soothed his delirium.

He wondered, was that why people called it ‘love sick’?

“You really like me, don’t you?” He asked, nose sliding up your jaw.

An opportunity presented to you. A chance to spill over the edges.

You pushed it away, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer.

“Something like that, yeah.”

His hands pressed flat against the table to balance the deep roll of his hips against you. One of your own fell behind you to keep from falling backwards, the other flung over his shoulder. When you moaned into his cheek he captured the sound with his mouth and slipped his tongue back into you.

You liked him. He’d known people to love and not like their partner an ounce, but the way you appreciated his quirks made his heart sing in its brittle cage. You never ceased to see him. The issue with always putting on a show is people tend to be disappointed when the actors become human again. But you never met his persona. He was knife wielding, bloodlusting Alastor from the first word. So when he was himself, you recognized him clearly. Because he was all you ever knew.

And you liked him

You appreciated him.

He dared to think maybe he could inspire more from you. A thought that made him twitch below the belt.

Closer. He needed you closer. He needed you so near to him that he’d never forget the feeling of being wanted. It’d be imprinted on his chest and his arms and his lips.

Impatient hands slipping up your sides, along your neck, down your chest. His greedy mouth suddenly understanding the same greed he once marveled at in your own kisses. Hot tongue sliding over yours, delving deeper into you with every return.

When his hands seemed to come to an agreement, they yanked you forward again. You’d fall off ass-first if he pulled you any further.

You watched with only slight horror has he grabbed the small knife and hiked up your dress in tandem. A gulp, worried the other shoe had finally dropped on a too-good situation.

“Are you particularly attached to these panties?” His eyes were looking up and over his glasses.

“No?” Did you really need panties, you wondered. Ever? Girdles we’re falling out of fashion perhaps you’d all be naked again soon enough. Maybe you two could start another Eden. A pomegranate’s juice the new red staining his skin.

Not even a tremble, his hands lifted each side and sliced them free.

“Oh?” You didn’t have a real question in mind when he tucked the panties into his back pocket. Just a need to express you saw it and didn’t understand it.

Alastor took your hand and pressed it against his hardened length, eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness to them. But when your hand took hold of him and squeezed, everything softened in his features. Funny how where one area grew stiff another melted.

He rolled his eyes closed as you finally undid his belt and pants. A struggle you didn’t see, Alastor trying to keep from pouncing on you like a horny virgin. He didn’t want to rut into you, he didn’t need the pleasure. He needed something he couldn’t see or explain. He just knew you held it behind your teeth.

When your skin pressed into his and you both moaned together he was sure you were the same. One person, split into insufficient parts. Finally lined up flush in place.

When you circled your hips against his aching cock, he wondered what you were chasing after. Was it the pleasure? He’d give it to you in spades.

He was on his knees with his face between your legs before you could close your thighs in surprise.

You needed both hands now to keep from falling back onto the table. “Alastor,” a whine.

He knew better than to talk with his mouth full, so he let two fingers work their way into you with shallow thrusts. Easing you open for him.

“Yes?” His eyes didn’t leave his fingers, glistening under the kitchen light. You hadn't thought much ahead past his name, once his fingers were in you and curling up to find your spongy and soft bundle of nerves your mind had gone empty.

“We can just fuck, if you’re horny.” You watched him watching himself.

“Where’s the fun in that?” His mouth returned to your mound, broad tongue forming a point and finding your clit.

A lazy moving tongue would be frustrating if not for his fingers punishing your g-spot. Consistency was key, and his hand was focused and skilled.

Suddenly you remembered the piano in the sitting room. That’s where you knew that movement from. That clearly practiced muscle memory.

Alastor felt confident everywhere but rarely did he feel comfortable. When your thighs came together and squeezed him at the ears, he felt positively cozy. Would you be so kind as to be his ear muffs come winter? He’d have to remember to ask when his mouth was free. How many cold nights he could now rest assured he would have warmth just a little dive of his head away.

Lowering his mouth, nose buried in your muff, he wriggled his tongue in with his fingers. Not enough, rarely was anything enough any more. He stilled his hand and prodded at your sensitive walls with that intrusive tongue, relishing the little movements you made in response. Taking his digits out entirely, he buried his wet muscle as deeply as he could reach.

The huffs of exhales you were making triggered a moan from him that you felt through your skin. His enjoyment was tripling your pleasure.

Goosebumps ran up your arms at the combine sensations of his moaning and prodding.

When his lips and tongue returned to their uneven teasing of your clit, three fingers now swiping past your inner spot with every thrust, your hands came to his head. Fingers slipping through his hair and gripping every time your body shook. Encouragement, the more you tugged the surer he was he was doing the right things.

And oh, he was. You said the right things but Alastor always seemed to act on them. Your senses lodged themselves between the even stroking of your g-spot and the unpredictable movements of his tongue. One kept the pressure rising as your orgasm climbed, the other pushed you along jolt by jolt.

Curious thing. That night in the park he didn’t have much reaction to your enjoyment, but he found himself not fully softening in his lap as he continued. Normally, unless still physically stimulated or the rare time you stirred something in him, he wasn’t very… battle ready.

But the feeling of you pulling him in by the head, fingers in his hair and thighs at his cheeks; this was different than the others. He was sure now it wasn’t just physical pleasure you wanted. His pride said it was more.

Dozens of times before— he truly was a rake in some aspects, though admittedly it was all in the pursuit of avoiding “sex”, as defined by most, not chasing it — he helped a date find release with his tongue. But it never did anything for him. They moaned and said his name and screamed. Which was lovely. Who doesn’t enjoy recognition?

When you said his name, it was heavier. It was material, it had mass and as its gravity began its pull he found his mind circling that sound. He was pleasing his darling, not placating. And it made him react in that unusually crass way.

He felt like an apex predator when killing, tearing open animals made for him to hunt. But you made him feel baser. Prey in your gentle bite.

As your orgasm mounted, you began tugging at his hair to pull him off. You didn’t need him to stop, but everything was suddenly too sensitive. It was alarming to feel your body rocking from overstimulation. A strident cry filled the kitchen as your back arched off the table. He didn’t let up, despite how much you thrashed under his mouth. Rolling pleasure, muscles electrified and shaking beyond your control.

You patted his head harshly, “Good, I’m good. Alas��tor! Fuck!”

Ah, he loved when you swore. It punctuated your otherwise preternatural aura with a touch of humanity.

He stood and leaned over your now reclining body. Your pussy still clenching and legs shaking as he admired his work. You admired his shape in his apron, his broad shoulders and sharp eyes. Caught between your legs like a lion in a mouse trap; he acted like he had no way free of you. His grin widened and he made a display out of licking each finger clean. Eyes never leaving yours.

You knew many men to squawk at going down on a woman. To balk at wearing an apron. To grimace at the suggestion of cooking a meal while their lady took a nice bath or enjoyed a coffee. Alastor seemed to not think twice about any of it. How nice it would be. To have a partner beside you, to not be the woman in the often referenced “behind every great man is a great woman.”

“Alastor, I want you.” You pulled him down by the neck and stole a kiss. When he began to stroke himself fully back to life you pressed that hand to his chest. “Not like that. Though I’m not declining the offer.”

His eyes saw something in yours. “Sweetheart, you have me. There is no part of me that isn’t possessed by you. I know we keep things relatively… tightlipped for safety but I’m your fella and you’re my gal.” His nose touched yours. “But if you want more, I’ll become more. I’ll break myself apart and make myself better.”

Your heart sank. Sitting up to command a little authority, a feat given you were sitting panty-less on a kitchen table, “Don’t you dare. I’ll always meet you where you are, got it? Don’t go… groping around in the darkness for me; trying to find what I need. I’ll always come to you. Because you’re more than enough as you are.”

A little cough to clear his tightening throat, “I’ve not had a day of darkness since you arrived.” A kiss to your forehead before a soft thumbpad wiped at the corner of your eye. “Did I make you sad?”

You wanted to say it. But not now, not like this. You didn’t want Alastor to connect love and sex. To think one was necessary for the other.

While you were coming to learn how lovely it was to pair the two together, it was a fact they were wholly independent things. And you couldn’t allow him to think they were a set.

“You’ve made me too happy. It’s absolutely terrifying.”

But Alastor had found your expressions of acceptance always tumbled the circle of Love to overlap with that of Sex. It was only in that mixed space did he find desire in pleasure.

A wicked smirk, “Let me pile on my affections and drown out your fears.” His hips rolled into you again, a surprising eagerness returned to his lap. “Can I continue?”

With a nod and a smile, “But not another word of change, buster.” You leaned back on your hand for support. Alastor was happy to return to your heat, lining up and sinking into you. An embrace like no other, one he found particularly earnest when with you.

Close. Finally. You began where he ended, a natural extension of who he was and who he could be. The things he could have. A relieved sigh he didn’t try to hide before he began moving, a moment when his tension could melt. You were both an unseasonably warm autumn day and the cool comforting shade of an unfamiliar tree. Both the heat and the relief.

He watched your body rock against the table, even fully dressed you managed to look more scandalous than any show he’d seen downtown. He was grateful he didn’t seek this comfort often in others, the way his mind melted made him feel vulnerable. He couldn’t think straight. And then you began to make those lovely little groans, high pitched and needy, and he was sure his soul was errant.

As his thrusts deepened, cock no longer kissing your cervix but ramming into you with good intentions, you dropped back as you lost the battle against his hips.

Alastor’s arms slid up our waist and pulled your arms towards him, “Too far, I can’t see your face.”

Your arms were slung over his shoulders as your back curved for him, “You don’t need to see my face.”

“Tsk, wrong.”

Your new favorite place was right in front of him, wherever his line of sight was you wanted to be in it. Nose to nose, heads tilting to recapture soft lips and softer moans.

Until the softness left, Alastor’s skin slapping against yours as he dragged those lovely sounds from you. He watched your eyes roll closed, mouth open as you moaned with the safety of the seclusion of a country home. A thought bubbled up, inspired by you.

“I want the neighbors to hear you.” That smile half cocked across his upsettingly handsome face. His hand slipped between you both to repeat the motions he learned before. Hard and fast, no choice but to raise your voice.

Your head fell back, clit still sensitive, “You don’t have neighbors!” A new moan hitting the walls.

“I do— just a few miles down the road, dear.” His mouth latched onto your neck but he didn’t suck like he wanted, he couldn’t bite. Your skin was your job, your body not his to mark. Suddenly he remembered, “Do you still have that make up? For your bruises?”

You couldn’t understand why he would bring that up while balls deep in you but you nodded.

“Would it work on your neck?” He nipped lightly.

It clicked, “Absolutely.”

You felt like a teenager again. When his tongue swiped over your soft flesh before he began to suck on the skin there you could feel the heat rising off your chest. You could feel him everywhere, and with the knowledge he wanted to hear you, you tossed your shame out of the kitchen window and relaxed into the pleasure.

As he moved up your neck he left little marks behind. There was no sense left you didn’t occupy. He could smell the soap and sweat of your skin, taste your cunt still on his tongue, your sights and sounds a decadence he couldn’t get used to. And the feeling of you… velvety walls, a feeling finer than silk as he slipped in and out of you. So incredibly hot on his most sensitive areas, pulling him back in with admirable strength.

He felt his orgasm ratcheting up but tried to hold back. He wanted more time to experience your ecstasy, to wallow in your openness. Even pressed skin to skin now wouldn’t satisfy that deep desire for this unique level of intimacy. So he wanted to enjoy it for as long as he had it.

But, he knew he should prepare. “I don’t want to dirty your dress.” A lust heavy voice penetrating the nap of your neck. He’d made a risky release before at your urging, something he often thought about when work got quiet. But he knew he needed to think clearer now.

“Then don’t.” A terrible reply but you wanted all of him, every drop of his hunger for you. “Keep the mess in me.”

“My dear,” he slowed his hips, autopilot keeping them moving at all, “I don’t think now is the time for,” you tightened around him to trip him up, which worked spectacularly. Alastor had take several seconds before continuing, “talks on family planning.”

A pang of nausea and fear, small and sharp in your abdomen. It wasn’t that you weren’t aware of biology, just that Alastor brought out your baser animal instincts, too. And before, when he came buried as deeply as he could reach, it felt like you’d actually completed some ritual. Bears hibernated, birds migrated, Alastor came in you.

You’d never let a man do that before Alastor. “I just want to… accept everything you are willing to give me.”

He bit his bottom lip to redirect some attention away from his now throbbing member, “And when you’re sure on me, I’ll always provide.”

A pout that he kissed, you accepted the terms. An argument could be made you were already very sure, but you were well aware how naive that sounded when you’d known each other for so little time. Had a coworker told you she’d met a guy and within three months was ready for… the consequences, you’d have laughed and asked if she was drunk or just stupid.

Alastor wanted to provide. But he knew you’d be the one with the raw end of the deal, he couldn’t risk coercing a decision in the heat of the moment. If your mind was half was addled as his with pleasure then you were in no state for big decisions.

Life changing decisions.

Decisions that filled empty homes.

Fuck, why wasn’t he a less considerate man?

When his kiss deepened, so did his ministrations. He was fully sheathed and so unwilling to draw back more than a couple inches you wondered if he had changed his mind. It felt like a man not wanting to stray too far from home. One hand on the small of your back, his other other on the back of your neck. When he pulled out he pressed his tongue further, only stopping the kiss when he came onto the little space of table between your thighs. Soft and swollen lips parted as his breaths ran ragged. A smile spread across your face as you watched his eyes open, witnessing a pleasured blow out of his pupils.

When he grabbed a kitchen towel and cleaned the table, you chuckled at his grimace. “See? My way is cleaner.”

He didn’t reply at first, taking the cloth and hovering over the sink before tossing it into his trash. “Only in the short term. We can finish up tomorrow with the tools?”

Your legs kicked again, not ready to slide off, “Mm, it’ll be easier in the daylight.”

“Instead,” he zipped his pants but removed the belt and set it on the counter, “Let’s get zozzled* and sway around the sitting room? Crash where we land.” (*drunk)

“I’ll pour if you get the music on.”

He turned to leave but paused, “No, I’ll handle the drinks. You always have too heavy of a hand.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last time…”

“I’m not sure I remembered I was at home and not at a drum* last time…,” He uncorked the label-less whiskey, grabbing two glasses with one hand. “Didn’t wanna insult the pretty waitress.” (*speakeasy)

Fair. You weren’t much for drinking and always underestimated the strength of illegal hooch. Some were weak and some could kill you. But fancy Alastor had connections with the kind of people no one dared to risk harm to, so he always had the most trustworthy goods.

Good music, great whiskey, and even better company. You thanked him for being safe while working, he praised your ability to learn new skills so quickly. After a few drinks he pushed the coffee table against the wall and you drunkenly swayed around the room to something playing smooth and low. As much as you enjoyed your conversations, having your head tucked under his chin as neither of you said a word somehow filled in the little cracks of your heart more so than any talk. For him too. No tension after sex, no stress of how long he’d get to breathe before the next instance of prodding to do it again. He could smile and close his eyes and feel the room swing and sway in total safety.

A safety neither of you knew was being threatened from afar.

When you woke, Alastor was gone. A note on the table letting you know he’d run out to grab some things for breakfast. Telling you to relax and recover.

You put the furniture back, bringing the glasses to the kitchen and his belt to the bedroom.

Coffee and a slow perusal of his home. Intimate details you tried to not stare at when he was there. The rare photo of his mother, a woman you didn’t speak about, a conversation you didn’t need to have, but someone you knew existed fondly still in his life. A silent thank you to her.

No photos of a man to give thanks to you so you turned to the little curios and mementos.

Little seashells and sand dollars, a small gator’s skull. Books, about anatomy and history. Novels about crime and love and mystery. Ticket stubs for films he’d seen. Little bits of his mother scattered in. A woman’s necklace. A chatelaine* with all of the accessories and tools. (*wikipedia page)

When you felt you’d spied enough, you crawled into his side of the bed and inhaled as deeply as you could. His pillow smelled like him. You let yourself sleep off the hangover surrounded by pieces of Alastor.

Pieces you couldn’t contain. Pieces left around town as a dick* hunted for his personal monster. (*a detective, but also, a dick, fuck this dude?)

Beth, or Betty as you called her, the friend you often sang for, was cleaning up from the previous night when Brady walked in. She tried to tell him they were closed, but he took a seat at the counter anyway.

“I’m looking for a singer named Autumn. She been around lately?”

She paused, knowing the name was tied to your work. This man didn’t know you. “Whose asking?”

“The city of New Orleans”, he set his badge on the counter top.

“Is she in some kinda trouble?”

“She the kinda dame to get into trouble?”

Beth laughed, “She doesn’t try to but men, liquor, and jazz tend to make it happen. She’s okay, right?”

He took a deep sigh, trying to blink away the exhaustion and remember he needed to be someone strangers trusted. Being honest hadn’t been working and being rough barely got him a lead. “Well I was hoping you’d know. Found out someone roughed her up a bit ago and just wanting to make sure she’s okay. But I don’t have her legal name, no address, nothing to track her down.”

Shaking her head, she leaned onto the counter, “What? Some egg* forget it’s just a show?” Brady shrugged. “I can’t say. She hasn’t been by in a couple weeks.” (*man)

He asked why. Feeling the deadend approaching.

“She was just doing me a favor. Once she got a guy she didn’t have much time.”

Fighting the urge to slam his fists against the wood and sling his notebook across the bar, Brady took slow breaths. Jaw clenched as he grabbed his pencil, “That is wonderful news. Hopefully a fit guy who can… keep her safe.”

Beth laughed a little, “I don’t know about that. He’s kind of a daisy*, but real kind.” (*a non-masculine man)

“Could I get a name? Or her address? Wanna follow up. See for myself that she’s doing well.”

She tapped the bar with two fingers and winked, “Ah no can do. Flatfoot* or not, I don’t tell men where to find sleeping ladies. But her fella is in radio though. I recognized his voice right away. Popular too, really ritzy air about him.” (*cop, detective)

As he left, he slapped the notebook against his palm over and over. When he stopped to take a second to congratulate himself something caught his eye. Across the street was a park he knew well. Following the block and turning, he could see the white and green awning of the cafe he’d seen you at before.

Had he been there? He hadn’t questioned why you were alone on such a nice day. But maybe you weren’t. Maybe you’d been playing him from the start.

Enough games.

When you took the stage that evening, a Friday show with a promising crowd, you felt like solid gold. Alastor would be there to pick you up in a few hours, you had every need met. And now you had the adoration of strangers to pump up your chest.

Until you passed your come-hither eyes over the crowd and a striking ocean blue pair knocked the wind out of you.

James was standing behind Brady, mouthing an apology. You missed a beat in your routine but forced your smile back. It took a second, to slide back into the actress you were when away from Alastor. Every time it got harder and harder to fall back into that role but you managed. His eyes never left your face, and you thanked God your heaving chest could be seen as fatigue and not the sheer panic that had taken ahold of your body.

When you were on the other side of the curtain you considered rushing out the side door, into the alley and down the street. But you couldn’t. You’d successfully brushed him off for so long but now that he had seen you, had made it clear he was there for you, you couldn’t flee. Innocent people don’t hide from cops.

Feet dragging, you saw some of the dancers standing around the dressing room door. “He’s out of his gourd if he thinks I’m changing with him in there.” One said loud enough to ensure Brady heard. When you entered the room he was sitting at your make up table, legs spread and your shoes in his hands.

“There she is!” standing, he extended the shoes to you, “Don’t stare like a deer in the lights. I’m sure you knew I was coming. Slip these on, we’re going for a ride.” He gave them a shake, “You can call your mac* from the station and let him know you’ll be late.” (*man)

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

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#human alastor x reader #alastor x reader smut #alastor smut #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor #hazbin hotel x you

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thehistoriangirl · 6 days ago

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If You Hadn't Left (Me) [Chapter 2]

I live!!!

Viktor x Fem! Reader-----2.1K----SFW

// M A S T E R L I S T

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Synopsis:Viktor was never supposed to see you again, just like you had promised that evening when you both ended up heartbroken and bitter toward destiny and all its twisted ways. So twisted as to put you back into his life not only as a temporal working partner to cover Jayce’s absences, but also as the maid of honor in the wedding where he’ll be the best man. Hypothetically, it doesn’t have to be that difficult to find a way around the river of memories flowing between you both. Though, of course, hypotheses are flawed. Just like that part of him that still craves another ending to this story.

Chapter Summary: People say things look better under a new light. But once you step inside Viktor's lab, Viktor discovers that the view isn't just striking, but also very troublesome.

Taglist: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @syren201 @slycazzz @jourlinemaktan @seraceres @m1dnight-artisan

Viktor was no stranger to sleepless nights.

Most of them could be excused by incessant workload lined up on his desk in the form of blueprints and pages filled with scribbles of ink where equations hadn’t resolved in a positive way.

It wasn’t about rushing thoughts of the future looming over his shoulder either; the time when his conscience whispered that he couldn’t be good enough. That he’d never be, as progress is a fleeting, moody thing.

What an unbreakable riddle were you. Your words haunted him; your kiss… soared his heart. Guiltily so; flown at the past he promised couldn’t revisit. And not only because digging out the tender flesh already buried would mean expose the wound again, risking of bleeding out.

I want to be the Interior Design’ Teacher at the Architecture Faculty.

He laid in his bed, covers barely thrown open, his mind filled with the million possibilities about the future, once hopeful and bright with all the new inventions he could create with Hextech, to the one where he had to walk carefully across campus to not take a glimpse of you passing by.

Get over it, get over it.

He wished it’d be so easy. Guilt gnawed at him, now already broken free from the depths of the drawer where he kept your photo. The ring he never gave you, that he’d been fool enough not to return. A treacherous mind he had, repeating old routines as his personal condemn.

Sighing, he incorporated at the edge of the bed. Pitch darkness looked back from every corner of the quiet room. His fingers grabbed the handle of his crutch, the familiar leather creaked under his unrelenting grasp once he hauled himself up.

He should have left right away, as he did when the strain in his muscles didn’t allow him any rest. But something stopped him.

His reflection in the mirror showed what he most tried to hide. Deep eyebags, messy hair, wrinkly clothes.

Viktor didn’t wish to give you reasons as to think he was so unkept because of you. Because he wasn’t—it was only a bad night sleep. Not the first and either the last.

Groaning, he took the dubious decision to bathe in the middle of the night. Seeking the refuge of the cold water to calm the cascade of thoughts sieging him. It was like any other day back at the Academy, when he was Heimerdinger’s assistant. Time had gone backwards.

Replaced rolled up dress-shirt’s sleeves with proper cufflinks. His creamy vest now gray with ash and oil stains replaced by a clean one, just as his pants. Untamed hair controlled with luck.

The way back to the lab was calmer at night, with only the cold hitting his face during his journey up the hill. Empty boulevards whose metallic details shone silver against a crescent moon in a clear, starry sky.

He wondered, for a moment where his mind forgot to close the floodgate, if the sky looked the same in the place you had being for the last decade. That—if the tawdriness of those novelists wasn’t tricking him—the moon had watched you built who you were now.

He couldn’t stop the stab of jealousy that coursed through his bones.

The walk cut short after that, dipping his face to the ground until the had to look up toward the guards appointed at the entrance of the research building. A simple nod. At least he didn’t have to break in again, though he thanked those days where lies had flown out his tongue so easily.

Viktor presaged he would need the practice.

*~*~*~*~*~*

At first, he heard the echo of your heels against the desolate hallway.

The familiar whirring mechanism of the door that both Jayce and him had forgotten to oil up.

Then, he must fill the uncomfortable feeling that the lab was shrunk up.

“You’re late.” As an answer, you put a cup of steaming coffee at his left, right where there weren’t any papers that could be stained. “…thank you.”

Finally, he saw you.

A loose, airy blouse and a fancy skirt that hugged your legs up your knees. Perfect for a space this enclosed where the heat of the machine motors warmed it up by noon.

“You can’t wear that,” he stated, meeting your frown with his own. “Where’s your safety equipment?”

“Where’s yours?” you said back, crossing your arms in signal of victory when Viktor got out of excuses.

“I have deep understanding of safety measures in a space such as this, whereas you do not.”

“What? Do you think I’m going to lay on the desk while you tinker with a machine?” You huffed. “Have more faith in me, Viktor.”

You shouldn’t say his name so nonchalantly, especially when Viktor could never mask his reactions to your keen eyes.

“I’m going to attempt to fix this faulty prototype, so you’ll have to wear at least a lab coat if you want to enter the lab.”

“Really now?”

Grunting, Viktor stood up toward the closet at the far left of the room, grabbing two of his coats—because you wouldn’t let him alone if he didn’t abide by his own rules. “Take this one,” he said, throwing you one with his free hand, plopping in the stool back again.

“Don’t you have a smaller one?” He saw you, with the grey clothes almost serving as a robe. One of the sleeves was burned, with a hole the size of the Hexclaw’s laser.

“It’s the only one we have here,” Viktor lied. Well, only a half-truth. Jayce’s clothes wouldn’t fit you, and Sky kept them locked inside her workstation in the annex room.

“Something more I need to wear? Or can you signal me Jayce’s drawing table?” You said instead, leaving your bag at one corner of the hexagonal forge in the middle of the room. Right next to Viktor’s bag where he had shoved the jacket he wore to come here at the dead of night.

“It’s the only one next to the chalkboard.” They shared worktable for all the times Jayce was pondering about designs while Viktor looked at the sketches to make modifications. He had all night to clean it, stacking the papers in Jayce’s desk that wouldn’t be used in a while so you didn’t have another reason to criticize him. “You can use the chalkboard if you want.”

“It’s alright. I’m only drafting planes with the sizes they provided.” You voice sounded absent, muffled once you crouched to lift your map case, getting out your usual tools of mediation, escalimeter, and set squares. The gigantic T ruler, slid smoothly over the worn-out wood. Every movement seemed so easy to emulate, the way your fingers flew across the surface to set the plan in front of you, getting out all kind of pencils that for Viktor looked all the same.

“Do you need something?” Your voice tore him away whatever place his mind was wandering.

“What?”

“You’re staring.”

He blinked, using his left leg to turn the stool around. “Of course I wasn’t,” he snapped, followed by the sound of your unamused hum.

After all, you promised to maintain peace, and so you did during the excruciatingly long morning.

Viktor had his back sore from being hunched down toward a pile of scribbles that made no sense; unconclusive theories and half-done equations. Yet he didn’t dare to look away the paper in front of him, no matter how much his eyes blurred and his muscles ached. He could hear the friction of the pencil against paper, the eraser’s circular motions and the soft blow coming from your lips.

Years ago, all you had was the familiar table at the third story of the library. Next a window so you both tracked the time by the change of light. He still remembered the hues over your hair, like a kaleidoscope. By the time darkness had arrived, he was tugging at your hand over the table to wake you up.

Since when reminiscences sieged him? It was so usual for Piltover to always look toward the future that attempt to look back would endanger one into tripping and being left behind. This felt wrong, stuck in a past that no longer mattered.

You were only classmates, after all.

“This is the design.” Over his numb hands, the paper of your plan was sturdy and rough to stop the abrasion of the eraser from making a hole in it. He was thankful for the hiding spot once he felt his right hand twitch by instinct, just awoken by the familiar, now fancier, milk and lavender scent of your hair.

His eyes swept over the drawing; thin, delicate lines showed a slick tower mirroring that of the Hexgates, curved and unbalanced in an amorph geometrical pattern. Behind it was the complement, so at the distance it would look like one.

He observed you. Dangerously close. You had changed, blooming even prettier with age. Contemplative eyes used to take every detail in, new marks of wrinkles of your smiles and beams. Yet the same lips and cheeks he loved to caress.

You arched your eyebrows. “So?”

You��re precious. “I don’t favor any of these design in particular.” He shrugged, trying to get off the weight of your attention. “They’re not my taste.”

“Then you have terrible taste.”

Oh, truly? You wanted to pick a fight? He had some time to spare, then.

“Alright. Do you want an honest opinion?” Viktor sighed, as if he were exhausted by this conversation and not having his heart working overtime. “They’re ugly.”

You smiled at him; an ironic grin but a smile after all. “Thank you. I won first place in the contest with this one.”

Viktor extended a hand toward you, fingers pointing in an accusing manner. “Now you see? You can’t handle constructive criticism—”

“What constructive criticism?“ you hissed, but he ignored it. Taking a deep breath, you plastered a kind smile on your face that almost made him chuckle. “Why are they ugly?”

Viktor hummed. “Severe. Pretentious.”

“You don’t really recognize who the clients are, do you?”

“I know who are the clients, which is why I’m saying it.” He reclined in his seat. “This aren’t how your designs usually are.” It wasn’t a question, as shameful as it may feel, with his cheeks burning and eyes averting, he remembered the vision you once shared.

You retreated one step, a futile attempt at building a fort.

“You don’t know my designs,” you said, your tone cutting like a knife’s. “Not anymore.” You were already walking toward your bag, and Viktor cursed in a hushed breath. This wasn’t what peace supposed to be.

You loved curves and simpler facades, towers with gigantic windows so the residents inside could feel they touched the sky, small houses to hide a precious treasure in the form of a cozy living room to cuddle in a cold winter.

“Wait—” he called your name, and it sounded so wrong. Tasted bitterly when once had been the sweetest.

“What?!” you snapped. “Just give it to Jayce so he can show it to the Council. Roll it if you don’t want to see it.”

Viktor stood up. “You’re trying to pick a fight.” And he understood. You left without the chance to free all that built up inside of you the moment you got apart, and time had only harvested that sadness into pure wraith.

You huffed. “I don’t even know why I bother to ask your opinion.” You signaled the whole lab. “Do you want to know why you never won any Inventor’s Contest in your time as student? Because your designs were ugly.”

Viktor frowned. “Now who’s bringing the past? My prototypes worked perfectly—more of what I can say to the many winners whose inventions never saw the light of day outside the award.”

“Functionality and aesthetics must be interwoven, Viktor.” You felt as if teaching a stubborn child. “This is what I’m referring to when I say you have bad taste.”

“I would love to differ,” he said, his mind clouded by irritation, nervousness, and the ever-present reminders of another life. “How would you accuse me of having horrid taste when I dated you once?”

The silence hung heavy and charged between the two. You looked as if he had hit you with his cane, and he didn’t feel any better.

What have you just done?

“You’re impossible,” you just said with a tired sigh. Turning your back toward him and almost running out the door.

#viktor x reader #arcane viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane viktor x you #viktor fanfic #arcane fanfic #arcane x you #arcane x female reader #arcane x reader

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joelsrose · 29 days ago

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Guns and Roses: Chapter 6

masterlist

Guys this is my favourite chapter so far PLS ENJOYYY AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK plsss

TW: physical recovery, PTSD, trauma, blood, mentions of death

Summary: you confront the challenges of recovering from the attack, dealing with a broken leg and the necessity of relying on others for care. An unexpected figure emerges to support you.

please listen to this song as you listennnn fits the vibe perfectly

The last thing you remembered was pain—excruciating and unrelenting, tearing through your leg and radiating up your spine. It was all a blur of chaos—those men, the feeling of being overpowered, the crushing weight of helplessness. Then there was Tommy’s voice, the desperate shouts, and… Joel.

You jolted awake with a sharp gasp, your breath catching in your throat. The world came back in fragments—the lights above were dim, casting a hazy glow over the room, and there were voices, soft and distant, just beyond your understanding.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” a gentle voice cut through the haze, drawing you back to the present. It was Maria, leaning over you, her expression a mixture of concern and relief. She was by your side, a cool rag in hand, gently dabbing your forehead. “You’re safe. You’re okay now.”

Your eyes darted around the room, wide and unfocused, trying to make sense of where you were. The space was cluttered with old medical books, shelves stocked with bandages and other supplies, and the faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the air. “What… what happened?” you croaked, your voice weak, throat raw from disuse.

Maria’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, anchoring you as she spoke. "You got hurt, but you're going to be okay. We've got you, and you're safe here, I promise." Her voice was calm and steady, laced with a warmth meant to soothe, yet the worry in her eyes betrayed her. It was a quiet, lingering fear, as though things could have taken a far darker turn.

Your thoughts spun in a frantic blur, grasping desperately for fragments of memory. “Is Tommy… is everyone okay?” The words tumbled out, urgent and unbidden, as the chaos replayed in your mind. All you could remember were the screams—Joel collapsing, clutching a stab wound in his leg, crimson pooling beneath him, spreading like a relentless tide.

Was he still alive?

The thought left you cold, a chill sinking deep into your bones, twisting in your gut like a knife. Nausea clawed at your throat, a sickening dread that threatened to swallow you whole.

“Yeah, everyone’s fine,” Maria reassured you, her voice a soothing balm over the raw edges of your fear. Relief washed over you in a rush, loosening the tightness in your chest. You could breathe again—deep, shaky breaths that seemed to draw you back from the brink, grounding you in the present.

“Tommy just stepped out,” she said, her tone gentle, trying to fill the space with reassurance. “He’ll be right back. He’s been here a lot and… so has—” She stopped abruptly, the pause heavy, as if you were too fragile to hear what came next.

“Who?” you asked, your voice quiet and rough, oblivious to what she was about to say.

Maria’s gaze met yours, hesitant for a heartbeat before she continued, “Joel.”

His name hung in the air, unspoken but heavy with meaning. “He’s been here every day,” she went on, her voice gentle. “Sleeping in that chair, even with his bad back. He only left about an hour ago—I practically had to force him to go home and rest.”

“Oh,” you breathed, the sound barely audible. The thought of Joel being here, keeping vigil while you lay unconscious, was almost impossible to fathom.

Why?

Was it guilt that kept him close?

You blinked, struggling to absorb the reality of her words. “Days?” The question tasted unfamiliar, heavy as it fell from your lips, the weight of it settling in your chest like a stone sinking to the bottom of a deep, dark lake.

How long had you been out?

“Yeah, honey,” Maria nodded, her hand smoothing over the blanket covering you, as if to reassure you with the small gesture. “But you’re okay now, I promise. The worst is over.”

With that, you nodded, surrendering to the pull of sleep as it reached out like an old, familiar embrace. You drifted away, slipping back into its depths with Maria by your side.

•••

People had come and gone, each one offering their reassurances and relief that you were okay. Tommy, Ellie, even a few of the patrolmen had stopped by, voices mixing together in a blur of well-wishes and murmured conversations.

But he hadn’t been here—not since you’d woken up. It gnawed at you, that empty space where Joel should have been. Your gaze drifted to the chair, its emptiness almost taunting, as though it knew who was missing. You could picture him there, sprawled out, his familiar form slouched back, the hardness of his jaw catching the dim light, as if sleep might take him at any moment. But the chair remained vacant, a silent reminder of his absence.

You lay propped against a stack of pillows, just as the doctor had instructed, your leg elevated in a makeshift splint. The “cast” was a patchwork of salvaged materials—wooden splints, thick strips of cloth, and pieces of an old brace, all bound together with whatever scraps could be scavenged. Vague flashes of pain flickered in your memory, the white-hot agony as they’d set the bone while you were only half-conscious. Even now, the thought of it sent a shudder down your spine. Everything blurred together—you must have blacked out from the pain. You had no recollection of how you’d made it back to Jackson. Perhaps they’d explain it all once you were stronger, but for now, the mystery lingered, hovering just out of reach.

Now, Tommy and Maria sat beside you, their presence a quiet comfort. The doctor—a woman in her late fifties, her graying hair pulled back in a loose braid—handed you a small bundle of pills wrapped in cloth. “Alright, here are your pain meds,” she said, her voice kind but firm. “Take these every day, okay? And don’t overdo it. If the pain gets too bad, you let someone know.”

You nodded, the instructions making you feel small and helpless, like a child being told what to do.

You nodded, barely listening as the doctor went on.

“Do you live alone, or…?”

“Yeah,” you replied, the word slipping out almost automatically. The reminder hit you like hard, the starkness of it unwelcome.

“Okay,” she continued, her gaze shifting to Tommy and Maria with a practiced look of concern. “You’re going to need someone to look after you for the next few weeks, at least. You’ll be on crutches, and getting around won’t be easy. The fracture was pretty nasty.” She glanced at the injury, her glasses perched low on her nose as she inspected it. “We did our best to set it, but you’ll have to take it slow for a while. The bone needs time to heal—and it’s not like we have proper casts and X-rays anymore.”

Maria's voice broke the silence, reassuring and no-nonsense. "We’ll take care of her, Doc. Don’t worry about that.”

The doctor gave a final nod before leaving, and Tommy and Maria helped you ease out of the bed, every small movement sending a jolt of soreness through your leg. It was a painstaking process getting you dressed and bundled into Tommy’s truck. The ride back was bumpy, every jostle a reminder of just how fragile your body felt right now.

•••

The house was quiet when you arrived, the air cool and still, carrying that unmistakable sense of emptiness that lingers when you return from a long absence. The familiar scent stirred something inside you, a reminder of what was left behind. It took both Tommy and Maria to help you inside, steadying the crutches under your arms and guiding you carefully through your home. Once you were settled on the worn couch, Maria draped a blanket over you.

“We’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Tommy and I will check in every day. Ok?”

You offered a small, grateful smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. The emptiness gnawed at you again, that absence like a weight pressing on your chest. And even though you didn’t say it, you couldn’t help but wonder why Joel hadn’t come to see you—why he hadn’t been there when you opened your eyes.

The question hung unasked in the silence, drifting in the air like dust suspended in the afternoon light.

•••

It was harder than you’d anticipated. True to their word, Tommy and Maria stopped by every day, but it was clear that Maria was struggling. Her pregnancy symptoms had worsened—nausea and vomiting so severe that some days she couldn’t even get out of bed, much less come over to help. Tommy did his best, but he was stretched thin, torn between caring for Maria and trying to be there for you.

When he showed up alone one morning, his face etched with worry as he helped you down the stairs, you knew something was off.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted, his voice softer than usual.

“Hey,” you replied, forcing a smile even as you leaned heavily on the crutch, each step sending a dull throb through your leg. It had only been a few days, and you were still getting used to it—the pain meds took most of the edge off, but a deep, relentless ache lingered, a constant reminder of how far you had to go.

“I got some bad news,” Tommy said once you were settled on the couch, his expression hesitant.

A pit formed in your stomach. “What is it?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your attempt to keep it steady. You couldn’t help but think of Maria and the baby. “Is it… is it Maria?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no, she’s okay. As okay as she can be, anyway. The nausea’s been pretty rough lately.” His voice trailed off, and you could see the guilt etched on his face as he ran a hand through his hair, which looked more disheveled than usual. The dark circles under his eyes told the rest of the story—he probably hadn’t slept in days.

“I know I promised to be here every day, help out with whatever you needed, but… it’s been harder than I expected. She needs me more than I thought, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it here as often.”

“Tommy, don’t be ridiculous,” you said, your voice a little too sharp. The lie came easily, out of habit more than anything. “I can take care of myself.”

But you both knew that wasn’t true.

You could barely manage to get out of bed on your own, let alone keep up with the daily tasks piling up around you. “Take care of Maria. I understand, trust me,” you said, offering him a reassuring smile, though it felt a bit strained at the edges.

Still, you couldn’t help the sinking feeling that crept up inside you, a sense of being a burden that you couldn’t quite shake.

Tommy frowned, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “Darlin’, you’re in no shape to be alone,” he said gently. “But don’t worry—there are plenty of folks who can come by to check on you.”

“Who?” The word came out sharper than you intended, a hint of bitterness cutting through. It wasn’t really anger, just a raw insecurity that twisted inside you. You didn’t have anyone—not like Tommy and Maria had each other.

“Well, there’s Ellie… and Joel,” Tommy began, his tone almost cautious, as if even saying Joel’s name might be too much. “He’s… well, he hasn’t come by to see you yet, but—” He hesitated, the unspoken words hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

“He hasn’t come to see me,” you repeated, the words falling flat in the quiet room.

It wasn’t a question; it was an unspoken hurt that hung in the air.

“Why not?” you asked, even though a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to hear the answer. Joel didn’t owe you anything; the past few months you’d spent together had been anything but friendly. So why did you expect him to be here? Why did his absence sting more than it should?

Tommy hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as though searching for the right words, his gaze skirting away from yours. “He’s been… around,” he began slowly. “Been checkin’ in with Maria and me, makin’ sure you had everything you needed. But he…” Tommy hesitated, his voice dropping as he searched for the right words. “He just wanted to give you some space while you adjusted. Thought it might be what you needed.”

It was clear Tommy was struggling with the conversation, likely because of the awkward position he was in—Joel being his brother, after all. But there was something else behind his reluctance, something unspoken. After the attack, Tommy had seen firsthand just how far Joel was willing to go to save you. He’d watched his brother fight with a desperation that bordered on reckless, doing whatever it took to keep you alive.

Now, Tommy saw the truth clearly, piercing through Joel’s carefully maintained indifference toward you. He chastised himself for not seeing it sooner, for how thinly veiled Joel’s façade had always been. The reality of it all came to light after the attack, when Joel’s restraint shattered—he fought for you with a fierce, unyielding desperation, never once leaving your side. In those moments, his cold detachment dissolved, and the depth of his feelings bled through, unmistakable in the way he tended to you, as though keeping you safe was the only thing that mattered.

But it wasn’t his place to say anything; that was a conversation Joel needed to have with you. Tommy could only hope his brother would find the courage to speak sooner rather than later, though a part of him doubted it. He knew Joel too well—knew how stubbornly he kept his guard up, even when his heart was on the line.

“Oh,” you said softly, nodding as if the explanation made sense. “Okay.” You tried to believe him, tried to convince yourself that it was just Joel’s way of being cautious, of giving you the space you needed. But as it always did, doubt crept in, clawing its way up from some dark place inside. Old wounds had a way of reopening, their whispers cutting through the fragile comfort you tried to build.

What if he doesn’t really care? The thought sank its teeth in, a quiet voice reminding you of every time you’d been left behind, every promise that had turned to dust. The doubt was relentless, clawing at the edges of your mind, whispering that maybe, just maybe, you were fooling yourself. That Joel's absence was a choice—a choice to keep his distance, to keep you at arm's length, even now.

You looked away, swallowing against the tightness in your throat, wishing you could silence the voices that told you to expect the worst. Because sometimes, it was easier to accept doubt than to hope for something different.

After all, wasn’t it always the same? People keeping their distance, claiming they were doing it for your own good? It was a wound that hadn’t healed, a scar from years of being left behind. You told yourself not to think like that, not to read too much into it—but the hurt had a way of seeping in, even when you tried to hold it back.

If only you knew how much he did care—if only you remembered the lengths he had gone to, the sacrifices he made without a second thought. The men he had killed to save you, his hands stained with blood that wasn’t his own. The miles he trudged, his body battered and broken, fighting exhaustion and pain as he pushed forward because stopping meant losing you. How he had almost bled out for you, a deep wound gushing crimson, his vision blurring as he clung to consciousness with sheer stubbornness, all for the chance to see you breathe again.

If only you knew the hours he spent by your bedside, his rough hand wrapped gently around yours when he thought no one was watching. How he would sit there in the dark, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin, his quiet vigil a testament to the depths of his worry. You didn’t see the way his shoulders sagged with relief whenever your chest rose and fell steadily, nor did you hear the whispered words he spoke when the night was at its darkest—words he could never bring himself to say when you were awake.

If only you knew how his heart shattered the moment he saw you kiss Sam. How the sight of it hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He had to step outside just to breathe, to force himself to swallow the bitterness that rose in his throat. The jealousy burned hot and fierce, a mix of anger and hurt that tore through him as he watched Sam linger too long, his hands on you against your will, and Joel could’ve killed him right then and there.

If only you knew how his heart stopped the very first time he saw you, that instant when his gaze fell on you and the world seemed to quiet around him. It was a feeling that terrified him, a pull he didn’t understand, as though he’d been struck by something he hadn’t even realized he was missing.

“So, you’d be alright with him coming around?” Tommy asked, his voice gentle, almost hesitant, as if testing the waters. “He’d just help you up and down the stairs, morning and night, like I’ve been doing. He wouldn’t have to stay a second longer than you’re comfortable with.”

You hesitated, the thought of Joel being here, in your home—your sanctuary—sending a jolt of unease through you. The idea of him seeing you this vulnerable, laid bare, made your stomach twist. It would only confirm what he already thought about you—that you were clumsy, helpless, always in need of saving. And now, because you were his brother’s friend, he was stuck picking up the pieces.

“Tommy, I don’t want him to go out of his way,” you said, forcing your voice to sound steady, though uncertainty laced your words. “I can handle myself,—”

The words had barely left your mouth when your hand slipped, knocking the glass of water off the edge of the table. It hit the floor with a sharp crack, the water spilling out in a widening puddle, and you winced at how your body tensed, too slow to catch it.

Tommy raised an eyebrow, giving you a look that said more than words ever could.

You sighed, slumping back against the cushions. “Fine,” you muttered.

“Good,” Tommy said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “He’ll be here tonight, then. And Maria and I will still drop by once she’s feeling a bit better.” He flashed you a grin, his eyes warm with relief. “But listen, kid,” he added, his tone growing playfully stern, “if you ever die on me, I’ll kill you myself.”

You returned a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes; your mind was preoccupied with the thoughts swirling in your head. Deep down, you knew you couldn’t keep refusing help, no matter how much you hated the feeling of being a burden.

•••

That afternoon, you did anything and everything you could to distract yourself. You read the same page of a book over and over, the words slipping away before they could take root. You scribbled in an old notebook, your handwriting growing messier with each line, the sentences trailing off into nothing. You even watched the people passing by your window, their faces unfamiliar, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the day.

But no matter how hard you tried to push it away, the thought of him coming around tonight lingered in the back of your mind—persistent and unwelcome. It gnawed at you, that quiet anticipation twisting itself into anxiety.

What would he say? Would he say anything at all? How would he act?

You wondered if his touch would linger, like it sometimes did in those fleeting moments when you weren’t sure if you had imagined it or if it had been real. The uncertainty wrapped around you like a thick fog, leaving you on edge, caught between hope and fear. Would he bring warmth or distance? The question hung heavily in the air, refusing to let you find any semblance of calm.

You shifted restlessly, your leg aching from the hours spent sitting still, but you didn’t know what else to do. Nothing seemed to quiet the thoughts racing through your head, the uneasy flutter in your chest. All you could do was wait, counting down the hours and distracting yourself with anything that kept you from thinking about the fact that, soon, he would be here. And you weren’t sure you were ready to face him, to face whatever came next.

•••

You hobbled over to the mirror, the crutches clicking on the worn floorboards with every step. The reflection staring back at you made your breath catch in your throat. You looked awful—scratches and bruises marred your face, a dark purple mottling your cheekbone. Your hair was a mess, barely held together by a loose braid, and your eyes were shadowed with deep, dark circles. You didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror, bruised and battered, looking like a stranger you’d crossed paths with in another lifetime.

You suddenly felt a stab of self-consciousness that took you by surprise, the thought prickling at the edges of your mind. Why did it matter what you looked like right now? You shouldn’t care—but still, the feeling lingered, a quiet discomfort crawling under your skin.

You hadn’t expected to be seen like this, so vulnerable and broken. There was a time when you’d been self-reliant, stubbornly independent, but here you were again, needing someone… needing Joel.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door, breaking the stillness of the room. You glanced at the clock—7:00 p.m on the dot.

It was Joel.

“Come in,” you called out, your voice catching in your throat as you angled your body toward the door.

The door creaked open, and there he was, filling the doorway. Joel stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over you with a quick, assessing look. His eyes flicked to the crutches, the bruises on your face, and then back to your own eyes. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if weighing what to say.

“Hey,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly, as though the word itself carried more than just a greeting.

You nodded in response, unsure of what to say, the silence between you heavy with unspoken things. There was an unease that hung in the air, not quite tension but something close to it— And yet, seeing him standing there, his expression guarded but not unkind, stirred something in you - deep and unsettling

“Didn’t mean to keep you waitin’,” Joel added, his eyes lingering on the scratches along your jaw.

He stayed near the doorway at first, the corridor stretching between you like a gulf neither of you knew how to cross. “It’s okay,” you whispered, trying to sound casual, but the tension in your voice betrayed you, your hands gripping the crutches for support. There was too much unsaid, too much hanging in the air between you both.

Joel took a few steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. That’s when you noticed the limp, the subtle hitch in his stride that he tried to shrug off. Your eyes flickered down to his leg, and your eyebrows furrowed with concern. He was hurt—there was no mistaking the way he winced as he moved, a slight grimace crossing his features that he tried to mask with a tough exterior.

“Just a graze,” he said, catching your gaze before you could look away, his voice dismissive. But the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw clenched with each step, betrayed him. It wasn’t just a graze, and you both knew it. Did he forget you’d seen him get stabbed? The memory of it was still vivid—how he’d staggered, the blood soaking through his jeans.

You didn’t know what to say. The air between you felt thick and stifling, almost hot, like there was too much pressure building and nowhere for it to go. His presence filled the room, and the space between you seemed to shrink and stretch all at once, charged with everything you weren’t saying.

Joel’s gaze swept over you again, taking in the bruises, the cuts, the exhaustion etched into your face. It made his chest ache in a way that was almost physical, like someone had squeezed his heart and wouldn’t let go.

When Tommy had told him you’d woken up, the relief had been overwhelming, nearly knocking the breath out of him. But it was quickly followed by a familiar pang of worry—worry that he wasn’t ready to face you, that the things he had said to push you away still lingered too heavily in the air. The memory of his last words to you was a constant knot in his chest, a reminder of how his fear had driven him to build walls between you… and of the bitter regret that came afterward, unyielding and sharp.

That was why he hadn’t come to see you. Every day, he found himself at your door, his hand hovering just inches from knocking, but doubt tightened its grip, pulling him back each time. It wasn’t until Tommy asked him to step in that he finally crossed the threshold. Joel knew the truth had dawned on his brother—the way things had unfolded left little room for secrets. But Tommy had kept his silence, letting the unspoken truth linger between them, and for that, Joel was grateful.

He took another step closer, and you noticed his gaze softening just a fraction. “How’re you holdin’ up?” he asked, his voice quiet and hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure you wanted him to ask. There was a vulnerability in his tone that made your heart race.

He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that, unbeknownst to you, was a silent act of restraint—as if by folding himself inward, he could physically prevent his hands from reaching out to trace the bruise on your cheek or gently comb his fingers through your hair. It was a protective barrier, not against you, but against his own unruly impulse to close the distance between you.

You met his eyes, trying to read the expression in them—trying to make sense of the storm brewing in your own chest. “I’m managing,” you replied, though the waver in your voice told a different story.

“Good,” Joel said, but the word came out rough, like it hurt him to say it. He took one more step, as if testing the waters, trying to bridge the distance between you. But even with the few feet that still separated you, it felt like there was an entire world keeping you apart.

“You ready for bed?” Joel asked, his voice low, but softer than you remembered.

“Yeah,” you replied, your stomach tightening as you remembered why he was here. The weight of his gaze felt heavy on your back as you began the slow journey toward the stairs.

The climb was harder than usual, each step sending a dull throb through your leg, and the silence between you seemed to grow thicker with every inch. Joel was close behind, his hand hovering near your back, as if he wasn’t sure whether to touch you or let you handle it on your own.

You were almost halfway up when your crutch slipped on the edge of the stair, your balance giving way beneath you. You let out a small gasp as you stumbled forward, and in an instant, Joel’s hands were on you—strong, steady, catching you before you could hit the ground.

“Sorry,” you breathed, the word slipping out almost inaudibly as he held you. Embarrassment washed over you, a warm flush rising to your cheeks as his touch made you feel exposed, vulnerable. His grip was firm, his fingers pressing into your arm with a quiet desperation, as though he was afraid to let go. You were close now—closer than you had been that day at the lake, when the water blurred the lines between you. His scent wrapped around you, familiar and heady, pulling you back into a moment you weren’t sure you wanted to escape.

“You’re fine,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, his brow furrowing slightly as though he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t, instead he helped you regain your footing, guiding you up the rest of the stairs with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

When you finally reached your bedroom, you hesitated in the doorway, a strange sense of vulnerability washing over you. Joel’s presence here, in this space that had always been yours alone, made the room feel smaller somehow, more intimate. It was the first time he’d ever stepped inside your sanctuary, and you could see him taking in the details of your world—the faded quilt draped over your bed, the stack of books teetering on the nightstand, their covers worn and pages dog-eared from countless readings. His gaze lingered on the half-open drawer, where a few shirts had spilled out, as if it were a glimpse into your life, a life he had only touched from a distance. You felt a flutter in your chest, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more meaningful.

He turned to you, helping you sit on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering at your waist before he stepped back. You watched him as he took another glance around the room, his gaze moving from the old, threadbare rug to the small collection of trinkets on the dresser—little things you’d kept over the years, reminders of the life you’d built even in this broken world.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him—the way his jaw tightened, as if he was struggling to hold something back, the way a few strands of hair fell over his forehead, unkempt and tempting your fingers to brush them away. Your head throbbed, and you wondered why you were thinking these things—was it the medication clouding your mind, or was it something deeper, something you’d been avoiding for far too long? There was a tension in the set of his shoulders, a heaviness to his stance, as though he was carrying a weight that wasn’t his alone, but yours as well.

“You take your meds yet?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence, “Doc said two at night.”

Your brow furrowed, a small frown forming as you looked at him. “How do you know what the doctor said?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Joel’s gaze flicked to yours, something unreadable flashing in his eyes before he glanced away, his jaw tightening again. “Tommy told me,” he said after a beat, but there was something about the way he said it—too casual, too quick—that made you wonder if that was the whole truth.

The silence stretched out between you, thick with things neither of you knew how to say.

“Yeah, they’re in that drawer over there,” you said, motioning with your hand. Joel walked over, pulling open the old wooden drawer, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he groaned softly as he bent down. The sound made something tighten in your chest—a sudden urge to help him, or to do something, though you weren’t sure what.

He straightened up with a slight wince, returning to you with the two pills in his hand. Just as he reached your side, your stomach betrayed you, grumbling loudly in the quiet room.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Have you eaten dinner?” he asked, his tone almost challenging.

“Not hungry,” you muttered, brushing off the question, reaching for the pills.

“That sound says otherwise,” he shot back, his eyes narrowing. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“Too tired to cook,” you said with a shrug, trying to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal. “I’ve had coffee.”

“Coffee isn’t food,” he retorted, the frustration slipping into his voice. He didn’t seem to notice how close he’d gotten, his presence filling the space between you.

“Joel, it’s fine. Just gimme the meds,” you insisted, reaching for the pills. But he pulled his hand back slightly, just out of your reach.

“No,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “Not lettin’ you starve to death. I’ll be back in a bit. You okay here?”

You stared at him, a protest forming on your lips, but the look in his eyes made it die before you could speak. There was a stubbornness there, a refusal to back down. It was the same look he always had when he was dead set on something, and you knew you weren’t going to change his mind.

“Fine,” you muttered, sinking back against the pillows. “But don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I won’t,” he said, though the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. And with that, he turned and headed for the door, leaving you in the quiet of your room with a strange warmth curling in your chest that you didn’t quite know what to do with. As you listened to his footsteps fade down the stairs, you found yourself staring at the empty doorway, wondering why the thought of him coming back made you a tinge nervous.

You lay in bed, the quiet ticking of the clock blending with the distant sounds of pans clattering downstairs. The noise echoed faintly through the house, and you couldn’t help but think of Joel, moving around down there. The thought of him in your kitchen—cooking, of all things—felt oddly domestic, almost jarringly so. You stared at the ceiling, your mind wandering back to the last few hours, trying to piece together why he was being so… nice.

It wasn’t that you doubted his capacity to care; you had glimpsed his protective nature before, you had seen it in the way he interacted with Tommy and Ellie.

But this—him going out of his way to make you dinner, staying when he could have easily kept his distance, when he could have helped you up to bed and left within minutes—felt different.

You couldn’t help but question his motives. Was it guilt that drove him? A sense of duty? Or was it something far more complicated, something unspoken that seemed to pulse in the silence between you?

You shook your head, trying to dismiss the spiraling thoughts. After all, Tommy had asked Joel to look after you; it wasn’t like he could have said no. But even that explanation didn’t fully quell the uncertainty brewing inside you. The nagging feeling lingered, urging you to confront the reality that maybe, just maybe, his care went beyond brotherly duty.

The smell of cooking began to drift up the stairs, pulling you out of your thoughts. It started as a faint hint of spices, then grew stronger, filling the room with the warm, savory aroma of whatever he was making. Your stomach twisted with a mix of hunger and something you couldn’t quite name, a flutter of nervous anticipation that made you shift restlessly against the pillows.

A few minutes later, you heard the sound of the stairs creaking under Joel’s weight as he made his way up, and your pulse quickened. When he appeared in the doorway, you could see the steam rising from the bowl he carried.

“Here,” Joel said, his voice low as he stepped closer, placing the bowl carefully on your lap. His touch was surprisingly gentle, the kind of care that sent a quiet ache through your chest. You felt the warmth of the bowl seep into your skin, a small comfort against the chill that always seemed to linger.

“Joel, you didn’t really need to do this,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. There was something vulnerable in the way you spoke, almost as if you were trying to deflect the tenderness behind his gesture.

It was no big deal right?

“It’s nothing,” he replied, brushing off your thanks as he turned to find a seat. “Just eat.”

You didn’t expect him to stay, but he pulled up a chair from the corner of the room and sank into it, his gaze fixed on you. There was a quiet intensity in the way he watched, a kind of tension that coiled tightly between you both. As you took your first bite, you became painfully aware of the bruises on your face, the dark circles under your eyes, and the tangled mess of your hair. You felt exposed under his gaze, the awareness prickling across your skin.

“Is it alright?” he asked, his voice laced with a softness you’d never heard from him before.

You swallowed, the flavors rich and satisfying, better than you could have hoped for. “Yeah, it’s perfect,” you said, and though the words were simple, they carried a weight you hadn’t expected. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

He gave a half-shrug, his eyes drifting away for a moment, lingering on the worn floorboards beneath his feet. “You kinda have to learn when you’re not just feedin’ yourself,” he said quietly, his voice shifting into a tone that hinted at a past he rarely spoke of. The words hung in the air, delicate yet weighty, creating an invisible thread between you that tugged at something deeper, something unspoken.

You could sense the layers beneath his casual remark, the unguarded glimpse into a life filled with responsibilities and sacrifices. It made your heart race, drawing you closer to the vulnerability he often kept hidden. In that moment, the silence between you felt charged with meaning, echoing the unsaid stories you had yearned to hear.

You saw a flicker in his eyes, a shadow of a life that felt far away and unreachable. He was talking about before, about a time when he wasn’t alone. When he had someone to take care of, someone who depended on him.

“You used to cook for someone else?” you asked, your voice quiet and almost hesitant. “Your… wife?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and a pang of anxiety gripped you. For a brief moment, you feared you had overstepped, that you’d messed up the one time Joel had allowed himself to share even a small piece of his past.

Joel’s expression shifted, a flicker of something deep and raw passing over his features. He shook his head, his jaw tightening as if bracing himself against the words. “No,” he said, the word coming out low and rough. “My daughter.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the silence pressing down on you both. You hadn’t expected that answer, hadn’t expected the weight it would carry. There was a depth in his voice, a quiet pain that spoke of a love that had been lost, and the hurt that came with it. It hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken, like a wound that had never quite healed.

Your chest tightened, a swell of emotion rising within you—part sympathy, part quiet understanding. It explained so much—the way he kept a watchful eye on those around him, the way he cared for Ellie with a fierce yet unspoken tenderness, the protective instinct that lingered even when he kept his distance. You saw it clearly now, the echo of the father he used to be.

“I didn’t know…” you started, the words faltering as you tried to find something, anything, that wouldn’t sound hollow or empty. But what could you say to a man who had already lost so much?

Joel just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he didn’t expect you to say anything. “A long time ago,” he murmured, the edge of his voice roughened by the years. “Feels like a different life.”

And with that, the silence settled in again, but this time it felt different—more like an understanding shared in the quiet spaces than a chasm between you.

The rest of the meal unfolded in a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need words to fill the space. You were both absorbed in your own thoughts, though neither of you realized that they kept circling back to each other. Joel’s gaze flickered toward you now and then, watching with a quiet intensity as you ate. He noticed the slight tremor in your hand as you lifted the spoon, the way your brow furrowed with each careful bite. There was a vulnerability in those small, deliberate movements—in you—that tugged at something deep within him.

When you finally finished, you set the bowl aside and offered him a small smile. “Can you…?” You hesitated, feeling the weight of the request, even though it was a simple one. “I need some help getting to the bathroom.”

“Yeah, of course,” Joel replied, practically leaping to his feet, his eagerness almost surprising you. He moved quickly to your side, his hand steadying you as you stood. There was a tenderness in the way he supported your weight, his grip firm but not overpowering.

“Thanks,” you murmured as he helped you down the hall, your voice quiet against the stillness. After brushing your teeth, you leaned on him again as you made your way back to bed, each step a little easier with him by your side.

Back in your room, you sank beneath the blankets, the day’s fatigue and the weight of the medications settling over you like a heavy fog. It was time for Joel to leave, and you could feel the air shift—an almost imperceptible change in the atmosphere now that his task was complete.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, concern lacing his words.

“Yeah,” you replied, nodding slightly. “Thanks again, Joel.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, his tone almost dismissive, but there was something softer in his eyes. As he turned to go, his hand reached for the small lamp that cast a warm glow across the room.

“Can you… keep it on?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, a quiet admission that made your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Just… for tonight.”

Joel’s hand froze mid-motion, and when he looked back at you, his gaze softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Of course.” There was a faint ache in his chest, the idea of you lying here in the dark, alone and scared. It stirred something fierce in him, an urge to stay—to sit by your bedside, to wrap his arms around you and promise that you’d be safe. But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

“Alright,” he said, his voice low and gruff again. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” you murmured, leaning back and resting your head on the pillow. “Goodnight.” Your voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, drifting through the quiet room.

He nodded and turned, the soft creak of the floorboards marking his departure. You listened to his footsteps as he walked down the stairs, each one growing fainter. The house felt colder without him in it, the warmth he’d brought with him fading into the night.

Your thoughts drifted back to what had just happened. The way Joel had opened up, even if only for a moment. The glimpse into a past he kept guarded, the vulnerability he’d shown in sharing that part of himself with you. It was rare, and it was real, and you could sense that something had shifted between you.

As you stared at the dim glow of the lamp, a quiet ache settled deep in your chest—a longing for something unspoken, still taking shape in the silence you shared. It lingered in the spaces where words had failed, in the glances that spoke more than you dared to acknowledge. But beneath that yearning, there was also a wall—a familiar fear tightening around your heart, warning you against letting him in again, only to be hurt all over again. The possibility of reopening old wounds kept you guarded, even as the ache for something more refused to fade.

•••

The next few days passed in a quiet, unexpected rhythm—something that felt almost like domestic bliss, though you hardly dared to call it that. Joel came by every morning and evening, helping you with the mundane tasks that had somehow become monumental—getting you out of bed, steadying you on your crutches, making sure you didn’t push yourself too hard. He never said much, never offered any explanations for why he was being this way. But his actions spoke louder than words, a silent devotion that was as confusing as it was comforting.

He made you breakfast and dinner without a word, the smell of sizzling eggs or simmering stew becoming a familiar, almost soothing part of your day. There was a quiet care in the way he placed the plate in front of you, the way he made sure you ate before he’d allow himself to sit down. It was in the little things, the quiet gestures that spoke of a protectiveness you hadn’t expected, but found yourself welcoming all the same.

You noticed how easily you had grown accustomed to it all—the sound of the door turning, signaling his arrival; the faint scent of his shampoo that lingered in the air when he leaned close to help you; the warmth of his hands, rough but steady, as he guided you out of bed in the morning and back into it at night. You found yourself looking forward to the soft murmur of his voice, the way his presence seemed to fill the room without overwhelming it.

And it scared you, just a little—how you had almost become too comfortable, too used to this new normal. There was a part of you that knew it couldn’t last, that eventually, things would have to go back to how they were before. But for now, you allowed yourself to savor it, to sink into the simple pleasure of having someone there, of not feeling so alone.

It was easy to pretend, in those moments when he was near, that the world wasn’t as broken as it was. Easy to forget, if only for a while, that this wasn’t really yours to keep.

Little did you know, Joel felt the same. Each time he came over, it was as if he was easing into a life he hadn’t known he still yearned for—a life where caring for someone wasn’t just a burden but a choice he made every day. In the quiet moments spent helping you up the stairs or preparing a simple meal, he found a strange kind of solace. It was a way for him to show how much he cared without having to say the words aloud, words that felt too heavy, too close to the heart he kept so tightly guarded.

He poured his feelings into the little things—into the way he made sure your coffee was just the way you liked it, the way he lingered an extra moment to tuck the blankets around you at night, or the way his hand would steady your shoulder as you wobbled on the crutches. It was in the way he watched you when you weren’t looking, his gaze softening with a tenderness he wasn’t sure he had any right to feel.

Joel had never been good with words, especially when it came to emotions. But this—this quiet care—was something he could offer, a way to be close to you without crossing the unspoken lines that had kept him at a distance for so long. It was as if, in these simple acts, he could bridge the gap between you, express everything he couldn’t say in a way that felt real, solid.

With each passing day, he found himself wanting more—wanting to linger a little longer, to find more reasons to be near you, to close the distance between you inch by inch, to press his lips against your wounds and soothe the ache beneath them. But even as the lines between you began to blur, he couldn’t help but wonder if you felt it too—the subtle shift, the quiet understanding that had nestled itself in the spaces between the familiar routines. Sometimes, he thought he saw it in your eyes, a flicker of recognition, as though you sensed the change but weren’t yet ready to name it.

•••

Just like the nights before, Joel had helped you into bed after making you dinner. He had left your room a while ago, and now you lay there, your mind racing. The memory of his touch lingered—the way his fingers had brushed against your arm as he steadied you, the warmth of his hand lingering even after he’d pulled away.

The lamp still cast its soft glow across the room, a gesture you’d grown to appreciate. Joel hadn’t tried to turn it off since that first night; it was a quiet kindness, one he hadn’t spoken of, but it said more than words ever could.

You tossed and turned, struggling to find a position that didn’t worsen the dull ache in your leg. You’d only taken one pain pill tonight, ignoring Joel’s gentle reminder to take two, as the doctor had instructed. It had been a mistake. You told yourself you could start cutting down, but the pain pulsed deep in your bones, each throb growing sharper and harder to ignore. Reaching toward the side table, you fumbled for the second pill, but your fingers froze when you realized the glass of water was all the way across the room, just out of reach.

“Fuck,” you whispered under your breath, frustration flaring within you. With a burst of determination, you threw off the covers and opted to hop across the room on one leg, leaving the crutches behind. But the instability of your injured foot and the darkness of the room conspired against you. Suddenly, the floor slipped out from under you, and you fell hard, the impact twisting your leg in a way that sent a shockwave of pain coursing through your body. A sharp cry escaped your lips, the intensity of the agony so overwhelming that tears sprang to your eyes, blurring your vision as the world around you tilted dangerously.

It took a moment for the world to stop spinning, and when it did, you realized Joel was suddenly beside you, his arms wrapping around you before you could fully process what had happened. “Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he said, his voice steady yet edged with panic. “What were you doing?”

His eyebrows were furrowed, worry unmistakable in his brown eyes as they searched your face for signs of injury. His hands moved to cradle your shoulders, his grip both firm and gentle, as if he was afraid you might shatter at any moment.

“Joel, you’re still here?” you gasped, your voice strained as you tried to focus through the pain.

“Here, let me get you up, slowly,” he said, already lifting you, his movements careful and deliberate. He helped you back onto the bed, then quickly fetched the water and pain pill, bringing them to your trembling hands. You took the pill, grimacing as you swallowed.

Joel’s questions came in rapid succession, his worry evident in every word.

“Are you okay? Do I need to get you to the doc? What the hell happened? Why were you out of bed?”

His voice shifted between concern and frustration, each syllable laced with an urgency that made your heart race.

“It’s nothing, Joel,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction. “I just needed water, and it would’ve only taken a second.” You glanced at him, your brow furrowing. “But… why were you still here?”

His expression faltered, a hint of flustered uncertainty passing over his face. “I—well, I stay,” he admitted, almost reluctantly, his words tumbling out in a way that revealed more than he intended. “Just for a while. Till I know you’re asleep.”

There was a vulnerability in his admission, a softness that contrasted sharply with the tough exterior he usually maintained.

You blinked, taken aback by the confession. “You… wait for me to fall asleep?”

The thought of Joel—gruff, guarded Joel—sitting quietly for hours, just to be sure you were safe, sent something rippling through your chest.

“When I hear you snoring, I know you’re asleep, and I can step out—”

“I do not snore!” you shot back, despite the way your heart quickened at the thought. But the hint of a smile tugged at his lips, softening the hard lines of his face.

“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice gentler now, almost teasing.

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the warmth of his words lingered. “Well, thank you… but you don’t need to stay.”

Joel’s eyes darkened with something serious, something almost vulnerable as he said your name softly. “Imagine if I hadn’t been here tonight. You’d have been on that floor till morning.”

The reality of it sank in, the thought of lying there, helpless and in pain, with no one to hear you. You swallowed, the tension in the air thickening, the weight of his concern pressing down on you.

“I think I should stay over,” he continued, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of resolve. “At least for a bit, until you’re more stable on your feet. Only if you’re okay with it.”

There was no denying the sincerity in his eyes, the way his gaze held yours, unflinching and unguarded. The quiet worry etched into his features told you everything you needed to know—Joel wasn’t just offering to help; he needed to be here, to be sure you were safe.

Was this also part of his brotherly duty to Tommy? Or was this something more?

You just nodded, taking another sip of water, the tension still crackling softly in the air between you. “Okay,” you murmured.

“I’ll be on the couch,” Joel said, his voice quieter now, as if he were offering you reassurance rather than just stating a fact. “You need anything, you just holler, alright?”

“Goodnight,” he said, lingering in the doorway for a heartbeat longer, as if making sure you were truly settled.

“Goodnight,” you whispered back, the word barely more than a breath, but it felt like it carried more weight than usual. You watched him turn and walk out, his footsteps fading as he headed down the hall.

As the house fell into a familiar stillness, you lay back against the pillows, letting your eyes close. The sound of Joel settling on the couch echoed faintly through the walls, and you took a small comfort in knowing he was still there, just a shout away. It made the darkness seem a little less daunting, the ache in your leg a little more bearable.

•••

The next morning, as you sat in the kitchen, something caught your eye—a splash of color at the center of the table. Turning your head, you saw a vase filled with roses, their petals a rich, velvety shade of deep red, almost brown, offering a gentle contrast to the morning light streaming through the window. A smile tugged at your lips—a sincere, unguarded smile, the kind you hadn’t felt in a long while.

“Look,” you called softly, glancing toward the stove where Joel was busy cooking. The familiar sight of his broad back moving about the kitchen had become a comfort, a routine you had come to cherish. “Someone brought roses—my favorite.”

Joel glanced over his shoulder, his expression carefully neutral. “Yeah?” he said, though he was well aware of the flowers.

He had been the one to bring them, after all.

“They’re so pretty,” you continued, reaching out to brush your fingers over the soft petals, inhaling the sweet, delicate fragrance. “And they smell amazing. I’ll have to thank Tommy and Maria the next time I see them. They really brighten up the room.” You smiled to yourself, the thought of their kindness warming you. It was a small gesture, but it felt significant, a reminder that even in this harsh world, moments of beauty could still exist.

Joel just nodded, his back turned to you as he poured your coffee. “Mmhmm,” he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“They’re real pretty,” Joel said, but as the words left his mouth, his eyes weren’t on the roses—they were on you. There was a softness in his gaze, a warmth that made something flutter in your chest. You didn’t notice it at first, too focused on the delicate petals and the sweet scent that filled the air. You just nodded, your smile widening as you breathed in the fragrance again.

“They really are,” you murmured.

Joel didn’t say anything, merely offering a quiet grunt of acknowledgment as he handed you your coffee. You wrapped your hands around the cup, relishing the familiar comfort of its warmth, blissfully unaware that he had gone out of his way to find those roses for you. He had spent months listening to Tommy talk about you, absorbing all the little details—your favorite things—and carefully keeping them tucked away in his mind.

•••

The day passed in a blur of familiar routines. Joel was out on patrol, as he often was when he wasn’t at your place, leaving you to settle into the rhythm of the day. Tommy and Maria dropped by in the afternoon, filling the house with a brief burst of warmth and lively chatter. You noticed how Maria’s baby bump had grown, her hand instinctively resting on it with each movement. There was a radiant glow about her that made the future feel almost hopeful. You tried to soak in the comfort of their visit, letting thoughts of a future baby wash over you. It stirred a yearning deep within for the dreams you once held—of a husband, a family, and a home filled with love.

That evening, after dinner, you and Joel lingered downstairs longer than usual. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls as you found yourselves drawn into conversation. Joel had become more talkative lately, his gruff demeanor easing into something softer, almost companionable.

You’d asked him about patrol, and he’d shared more than you expected—details of the day, the quietness that hung over the forest, the way the world felt almost too still. There was an openness in the way he spoke, a willingness to let you into his world, even if only a little. It made the space between you feel smaller, more intimate.

But when the night grew late, you finally retreated to your room, slipping under the covers with a lingering sense of unease, one that would often creep up on the dead of night. But tonight, as you lay there, the dark seemed to press in closer than usual.

The memories came back with a vengeance—visceral and hauntint, vivid flashes of pain and terror. You could see the look on their faces, those men who had tied you up, the glint of cruelty in their eyes, the sound of their mocking voices. The memory of your leg snapping, the sharp, blinding agony, and the sight of your own blood pooling beneath you—all of it rushed back in fragments, relentless and suffocating.

You were caught in the grip of a night terror, your heart racing like a drum against your ribs. Sweat soaked through your clothes, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you thrashed against the sheets. You felt trapped, unable to wake yourself from the nightmare, your body locked in the awful, helpless fear that had consumed you then.

In the dream, you were calling out for help, your voice echoing in the darkness, but no one could hear you. It was like screaming into a void, each cry swallowed up by an unforgiving silence. The world around you was twisted and wrong—faces you recognized lay lifeless on the ground, unmoving. Tommy, Maria… Joel. They were all gone, and the sight of them sprawled out in the dirt, blood pooling beneath their bodies, filled you with a terror so deep it felt like you were drowning.

You kept screaming, clawing at the darkness, but there was no one left to answer. The emptiness swallowed you whole, pulling you down, down, until—

Suddenly, a jolt of sensation ripped through the nightmare. Someone was shaking you, pulling you back from the abyss. The darkness shattered into a blur of movement and sound as you struggled to orient yourself. The nightmare's suffocating grip began to loosen, and you gasped for air, blinking furiously to clear the lingering terror from your mind.

“Hey, hey! You’re okay—wake up,” a voice urged, rough and panicked. You blinked up at Joel, his hands on your shoulders, shaking you gently but urgently, his face etched with a fear that was all too real. “It’s just a dream,” he said, his voice low and steady as he tried to calm you.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and unrelenting, as if all the fear and pain of the nightmare were pouring out in a flood you couldn’t control. Your chest heaved with each breath, the sobs wracking your body as you struggled to come back to reality. It was like the terror had followed you, clinging to your skin, and no matter how hard you tried to blink it away, the images still burned behind your eyes.

Joel’s grip on your shoulders tightened, his touch grounding you, anchoring you in the here and now. “Hey, look at me,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “You’re safe. It was just a dream. I’ve got you.” He reached up to brush the tears from your cheek with the pad of his thumb, his movements gentle, as though afraid you might shatter.

The tenderness in his gaze felt almost too much to bear, the concern etched into the lines of his face stirring something deep inside you—something raw and vulnerable that you weren’t sure how to face. You didn’t know what to say, couldn’t find the words to explain the depth of the fear that still clung to you. All you could do was cling to the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hands, and the quiet strength that held you together even as you fell apart.

“You were all…” you gasped, the words tumbling out in a broken, frantic rush. “You were all gone… and they—they had me tied up…” The rest of the sentence fell away, your voice faltering as the horror of the dream clung to you, its shadow still lingering in your mind. The words didn’t make sense even to you, but they spilled out anyway, desperate and raw.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright, sweetheart,” Joel murmured, his voice a soothing rumble that felt like a balm against the jagged edges of your fear. If you had been more conscious and less consumed by terror, you might have realized the weight of the endearment he used—how sweetheart fell from his lips so naturally, as if the word itself had been created just for you.

He shifted closer, his hands cupping your face with a tenderness that took you by surprise. His thumb gently wiped away the tears that continued to streak down your cheeks, the contact grounding you in the moment. “I’m here. Nobody’s gonna hurt you, I promise.”

His gaze was steady and unwavering, holding you in the present, as if willing you to believe him. In that moment, the world felt small, contained within the warmth of his touch and the low, steady cadence of his voice. It was enough to make you feel anchored, as though the terror that had gripped you was beginning to ebb away, leaving only the thrum of your heartbeat and the safety of Joel’s presence in its wake.

Little did you know, that night haunted Joel just as deeply. It wasn’t just your cries that lingered in his mind—it was the echoes of the past, bleeding into the present. The screams of Sarah, the look of terror in your eyes, even Tess's pained expressions—they all mixed together in the haze of his own nightmares. The memories twisted and blurred into a chaotic swirl of pain, death, sorrow, and loss, each one clawing at him in the darkness.

He’d often wake up in a cold sweat, his heart racing, the remnants of those horrors gripping him tight. But there was one thing that kept him grounded, something that offered him a small measure of comfort: the sound of your soft, rhythmic breathing drifting through the quiet house. It wasn’t just a reminder that you were safe—it was a reminder that he hadn’t failed this time.

The past still weighed heavy on his soul, but the knowledge that you were there, alive and still fighting, was enough to keep the darkness at bay… at least for a little while.

Your breathing had finally begun to steady, each inhale less ragged than the last. Joel stayed by the edge of your bed, his hand still resting on your shoulder, waiting for you to give some sign that you were okay, that he could go back to the couch downstairs. But instead, your gaze met his, the tears still glistening in your eyes, unspoken words trembling on your lips.

“Could you…” you began, your voice wavering as you struggled to get the rest out. “Could you stay?”

He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I’m already downstairs,” he said softly, as though reminding you of his usual spot. “You know that.”

“No, I mean…” You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper, almost afraid to say the words out loud. “Here. With me.”

The request hung in the air, fragile and tentative, but the meaning was clear. Joel’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the surprise flickering there as if he hadn’t expected you to ask.

You caught the hesitation in his eyes, and suddenly, all the harsh words he’d ever thrown at you seemed to come crashing down at once—burden, useless—echoes of moments when you’d felt like nothing more than an inconvenience. Your cheeks burned with shame, and you dropped your gaze, stumbling over your words. “I mean… sorry, that was stupid,” you muttered, the regret already tightening in your throat. “It’s just my meds talking.”

“No.” His voice was firm, cutting through the fragile air between you. You looked up, and the expression in his eyes had changed—there was no trace of doubt left, only a quiet resolve. “I’ll stay,” he repeated, his tone gentler this time. “If you want me to.”

You nodded, and Joel didn’t hesitate this time. He moved around to the other side of the bed, his features softened in the glow of the lamp and the pale wash of moonlight that spilled in through the window. He dipped into the bed, settling carefully beside you. Even as he gave you space, you could feel the warmth radiating from him, a steady comfort that made your chest tighten.

You turned toward him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Joel. I know I can be… a lot. I—”

“Hey.” He cut you off gently, his voice firm but soft, as though he was willing away the words before they could take hold. “Don’t do that.” His eyes found yours in the dim light, steady and unyielding, and the way he looked at you made your breath hitch, like he saw past all the broken pieces you tried to hide.

“You’re not a lot. You’re—” He paused, the words catching in his throat as if he hadn’t meant to say them aloud. “You’re someone worth looking after.”

His voice was low, roughened by the weight of things unsaid, and for a moment, you were too stunned to respond. There was no pity in his gaze, no trace of frustration or burden—just a quiet sincerity that sank deep into your bones.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and gave a small nod, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Okay.”

He reached out through the darkness, and your breath caught in your throat as he brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, his touch warm against your skin.

“Now try to get some rest,” he murmured, his tone soft and almost tender, like a promise wrapped in warmth.

As you closed your eyes, you felt the quiet reassurance of his presence, the way he stayed close enough for you to hear his steady breathing—the rise and fall grounding you, a reminder that you weren’t alone.

Not tonight. Not with him here.

Tag List:

@somedayheaven @anoverwhelmingdin @joeldjarin @yourgirlcin

@swimmingeggcloudkid @dlwrish @cathsteen @reneerocks3617

@denisanoemi @prnxcessfics @orcasoul @rosebuds-and-moonlight @rescuethewretched

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@somedayheaven @ohdearvalentine @keseqna @kulekehe

@darkheartgatita @ickearmn @spacegirl-3 @mystickittytaco

@sukunnayuuji @jasminedragoon @merm4id5lut @ickearmn

@dugiioh @ginsan-eyes @smoochispoof @off-dreaming-again @cynicalbunny @dendulinka6 @w-w-a-n-d-r-l-u-s-t-t @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @spacemamax @lizzie-cakes @off-dreaming-again

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cweampier · 2 years ago

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I just think Leon is so vocal in bed and he is the king of dirty talking. I love it so much

ohhhh… oh yeah, definitely… he’s such a talker sorry for the lack of posts lately, i’ve been very burnt out lol

cw for dubcon if you squint

finding himself deep inside your pussy as it squeezed around him? oh yeah he’d start mouthing off. you squealed and writhed in his arms while he just tried to keep you in place, still fucking his flushed cock into you, reaching unimaginable distances. kissing your cervix with his mind set on filling your womb. it was like he was on autopilot, driving himself further, harder, faster. his mind was spiraling, as he shoved your face into the pillows. skin damp with sweat, he continued to drill into you, unyielding.

“no.. can’t.. can’t fucking stop.. don’t wanna.” he panted out, breaths wavering as sweat collected atop his brow bone, mixing together collecting a sticky concoction on his forehead as his brows knitted together, causing the skin to wrinkle. “please, oh, please fuck me, fuck me~ fucking—hh’god!~” he rambled absentmindedly, pulling your ass closer to his pelvis, flesh suctioning together as he tethers your bodies into one with each snap of his hips. his eyes shut tightly, letting out a few strained groans of fulfillment.

“want you to fucking.. cum around my fucking cock, sweetheart. fucking need it,” his voice trailed off as he threw his head back, hair sticking to his forehead, tousled and chaotic. “please cum around my cock, your cock, ‘t’s yours, baby.. promise ‘t’s yours.” he heaved, hips bucking roughly in an animalistic fashion, pupils dilating widely. the usual blue of his irises being disrupted by the spread of his dark pupils. “‘t’s your .. fucking cock, baby.. all yours, fuck..” he echoed himself, nipping at the skin of your shoulder to cease his idiocy.

a depraved yelp elicited from your throat only to be muffled by the plushness of the pillows beneath you, practically suffocating against them as he continued to hold you still. he was hitting it so fucking good, ripping every ounce of defiance from your body as you just took it. all of it. sounds of your drenched cunt filled the room as well as the satisfying sound of his balls plapping against your particularly sensitive nub, causing your knees to buckle underneath you. you pawed at the sheets, hands clammy as you’d strike the pillows weakly. with one final clamp around the base of his dick, you unraveled completely, flooding the bedding beneath you.

but, leon was an addict. he was a fucking fiend. his greedy ass did not stop plowing away, making you shriek and protest against it, legs thrashing against him, the balls of your ankles digging into the sides of his thighs. he hissed, gripping your hips with a hold that felt almost bruising. “good fuckin’ girl.. such a good girl.. going all dumb on my cock like that, baby… you love it s’much. got’chu.. creaming ‘round me.. hmmff..” he babbled, pressing a large hand onto your lower back, arching your stomach into mattress further to somehow plunge himself deeper into you. he seemed to be edging himself, unrelenting. wanting to ensure he piped you to the brim with his seed.

“so messy, so .. fucking wet, shit!~ pussy’s fuckin’ sucking me in, haah!” he squeaked with urgency, throat tight with exhaustion. his hips ached with care, the stiffness of his joints palpable as his thrusts became sloppy, uneven, uncoordinated. you couldn’t speak, could hardly move. your voice was broken down and hoarse from all that hollering. one thing about leon, he’ll always slut you out.

#tima is back w another shitty post #i’m so sorry if it isn’t up to your standards </3 #so unfiltered… naw leonnnnnnn #leon kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #resident evil smut #resident evil x reader #resident evil x you #cweampier

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sushiyuzu · 2 months ago

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Hiii, I was wondering if you could make smth with a fem-reader who gets super angry, like destructive when mad bcus she lacks self-control rlly bad (for me I'm mentally ill lol) so when she gets mad her s/o usually walks in to her room destroyed with a crying reader in the corner, especially when she hasn't been taking her meds it ends up like that, and can you do this with Megumi, Yuta, and Sukuna

a safe comfort 🤍

a/n: thank you so much for trusting me with this request! it was my second time receiving and writing a fanfic request, and i truly appreciate the support! please remember to take care of yourself, especially if you're struggling with mental health—your well-being is so important! <3

warning: this story includes themes of mental illness, destructive behavior, and emotional distress. please proceed with caution.

megumi fushiguro

it starts as a small thing, the kind of annoyance you’d usually brush off. but today, something feels different. it’s as if the tension has been building for days, winding tighter and tighter until finally—something snaps. and when it does, you can’t stop yourself.

your hands are trembling as you shove the lamp off your nightstand, the crash of broken glass loud in your ears. the sound echoes in your head, but it doesn’t register—not really. you’re already grabbing at the books on your desk, hurling them across the room as frustration wells up inside you, fierce and unrelenting.

the anger takes over everything. it’s all-consuming, suffocating, like a weight on your chest you can’t escape. and when it’s over, when the room lies in ruins around you, you’re left standing in the middle of it all, gasping for air, your hands still shaking as the reality of what you’ve done hits you.

you drop to the floor, curling into yourself, the tears coming fast and hard. shame burns deep in your chest, the guilt crushing you as you try to breathe through it. you don’t want to be like this—you don’t want to be the person who destroys everything.

you don’t even notice when megumi walks in. he’s always quiet like that, slipping into your space without making a sound. but you know he’s there when you hear his voice—soft, steady, calm.

“hey,” he murmurs, and the sound is so gentle it makes your chest ache. “it’s okay.”

you can’t bring yourself to look up at him, too ashamed of what he must be seeing. you’re a mess. the room’s a mess. but megumi doesn’t seem to care. he steps carefully around the broken glass, the scattered papers, and kneels down beside you without a word.

for a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, just sits there with you, his presence grounding you in a way that nothing else can. his hand hovers near your shoulder, not quite touching, as if he’s waiting for permission to get closer.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he says softly, his voice filled with quiet reassurance.

you finally lift your head, and the moment your eyes meet his, the tears come faster, harder. you choke on a sob, unable to hold it back any longer, but megumi’s arms are around you before you can even process it. he pulls you into his chest, holding you close, and for a second, you forget about the wreckage around you.

his grip is firm but gentle, his hand running through your hair in soothing strokes. he’s not one to overwhelm you with words—megumi knows that sometimes silence speaks louder. instead, he just holds you, letting you cry against him, offering a quiet strength you can lean on without fear.

“we’ll figure it out,” he says after a while, his voice steady, like a promise. “whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together.”

you know he means it. with megumi, there are no empty promises. just the quiet certainty that no matter how bad things get, he’s going to stay by your side. and somehow, that makes it a little easier to breathe.

the minutes stretch into what feels like hours as you sink into his embrace. with every ragged breath, you can feel the tension start to dissolve. megumi’s warmth envelops you, a safe haven amidst the storm of emotions raging inside.

as the tears slow, you begin to notice the little things—how his heartbeat thrums steadily against your ear, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air, the gentle way he holds you as if you’re something precious. it’s a comfort that seeps into your bones, reminding you that you’re not alone in this chaos.

“i know it feels overwhelming right now,” he says, his voice low and soothing, “but it doesn’t define you. you’re stronger than this moment.”

you nod against him, trying to internalize his words, but the guilt still lingers like a shadow. “i don’t want to be like this,” you whisper, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“i know,” he replies, pulling back slightly to look you in the eye. there’s a determination in his gaze, a fierce protectiveness that makes your heart swell. “and you’re not. we’ll find a way to help you. just take it one step at a time.”

he wipes away the tears on your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, his touch featherlight yet grounding. in his gaze, you see understanding—an unspoken agreement that you don’t have to carry this burden alone. with megumi beside you, it’s easier to believe that healing is possible, that you can face whatever darkness lies ahead.

as you sit there, the room still in disarray, you realize it’s okay to be broken. it’s okay to ask for help. because with megumi by your side, you know you have a safe space to fall apart and rebuild. you’re not just a collection of shattered pieces; you’re a person, and that person deserves love and understanding—even in the midst of chaos.

“thank you,” you murmur, feeling a glimmer of hope rise within you.

“always,” he replies, a soft smile breaking through the worry etched on his face. “now, let’s clean this up together, okay?”

you nod, and for the first time in a long while, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can find your way back to yourself.

yuta okkotsu

the anger hits you like a tidal wave, sudden and overwhelming, and before you know it, everything around you is falling apart. you’ve tried to hold it back—tried so hard—but the frustration is too much. your hands move on their own, knocking over anything within reach, the sounds of things crashing to the floor blending together in a chaotic blur.

you don’t realize how far you’ve gone until the room is a disaster—books torn from the shelves, clothes scattered across the floor, furniture tipped over in your frenzy. it’s only when the last bit of anger burns out that you see the mess you’ve made, and with it comes the crushing guilt. the shame.

you collapse to the floor, pressing your palms to your face, hiding from the destruction you’ve caused. your heart races in your chest, your breathing uneven as the tears come, slow at first, then uncontrollable.

you don’t hear the door open, don’t realize yuta’s standing there until you feel a presence near you. when he speaks, his voice is so soft, so filled with concern, it breaks your heart.

“hey,” he calls your name gently, kneeling in front of you. “what happened?”

you can’t answer him, can’t even look at him. the shame is too much. you’ve done this again—let yourself lose control, let everything spiral. yuta doesn’t push you for answers, though. he just watches you for a moment, waiting for the right time to step in.

“it’s okay,” he whispers after a while, reaching out carefully, his hand brushing against your arm in a tentative gesture. “i’m not mad. i’m just... worried.”

his words hit you in a way you didn’t expect, and before you know it, you’re falling into him. yuta catches you easily, pulling you close to his chest, his arms wrapping around you protectively. he’s warm, gentle, his hands soothing as he rubs slow circles against your back.

“we’ll get through this,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice steady. “whatever’s going on... we’ll handle it together.”

his embrace is firm, but never overwhelming. he holds you just tightly enough to make you feel safe, his chin resting on the top of your head as he lets you cry into his shoulder. yuta’s always been like this—soft, gentle, never pushing too hard but always there when you need him most.

“you don’t have to be afraid of this,” he adds, his voice low. “we’ll take it one step at a time, okay?”

you nod against him, even though you still feel the weight of your emotions pressing down on you. but with yuta’s arms around you, the world feels just a little bit less overwhelming.

as you pull away slightly, just enough to see his face, you can’t help but notice the concern etched in his features. his eyes search yours, looking for any sign of reassurance. “you didn’t have to hide this from me,” he says softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek, wiping away a tear that has slipped free. “i’m here for you, no matter what.”

the sincerity in his voice ignites something inside you—a flicker of hope amidst the storm of despair. “i just... don’t want to be like this,” you admit, your voice trembling. “i don’t want to keep losing control.”

“it’s okay to feel angry sometimes,” he reassures, his expression unwavering. “but you’re not alone in this. you don’t have to handle everything on your own.”

you take a deep breath, allowing his words to wash over you. it’s a reminder that while this moment feels insurmountable, it doesn’t define you. yuta doesn’t judge you for the chaos you’ve created; instead, he’s offering a lifeline, a way to navigate through the darkness together.

“let’s clean this up,” he suggests, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “but first, can we take a minute? just to breathe?”

you nod again, grateful for his understanding. yuta guides you back to the corner of the room where it feels a bit safer, sitting beside you on the floor amidst the wreckage. he takes a moment to simply breathe with you, matching his inhale and exhale to yours. in those shared breaths, you can feel the tension begin to ease, even if just a little.

“you’re strong, you know,” he says softly, looking at you with such intensity that it warms your heart. “even when it feels like everything’s falling apart, you’re still standing here. that means something.”

his words wrap around you like a warm blanket, grounding you further. you manage a small smile, a flicker of gratitude in your chest. “thank you for being here.”

“always,” he replies, the sincerity in his voice bringing a sense of comfort. “let’s start with one thing at a time. how about we pick up the books first?”

you both begin to clear the room together, moving through the remnants of your outburst. with each item you return to its place, you feel a little more in control, a little less lost. yuta’s presence is steady by your side, and as he laughs softly at the absurdity of some of the mess, you can’t help but join him.

“what a tornado you’ve created,” he teases gently, picking up a shirt and throwing it playfully at you. “it looks like a fashion disaster.”

“hey! don’t make fun of my style,” you retort, a laugh bubbling up despite the heaviness of earlier. the sound feels good, like a small victory over the lingering despair.

“i’d never!” he exclaims, mock-indignant. “your style is unique, and it needs to be respected.”

as you work together, the atmosphere shifts. the heaviness that had settled in your chest begins to lift, and with yuta’s playful banter, you start to find a lightness you thought was lost. you realize that even in moments of chaos, you can create something beautiful—like the bond you share with him.

once the room is tidied up, yuta turns to you, his expression serious again. “remember, it’s okay to ask for help. i’m just a call away, and you don’t have to face anything alone.”

you look at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. “i really appreciate you, yuta. for everything.”

“anytime,” he replies, reaching for your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “let’s take care of each other, okay?”

as you sit together in the aftermath of the storm, you know that with yuta by your side, you’ll find a way through whatever challenges lie ahead. the world feels just a little bit less daunting, and that’s more than enough for now.

ryomen sukuna

it happens fast—too fast for you to stop it. one moment, you’re pacing around the room, frustration boiling inside you like a pressure cooker, and the next, your hands are smashing into everything within reach. you’ve never been able to control it, this anger that builds and builds until it spills over, consuming everything in its path.

furniture crashes to the floor, papers scatter across the room, and the sound of breaking glass rings in your ears. you’ve wrecked the place, torn it apart with your bare hands, and now, standing in the aftermath, all you can feel is the hollow emptiness left behind.

your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, tears blurring your vision as the weight of what you’ve done settles in. you sink down to the floor, curling in on yourself, the world around you too much to handle. the anger is gone now, but the shame remains, thick and suffocating.

then you hear him—sukuna. his voice cuts through the silence like a knife, sharp and unmistakable.

“well, well,” he drawls, his tone laced with amusement. “look at the mess you’ve made.”

you flinch, expecting the worst, but when sukuna steps into the room, there’s no mockery in his eyes. he surveys the damage with a raised brow, but instead of berating you, he simply smirks, as if he finds the whole thing more fascinating than anything else.

“you always did have a flair for destruction,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “but this... this is something else.”

you don’t respond. you can’t. the shame is too heavy, too overwhelming, and the last thing you want is for him to see you like this. but sukuna doesn’t leave. instead, he walks over to you, his boots crunching against the broken glass, and crouches down in front of you.

he tilts his head, his red eyes gleaming with something almost like curiosity. “are you done?”

you nod, though it’s barely a movement. your throat is tight, your eyes stinging with unshed tears, and sukuna just watches you for a moment longer before sighing. without another word, he reaches out and pulls you into his arms, not caring about the mess around him.

you’re too tired to resist, too worn out to push him away, and sukuna just holds you there, his grip firm but not painful. there’s a warmth to him, a strange sort of comfort in the way he wraps his arms around you, despite his usual roughness.

“you’re a disaster,” he mutters, his tone teasing but not unkind. “but i suppose you’re my disaster.”

you don’t know why, but his words make the tears come harder, and before you know it, you’re sobbing against his chest, your body trembling with the force of it. sukuna doesn’t shush you or tell you to stop. he just lets you cry, his hand resting on the back of your head, his fingers gently tangling in your hair.

“let it out,” he says, his voice soft now, quieter than you’ve ever heard it before. “you’ll feel better after.”

and somehow, with him holding you, the world feels just a little bit less chaotic. sukuna may not be gentle, but in this moment, he’s exactly what you need. the weight of his arms around you, solid and unyielding, keeps you anchored, keeps you from spiraling any further.

he’s not one for soft reassurances or whispered comforts, but his presence alone is enough to ground you. he lets you break down in his arms, lets you be vulnerable without judgment or impatience. there’s something oddly calming about it—being in the presence of someone so powerful, so utterly in control, when you feel like your world is falling apart.

after a long while, when your sobs finally subside, sukuna pulls back slightly. he tilts your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. his red eyes bore into yours, sharp and unwavering.

“feel better?” he asks, his voice low, his expression unreadable.

you nod, not trusting your voice to speak. he studies you for a moment longer before he lets go of your chin, standing up and brushing some debris off his clothes as if none of this bothered him in the slightest.

“next time,” he says, his tone casual, as if offering advice on something trivial, “try not to destroy everything. or at least wait until i’m around to enjoy the show.”

there’s a teasing lilt to his words, and despite yourself, despite everything, a small, tired smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

“come on,” sukuna says, offering you his hand to help you up. “let’s get out of here. you need to clear your head.”

you hesitate for only a moment before taking his hand, and he pulls you up effortlessly. as he leads you out of the wreckage of your room, there’s a strange comfort in knowing that, for all his arrogance and rough edges, sukuna’s still here—still willing to stay by your side, no matter how many times you break.

and somehow, with him, that’s enough.

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writetheidea · 1 month ago

Text

Shadows of the past - happy ending

Hello, You are now reading the happy ending of this fan fiction. If you haven’t read the previous parts, I recommend you do so in order to understand the context. The song “Shrike” by Hozier was involved in the writing process of this part. Many songs by Hozier were involved.

Part 1 || Part 2 |||| Sad ending

Word count: 2013

Disclaimers: english is not my first language - I feel like you could tell from my writing style - so I apologize if some of the sentences structures are off, or if I use outdated or inappropriate-for-the-context words, I used a synonym dictionary to try and stop myself from repeating the same words, I still did do that though.

I would like to explain that I do not think that Oscar's family would behave this way. This idea came from watching Nicole's interview in which she spoke highly about Lily and an unrelated conversation that day about families still speaking about and with ex girlfriends.

The confrontation with his family was inevitable. His parents had always meant well, but they were so attached to the idea of him and Lily that they never fully accepted Mia. And now, Oscar was starting to see just how much their subtle comparisons had contributed to the rift between him and Mia.

They were sitting around the kitchen table when Nicole brought it up again. “I spoke to Lily the other day,” she said casually, as if it were normal to keep so closely in touch with his ex-girlfriend after all these years. “She said she’s thinking about coming to one of your races again soon.”

Oscar’s chest tightened. He set his coffee mug down, the clink of the ceramic sounding too loud in the suddenly tense room. “Mum, why do you keep bringing her up?” he asked, his voice strained.

Nicole blinked in surprise. “Well, she’s kept being supportive of your career, darling. I thought you’d like to know.”

“I don’t need to know,” Oscar replied, his voice growing sharper. “Mia didn’t need to know. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for her, hearing you talk about Lily all the time? You keep treating Mia like she’s not enough for me—like she’s not part of this family.”

His father frowned. “Oscar, that’s not fair. We’ve never said anything bad about Mia.”

“You didn’t have to,” Oscar shot back. “It’s not about what you’re saying—it’s about what you’re talking about. You constantly bring up Lily, and it’s like you’re waiting for me to go back to her. You act like Mia is just temporary, like she doesn’t matter as much.”

Nicole’s face softened with guilt. “Oscar, we didn’t mean it that way. We just—Lily was a big part of your life for so long, and we still care about her. But we like Mia too.”

“Then act like it,” Oscar said, his voice thick with frustration. “Because Mia’s gone now. She left me, and part of it is because of how you made her feel. She felt like she was always competing with Lily, and it broke her. And I didn’t see it until it was too late.”

Nicole’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry, Oscar. I had no idea.”

“I didn’t either,” Oscar admitted, his voice softer now. “I should’ve stood up for her more. I should’ve made it clear that she was my choice, and I didn’t. But I’m telling you now—I love her. And I need you to accept that, completely, if I’m ever going to be able to get her back.”

His mother reached out, placing her hand on his. “We’ll do better, Oscar. I promise. If—When Mia comes back... we’ll show her that she’s part of this family. Truly.”

Oscar nodded, but the weight of the situation still pressed down on him. He had a lot to make up for, not just his family. And he wasn’t sure if an apology would be enough to fix everything that had been broken.

---

It was a few days later when Oscar found himself face-to-face with Lily. They had run into each other at an event for one of his sponsors.

“Oscar!” Lily greeted him with a bright smile, her blonde hair swept elegantly over her shoulder. She looked just like she always had—polished, put together, the perfect image of the life he had once imagined for himself. But standing there, looking at her, Oscar realized how far removed he felt from that version of himself.

“Lily,” he said, his tone polite but distant.

They exchanged pleasantries, talking about the races and how things had been going for them. But Lily, perceptive as always, noticed something was off.

“I heard about you and Mia,” she said after a while, her voice gentle. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I always thought you two were really great together.”

Oscar swallowed, the mention of Mia making his chest tighten with guilt and longing. “We were,” he said quietly. “But I messed things up.”

Lily gave him a sympathetic look. “It’s not easy, balancing everything—family, relationships, your career. I would know firsthand. But Mia seemed like the type to understand that.”

“She is,” Oscar agreed. “But I didn’t give her the support she deserved. I let my family’s feelings get in the way, and I didn’t stand up for her when I should have.”

Lily nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. “You know, Oscar, you and I... we had a good. But it’s clear you’ve grown since then. You’re not the same person you were when we were together.”

Oscar looked at her, surprised by her words. “I guess I have.”

“And Mia... she’s the one you want to be with, isn’t she?”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. She is.”

Lily smiled softly. “Then fight for her. Don’t let the past hold you back from what you really want now.”

Oscar nodded, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. He knew what he had to do.

---

Oscar stood outside Mia’s apartment, his heart racing in his chest. He had spent the last few days going over everything in his head—what he needed to say, how he needed to make things right. He had spoken to his family, seen Lily, and now he was ready. Ready to fight for Mia, for the future he wanted with her.

When Mia opened the door, she looked surprised to see him. She looked tired, like the weight of their separation had been as hard on her as it had been on him.

“Oscar,” she said softly, stepping aside to let him in.

He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding, before stepping into the familiar warmth of her apartment. Everything felt the same, but different. There was a tension in the air, a distance that hadn’t been there before.

“I’m sorry, Mia,” Oscar said, his voice breaking the silence. “I’m so sorry for everything. For not standing up for you. For not realizing how much my family’s words and actions were hurting you.”

Mia’s eyes softened, but she remained quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I let you down,” Oscar continued, his voice heavy with emotion. “I didn’t see how much you were struggling, how much you were giving up to be with me. And I took you for granted. But I see it now. And I’ll never let that happen again.”

Mia swallowed hard, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “Oscar, it wasn’t just you. I should have spoken up sooner. I should have told you how much it was affecting me. But I didn’t, because I was scared.”

Oscar stepped closer, his heart breaking at the sight of her pain. “I know I can’t undo the hurt I’ve caused. But I want to make it right. I want to fight for us, Mia. I love you. And I’m ready to do whatever it takes to make you feel like you’re the only one who matters.”

Tears spilled over Mia’s cheeks, and she wiped them away quickly, her breath catching in her throat. “I love you too, Oscar,” she whispered. “But... I’m scared. I don’t want to go back to feeling like I’m not enough.”

“You *are* enough,” Oscar said firmly, stepping even closer. “You’ve always been enough. And I’ve spoken to my family. They know how much you mean to me, and they’ve promised to change. I won’t let them—or anyone—make you feel like you’re second best ever again.”

Mia looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for the truth in his words. And when she saw the sincerity there, something shifted in her expression. The walls she had built around herself began to crack, just enough for hope to seep through.

“Oscar,” she whispered, her voice exposing her fragility. “I don’t want to lose you. I never did. But I need to know that this is real. That you’re really ready to put us first.”

Oscar reached out, gently taking Mia’s hands in his, his grip firm but tender. “I am, Mia. I’m ready to put us first—above everything. I’ve spent too much time focusing on things that don’t matter as much as you do. My family, the past, the pressure of everything… none of it matters if I don’t have you.”

Mia’s eyes filled with tears again, but this time, they weren’t just tears of pain—they were tears of hope, of possibility. She let out a shaky breath, feeling the warmth of Oscar’s hands in hers, his gaze never wavering from her face.

“I want to believe you,” she whispered. “I want to believe that things will change, that you’ll fight for us. But it’s been so hard, Oscar. I felt like I was losing myself.”

Oscar’s heart ached at her words, the regret of all the times he hadn’t been there for her weighing heavily on him. He wished he could take it all back, all the moments he had been blind to her struggles. But there was no going back, only forward.

“I’m not perfect,” he said softly, his voice raw with emotion. “But I’m willing to try every single day to make sure you never feel that way again. I’m willing to learn, to listen, and to be the partner you deserve.”

Mia closed her eyes for a moment, the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly. She had spent so long feeling like she wasn’t enough, like she didn’t belong in Oscar’s life. But now, hearing his words, feeling the sincerity behind them, a part of her wanted to believe that maybe things could be different.

Oscar took a step closer, closing the small distance between them. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “And I’ll prove it to you every day, if you’ll give me the chance.”

Mia’s heart raced in her chest as she opened her eyes and looked up at him. For so long, she had felt like she was standing on the outside, looking in. But in this moment, with Oscar standing in front of her, raw and vulnerable, she felt something stir inside her. Something that told her maybe, just maybe, they could make it work.

“I love you too,” Mia whispered, her voice trembling. “I never stopped. I just… I just didn’t know how to keep going when it felt like I was always going to be second.”

“You’re not second,” Oscar said firmly, pulling her into his arms. “You’ve never been second, Mia. Not in my heart, not in my life. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you know that.”

Mia’s heart swelled at his words, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like they might actually have a chance. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that everything would be perfect from here on out. They still had work to do—on themselves, on their relationship—but for the first time in months, she felt like they were both willing to fight for it.

“I need time,” Mia said softly, her voice filled with vulnerability. “I need to take things slow. I don’t want to rush back into things and end up hurt again.”

Oscar nodded, understanding in his eyes. “We’ll take it as slow as you need,” he promised. “I just want to be with you. We’ll figure it out together.”

Mia smiled, and Oscar’s heart lifted at the sight. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed seeing her smile, how much it had hurt him to see her lose her spark. But now, standing here with her, he felt like they were finally on the right path.

“I’ve missed you,” Mia whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“I’ve missed you too,” Oscar replied, his arms tightening around her. “More than you know.”

They stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the silence between them now filled with the warmth of hope. It wouldn’t be easy, Oscar knew that. They still had challenges to face, wounds to heal. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like they had a real chance at making it work.

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pricegouge · 3 months ago

Text

Get Her a Dog (She'll be Happier For It)

Part Two | master list | MDNI

Soap x reader, Price x reader, eventual PriceSoap x reader

series cw: cheating. dubcon. angst. cuckholding. pet play.

chapter cw: angst, pining for another man's wife

reader is fem and fat

Mostly, he blames himself. For the late hours and the cold, empty bed; the broken promises Soap had been too preoccupied to keep. The general, dejected state of her. John knows he's a fixer, knows himself well enough to spot the pattern: pick a project, tend to it, leave it better than you found it. He's not sure where he went wrong with Soap's bird, or if it was indeed the failure itself that kept him circling like a dog with a bone under its bed, all he knew was how very, very fucked he was.

John sleeps on base most nights. An old habit he picked up when his marriage was falling apart, though it served him well enough still - kept him busy late into the night when his thoughts had a tendency to turn treacherously domestic. Home was a place to unwind for most soldiers, a reward to work towards, but John feared his wires had been crossed long ago. The day he was born, possibly. For him, home was the sense memory of damp, musty laundry he'd forgotten to change over before crawling into a cold bed despite promising he would at best, or the empty, aimless space he'd toil away at between missions at worst. On paper, he lived in a nice, secure apartment out in Leeds, though in effect he may as well have taken his captaincy for the ensuite it came with.

It's a good tactic, mostly, one that had worked for hundreds of higher ranked officers before him and would continue to work long after he's gone, MIA or otherwise. The problem unique to John in this situation, however, was his inability to look his own sergeant in the eye without being reminded of the very thoughts he was trying to run away from.

It was an absurd thing, really - the complex spectrum of reactive emotions John often fell victim to while just trying to do his damn job. After the career he'd led, John had considered himself quite prepared for the position of an officer. Had trained himself to respond to any and all obstacles with a level head and an uncompromising efficiency; an unrelenting ruthlessness honed so sharp that lesser officers often cut themselves on it. It had been useful, economic, a gnomon by which he had navigated a career even the former Mrs. Price could not fault.

His storied career, however, had failed to prepare him for Sergeant John MacTavish. Or his bloody little wife.

He’s a force of a man is the problem, equal parts hard to love and hard to hate though there are times when John desperately wishes he could do the latter. Nights he lay awake - even in the curated sterility of his rooms on base - thinking of the pretty bird that warms Soap’s empty bed, her dour countenance and the big, hopeful eyes she'd turn on him with every visit. It would be a convenience to hate Soap, but adept as John is at bending his morals to fit his own goals, blaming Soap for the shortcomings of his relationship is simply not a circle he can square.

The thing is, despite every moment of his past pointing to the opposite conclusion, John can take no for an answer. Really, he can. But 'I'm married' is not 'Get away from me.' And 'I don't want to hurt Johnny,' is not, 'I don't want you,' and damn him but he can't get that distinction out of his head.

He'd told Kate about it once, drunk on thirty year old Lagavulin after a particularly memorable win. She'd listened raptly for an hour, probably - hard to tell time for the way the clock hands swam -, and then summarily told him to get his goddamn act together because MacTavish was a great sergeant, one John himself had specifically requested, and she wasn't going to be sending him away anytime soon.

She's right, he knows. Soap is far too indispensable as sniper and demolitions both, and is marked for a captaincy of his own, besides. MacTavish didn't deserve the blight of an officer-requested transfer on his rap sheet, and John had no real want to give him one anyway. Because he didn't hate Soap. Couldn't, despite every waking thought telling him it would be easier to do so. MacTavish's affability ran too deep; primal, John suspected. Something about the rakish grin and the boisterous laugh. Brought people back to a time when the war crimes of the village brute could be summed up in a single court hearing. He'd even managed to reel Ghost in, so John couldn't really be blamed for his soft spot.

But if he had to suffer through one more illuminating conversation about how inconsiderate the man was on the home front, John was going to have to take matters into his own hands and there was nothing else for it.

Someone had to make that pretty bird happy, after all.

***

Orders come through late in the evening but John knows his men well enough he barely hesitates. Simon, nearly preternatural in his ability to know when he's needed, picks up so quickly John has to check to be sure the call registers as outgoing on his phone. Gaz, eager to prove himself, is similar, sleep clearing from his voice the second he hears his captain's rough growl on the other end.

It's John who gives the last call pause, finger hovering over Soap's contact almost regretfully. One in the morning, day before the bird's birthday. She'll be upset, even if Soap isn't. If John could do this without the man he would, but it's not up to him and he can't fight it this close to wheels up so he hits call and waits for the Scot to answer with something close to contrition settling in his stomach.

Soap picks up on the third ring, voice alert but distracted. Huffy. Strained and short of breath. Dark and burly.

It's instinctual; hard pressed. John's been trained all his life to be observational, to seek out answers where none are freely given. It doesn't turn off just because the person on the other end of the line is his own sergeant, but that doesn't explain the way his breath catches as he listens to the background of Soap's call, how his stomach turns to lead as he leaps to assumptions; waits for confirmation, hoping he's wrong; hoping he's right just so he can hear -

A whistle sounds, the tinny noise of stadium cheer compressed through a cheap sound system. Soap groans in defeat and mutes the TV. "Evenin', cap, to what do ah owe?"

"You're… up?" John double checks the time on his phone just to be sure but there's no getting past it. Soap is watching a match of some sort at 01:00 hours. Not outside the realm of normalcy, but odd enough.

"Time difference," Johnny grunts, already distracted again.

"Who's even playing?"

"Looks like Germany." Not even invested in it. He should be keeping his pretty bird warm in her little nest, but what did John know? He was a divorcee himself after all, and awake himself no less.

"Well wish 'em luck. Wheels up by oh-four-hundred."

"Where to?" Eager as always. No trace of regret for the day he'd miss.

"Madrid. Got a hit on a large scale weapons dealer. Pack light."

"Aye, sir. See ye soon."

***

John used to think the hardest part about traveling so much for his job was all the jet lag, or all the late nights spent scrambling to make a charter he'd only been given an hour's heads up on.

Now, he knows the hardest part is the company that takes up space in the seat next to you.

Garrick's squirrely. Usually is when he's heading into a mission he doesn't know the ins and outs of too well. It's an easy job, low stakes. More intel collection than anything, though the risk of a muck up in such a heavily populated area warranted the use of a team as highly specialized as them. Still, debrief had been almost suspiciously minimal, and Gaz was subtly unsettled by it, if his chattiness was anything to go by.

It's always Soap who indulges him, the two sergeants evenly matched in their geniality. Normally, it's a blessing to have them paired up, entertaining each other. But tonight, Gaz wants only to talk about Soap's bird and her upcoming celebration. So when Gaz asks what Soap got his wife for her birthday, and the man just shrugs and says he’d been planning on taking her out to dinner that night, John’s hard pressed not to swallow his cigar in shock and shame and anger.

“You didn’t get her anything?” Gaz doubles down, good lad, and John lets the ensuing squabble wash over him while he runs mental damage control, primary target swapped from arms dealers to fixing the bird’s ruined day from afar quicker than he can even process the change. He’s distracted the rest of the ride, even more so when they go through the monotony of establishing themselves on site. John slips away the second he’s able, orders same day flowers from a hotel lobby after smiling sleazily at the receptionist to garner a quick favor, knowing better than to use his burner to give out Soap's address.

"And the message, sir?" The clerk on the other end of the line prompts once he's settled on a pretty little arrangement meant to convey regrets and observances both, apparently. She's hopeful, he thinks, like she's rooting for a love story.

"'Sorry I missed it. John.'"

He can almost hear her deflate. "Sure thing, luv. Anything else?"

"No, that's -." John stops, voice guttering out. From his vantage point by the desk, John watches as outside on the sidewalk where he'd left the lad, Soap helps an overeager child to her feet after she'd gone tumbling to the ground, helping her to brush gravel off her palms. His voice is hardly recognizable when he speaks again. "Johnny."

"Sir?"

"Sorry, that's -. The name. Johnny. Love Johnny."

"Oh. Easy enough fix. Have a good day, sir."

He doesn't bother returning the pleasantry.

Next>>

#get her a dog #i still gotta make like a real divider for this whoops

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justauthoring · 5 months ago

Note

Hii, can i ask for a little comfort drabble with Sanemi, where his s/o has nightmares and she wakes up crying, so he comforts her

a/n: we gonna be rocking with the drabbles for a hot second until my knee is healed lol

also, implied spoilers for the final battle but nothing is explicitly stated!

despite the tremble of your body, you’re being held tightly the second your eyes flutter open.

it’s dark which tells you it’s some time in the middle of the night and it’s quiet, nothing but the sound of the wind rustling outside sanemi’s estate which provide a light lull.

you can feel sanemi’s firm chest pressed against your back and the weight of his arm over your waist, the palm of his hand pressed against your bare stomach where it slips underneath your yukata. he’s warm and present and reassuring in all the ways he normally is, and usually that’s enough but the nightmares seem to be a little tougher that night because you’re still shaking and you know you’re crying.

a shaky exhale leaves your lips, staring out into the pitch black as your mind recalls the nightmare that had plagued you seconds before. dark and isolating and blood—there was always blood—as the demons raged and you lost everything you loved right in front of you.

defenceless to do anything.

“a nightmare?”

you hadn’t known sanemi was awake so his voice startles you, a gasp leaves your lips as he shifts and gives you room to turn and face him. his arm remains around you, unrelenting in his grip but you don’t mind.

even in the dark you can see the frown on his face when he sees your tears.

“you’re shaking,” he whispers into the night—soft and so unlike who sanemi used to be. the truth was, neither of you were the people you were before that fateful battle and there’s not much of a reason for sanemi’s anger when at a result of it, he’d lost one of the most important things. “was it bad?”

you nod small. “it was that night. all over again.” you take in a shaky breath, chest stuttering, and raise your hands to your face. “there was blood everywhere.”

sanemi let’s go of your waist, trading it for grabbing your hands into his own and gently coaxing them back down to your sides. then, he uses that hand to brush away the tears relentlessly streaming down your cheeks.

“it’s okay,” he whispers. “that nights over and you’re here. with me.”

and with broken eyes, you meet his equally the same ones. “all the people we lost—”

“shh, shh,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “don’t think about it. at the very least, we have each other. that’s enough for me.”

you nod, eyes still tearing and blurry, but nod all the same. because it is enough for you too—it’s just hard to accept the loss even all these months later.

sanemi watches you for a moment longer, brushing your tears and then he shifts so he’s on his back. he guides you as you move, pressing yourself against his side, head resting on his chest as you wrap your arms around him. sanemi’s firm arm locks around you again, elating you with that feeling of security once more, and uses his free hand to lace his fingers with yours.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into the following silence. “i promise.”

and the loss remains, the blood too—that night will never leave you and you don’t think there’ll ever be a time where you aren’t plagued by the nightmares as a result. but sanemi’s words leave you with a instant flood of relief all the same because even if you lost everyone, you found him as a result so you aren’t truly alone.

that’s enough for you.

#demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #kny #kny x reader #sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi shinazugawa x reader #sanemi x reader

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theorist-fox · 3 months ago

Text

Some type of skin (and two keys)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Currently crossposting previous works from AO3.

Inspired by "Some type of skin" by AURORA (I have an obsession and it's a Norwegian pale lady)

Summary: Johnny's passing has left you devastated. Simon is there to pick up the pieces, while you, although unconsciously, mend his tired heart.

CW: talk of grief, death and loss, angst, broken promises, hurt/comfort, soft Simon Riley but also angry Simon Riley. Mention of pharmacological drugs.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

The air felt clogged; thickened and uncomfortably warm. You tried to blame it on the closed window and the unrelenting sun that reflected against the glass, but the truth was that you felt awkward in your own skin. The uniform clung to your body like a prison. Once, it had been your armor: the breathable dark green cotton of the tee, the black leather of the belt cinching your waist, until the thick camo trousers. They all felt bulletproof.

Yet, ever since you’d witnessed that bullet tearing a hole into Johnny’s head, each piece of clothing had turned into something akin to a goddamn straitjacket. It replayed in your head ad nauseam until it turned into a living nightmare. Until you saw his bloodless face in everyone around you, until you felt a hole in your own skull, as if his death were an omen of your end, as well.

For the first time in the years you had worked with the task force, you were the one who called for a meeting. Well, it was an informal encounter more than anything. A text you had sent simultaneously to all of them.

“We have to talk. Room 4A in HQ 10AM?”

By mere habit, you’d also sent it to Soap; it wrecked your heart to see the red alert on the right side of your bubble, the small Not Delivered right below it. The cracks shattered further when you received the automated response telling you that the number didn’t exist.

How could it not, when you had accumulated thousands of hours on phone calls? How could it not, when you could scroll for days on the chat and never find the first text he’d ever sent you?

You had tried, one of many sleepless evenings: your thumb almost ached due to the mere motion. Fingertip up. Swipe down. Fingertip up. Swipe down. You found it, then. Something old, ancient. The bubbles were green because iPhones still didn’t have the feature that allowed you to text using internet between Apple devices.

“glad to have you on the team. big boss gave me your number. this is soap anything you need im a text awya.”

“aywa*”

“away !!!!”

You'd laughed and it quickly morphed into strangled cries, until your vision got foggy, and your lids yielded. You fell asleep clutching the phone to your cheek.

After having spread his ashes on the Scottish Highlands, everyone had made the sensible decision of taking time off – a sort of unsanctioned compassionate leave. On the other hand, you stayed buried in the tight office you had in Stirling Lines. You couldn't handle the silence that your empty flat would bring. Granted, that didn’t mean you spent much time talking to passersby here at the headquarters, strangers and colleagues alike.

You hovered around the hallways like a specter – paled and depleted. Utterly unavailable to anyone who decided, for reasons unknown to you, to waste their breath on your person. You’d hear grieving words tossed your way, and you'd nod warmly at those. Polite. Affable. Like you’ve always been, even now that the light had been sapped out of you.

Johnny brought it with him - the light. The sun of the team: beautiful yet deadly. Necessary, but dangerous. Lethal only to those who tried to unravel his equilibrium, warm and inviting to the ones who embraced his person.

Now that he was gone, there was darkness – the world dimmed to pay its respects.

It had been eight months. During those, you had worked tirelessly to concoct a plan to have your revenge. Price sometimes knocked on your door only to find you hunched over blueprints and notes. The look he gave you each time was nothing short of pitiful. He didn’t try to stop you, but you could feel the disappointment seeping through your bones and grating them to dust.

Gaz brought you coffee, sometimes. He often came to your office, knocked softer than Price – a knuckle against wood, compared to all four of them incessantly rapping against the door. Sometimes, it wasn't coffee. Sometimes, despite how bad it might have looked, Gaz spilled a few drops of Rozerem in your chamomile tea, hoping it would force your eyes closed for some rest.

All of them, drove from their respective homes only to come and check on you. You wondered if they had an unofficial shift schedule, shared between them both.

Ghost, though. Ghost stayed.

Angrier than you. Insatiable. Raging. Went for runs at ungodly hours, when the sun wasn’t even about to peek from the horizon. He monopolized the gym of the headquarters; an easy task for him, all he needed to do was use his thousand-yard stare against the unlucky lad who dared cross the threshold. When he felt like the punching bag had taken enough of his gauzed fists, he would come to your office – sweaty and bruised. He rarely bothered to shower. He’d sit next to you, and he’d help.

Everyday.

Ever the detached bastard he'd always been, he grew closer against his better judgment. Albeit it had been years since you had joined the task force under Price’s will, Ghost had always stood several steps away from you. Yet, lately, he’d woven himself to you like a spider spinning an intricate web. He wrapped you in a cocoon, and differently from the eight-legged creature, Simon didn’t want to drain the nectar of life.

He wanted to be your armor. A panoply of rustproof iron: encasing you in chainmail, helmet, and all.

It’s why, now, as you sat on your own at the briefing room table with the increasing temperature in the room, guilt ate you from the inside. Termites feasting on wood.

The first one to enter was Kyle. Pretty brown eyes looked at you fondly, as if they were taking in a long-lost friend. He sat next to you, exchanged a few tentative words, and smoothed the hair away from your forehead. He didn't care about the grease clinging to them, instead, he grazed short nails against your scalp as he told you about his week.

You were eternally grateful for him and his tactful ability to make you feel normal when life seemed to have turned askew.

Price walked in a few minutes later. Stoic as ever, but with kindness in his blues. He held a tray in his hands, four paper cups of steaming coffee balanced on it. He set it on the table and slumped on the chair in front of you. He asked you how you were doing. You answered that you were fine. You asked it back. He answered the same. No one believed a single word.

Ghost made you all wait. You explained that he was probably at the gym, or having a late-morning run around the training grounds. If they were worried about you, the concern for Ghost was something even greater. While only Price knew of the intricacies of his past, it didn’t take a doctorate in psychology to understand that whatever had forced him to wear the skull mask was something that still haunted him in the present.

────────────

You remembered it vividly, that one evening. Life had battered you both, kindred spirits in what seemed to be the inability to grieve properly.

You, with your head propped on the armrest of the narrow couch in your office. He, slumped on the cushions as he cradled your calves in his lap. A hand absently brushed the thick cotton of your work trousers. His eyes were to the ceiling. His empty stomach growled incessantly, much like yours – both running on fumes, caffeine, and nicotine, or the occasional shared bite stolen from the cafeteria after its closing time.

As your eyelids were about to flutter closed, you heard the rumble of his voice vibrating in his diaphragm, close to where he held your feet.

“Hooked by the ribs,” he said.

The inquisitive look you sent him was missed because he didn't divert his eyes from the ceiling.

“Buried alive,” he strained, “Crawled outta my own grave.”

It hit you later, that he was sharing. You slowly sat up, pushing your torso with your tired arms. You moved gingerly, afraid a mere shift in the air would cause him to sew his mouth shut. While you had an inkling that whatever happened to him must have been gruesome and cruel, those few words (which you were sure, merely scratched the surface) already caused your stomach to churn.

“They used me, tried to break me and they did.”

Your jaw worked. Propped on your elbows, you gulped down the stone in your throat. Eyes glued to the unmasked profile – to the crooked nose, flattened by punches and butts of guns, to the divot between his lips, to the absent brown eyes with their halo of pale lashes. His fingers curled around your ankle and his thumb brushed over your sock.

“Killed my family,” he went on, and you wondered if he was talking to you at all, “Killed my nephew, too.”

Barely noticing how your eyes glazed over with treacherous tears, you bent your knees over his thighs and scooted closer. The only indication that he had acknowledged your presence and wasn’t simply musing out loud was how his palms shifted: from your ankles, up to your calves. He furled his fingers around the meaty part, while his other hand blindly went to look for your neck. He rested his palm against the side of it, let his thumb trace the outline of your jaw.

“Took everything from me, turned me into this,” he muttered, and his brows furrowed while his pupils danced over the chipped paint of the ceiling.

Half of the times you were given the luxury to gaze at the face beneath the mask, you’ve wondered where those scars came from. What kind of heroic deed had he carried out that caused each mark, or what awful act he must have committed that ended up leaving perpetual memories of it, etched in his flesh.

Never, not once, you thought someone else purposefully did it to him. Someone so cruel, so brutal, that made him regrow his skin – like a snake, shedding his frail past to build a thicker armor.

“The army left me to rot, y’know," he whispered, and although you weren't answering (truthfully, you were barely breathing) he knew you were listening.

“But not Price,” his thumb pressed into your cheek, “Not Price, nor Garrick, or you – or Soap.”

It was grimly ironic how such an idiotic callsign could bring this remarkable heaviness on your heart. The silence lingered after he uttered it, either a way to pay respect or a simple inability to continue right afterwards. Because that’s how it felt like.

Months ago, when his body flattened against the concrete of a forgotten underground tunnel, the word Soap met an end. Forever, there will be nothing else to add right after it, if not things you already knew, or heavy silence.

“Can’t lose any more people in this life,” he sighed, “Johnny must be the goddamn last, y’hear?”

You heard.

You craned your neck to the side so your cheek would slot in his palm. Saltwater dampened your skin and moistened his calluses.

“Deal,” you croaked.

He nodded, taking in your word, digesting it. A stupid promise, really. No one can pledge such a thing, but at that moment he cared very little for it. Especially when he felt your lips press against his palm.

“Deal.”

────────────

You bit your thumbnail in silence, then brought it in front of your eyes to look at the red indent around it. A droplet of blood seeped through the crack, and you suckled on it to soothe it.

Ghost abruptly walked in, the door almost flying off its hinges. He closed it behind him but didn’t take a seat. Instead, he rested his back against the shut threshold and folded his arms in front of his chest. A nod of his jaw that shifted the fabric of the balaclava was all he offered.

Now that everyone was in, the moment you had been dreading the most arrived. Albeit you had been planning this for weeks, your stomach still felt like it had swallowed a rock.

You stood up, wonky on your feet. The chair screeched as it slid back.

“I’m retiring.”

If the silence was thick before, now it felt like a boulder.

When volcanos erupt, it’s rare for lava to burst into the air and fall like sizzling rain over the landscape below it. What kills every living creature, it’s the dust that settles afterwards: it's scorching hot, stops life in its tracks.

The moment the words bubbled from your throat like molten lava, the residues puffed out of your crater and deposited on everything surrounding you. The room now felt like a ghost town, with each breathing soul inside turned into a forever statue.

The only thing that moved was Simon, who wrenched the door open and left.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

It had been weeks since you last saw him. Well, you did see him: Stirling Lines wasn't that big. But he didn't see you. He didn't knock on your door anymore and barely acknowledged your presence if he found you in his vicinity.

It felt pointless to continue your search for attribution if he wasn’t looking for it with you, so with a quick swipe of your arm, you trashed every blueprint, every post-it note, every map, and leaflet. Maybe that would grant Soap some rest as well.

A signature away from your departure, you were lying in your bed, ready to knock yourself out with a few droplets of benzodiazepine. The route to the comatose dreamless night that awaited you, though, was interrupted by a series of raps against your door.

After years in the military, you had developed quite the remarkable hearing – if one was willing to exclude the tinnitus. It meant you could recognize whose footsteps belonged to whom, whose breathing was coming from whose mouth, and which knock pertained to which hands. You knew these knuckles, indeed. Hastily tossing your legs over the edge of the bed, you padded your socked feet against the linoleum of your private quarters. Fingers shakily curled around the doorknob, and you yanked the door open.

It wasn’t like in movies, when after such a long absence time slows down when your eyes touch, no.

It was raw, irate, and spiteful.

Simon placed a thick hand on your shoulder and shoved you aside to barge in. You barely managed to recollect your balance when he slammed the door closed behind him. He looked around the room as if searching for something but not being quite sure of what. Habit, you thought.

Brown eyes that never showed much of the constant turmoil brewing in his head now landed on you sizzling with hatred.

He yanked the mask off. It fell limply to the ground.

His cheeks were flushed, whether from the warmth that had been building behind the cheap fabric of the mask or from hot anger, you couldn’t tell.

"We had a deal.”

It ripped the air from your lungs, vacuumed them clean, and ironed them flat. Your hand flew at the base of your throat, fingers nervously rubbing against your collarbone.

His voice was clouded by an unbreachable fog of anger. You felt as if you were sailing through the ocean on a moonless night, only darkness ahead of you and a single oar in your hands. That’s how it felt to navigate through Simon Riley, even now that you had managed to have a grasp on the person he was.

Your pupils traveled along his person to settle on his face, not jaded like usual but contorted in a scowl. The strain at the junction of his jaw wasn’t a new sight, nor were the taut tendons of his neck.

Sometimes, he’d fall asleep on the couch in your office; your head on his shoulder or cradled in his lap. You’d wake up then, at the sound of teeth grinding. Bruxism in his sleep, jagged sounds that made your hair stand on end. Gingerly, you used to lift your hands and press the tips of your fingers at his jaw hinge, massaging the spot until he stopped.

You wished you could do it now.

"I’m sorry," you replied calmly, trying to quell his spirits and failing spectacularly.

He took hasty steps around the room, pacing like a lunatic. You didn’t have the guts to walk closer to stop him, not yet. What left his lips next, though, made you want to crumble to the floor like a house of cards.

“Leaving ‘cause I told you all tha’?” he snapped, “’cause you can’t handle another broken case to add to your file?”

Fear of approaching him left your body like steam from a cup, indeed that’s what you did. As he relentlessly paced around the cramped space of a military-issued room, you stopped him with a gentle hand on his bicep.

He froze and yanked his arm away. Your palm like blistering coal against his skin.

You knew he was as hulking as they come, you knew he was built like a goddamned brick house, and you knew he towered over you (he towered over most, in your defense). Yet, nothing could have prepared you for the way he languidly turned to face you, looking down. You craned your neck back, otherwise your eyes would only meet his collarbones, peeking through the loose black tee he was wearing – casual comfort clothes he wore to sleep at night, those few times he did.

"Never think that,” you stated, stressing the adverb, “Never think that.”

You swallowed thickly, yet your eyes never wavered, "I – It’s complicated,” but it truly wasn’t.

Your expression softened, but you knew it would do little to smother the flames in his eyes, ready to flatten the entirety of the room.

"After Johnny, I couldn’t anymore,” you whispered, “I can’t, Simon.”

The defeated tone of yours had the bite of a skillfully honed blade. It cracked his ribcage open and stabbed the heart he didn't think he owned anymore.

He murmured then, eyes narrowed, “The fuck you mean you can’t?”

Your mouth curled down and you rolled your lips between your teeth. The tip of your tongue soothed a crack in the skin.

"I'm scared," you wheezed as if the words were difficult to utter. Scared of loss, scared of death, scared of pain, scared of scars, both physical and mental. Scared of the future, scared of your past and his, scared it would haunt you until you'd turn cold and stiff - all the people you've killed and those who survived. Fear, in its unfettered, most gut-wrenching form.

He tongued his cheek, somewhat irritated by the statement. He let the words stick like molasses to his eardrums, muffling each sound. Simon wasn’t a stranger to fear; he walked with it hand-in-hand, a faithful companion that never left his shadow. Yet, he hated that you were feeling it because in his mind you didn't deserve it.

He would have liked to tell you that, but words always failed him when he needed them the most.

"Thought you’d have grown thick skin by now," his voice was low, controlled, and deadly. Meant to hurt, meant not to graze but to cut. It was all he knew, how to hurt – especially when he was aching as well.

You looked up at him through the furrow of your brows, brief anger flashing in your eyes. You set it aside, instead opting to cast your gaze sideways. You cupped your elbows in a sort of self-reassuring hug, thumbs indenting in the flesh of your biceps.

"I wish I did,” you murmured, “Can’t grow that type of skin, it seems.”

He wanted to rebuild the cocoon he had so carefully crafted around you. He wanted to go back being the shield that kept you from any harm. The chainmail that prevented each stab.

He wanted to be that skin you didn’t seem to grow, like a reptile losing its inborn ability to replenish its flesh.

Johnny’s passing took his cold heart and thrashed it. The bond he deepened with you afterwards made it regrow. He wondered, when he'd look at you during those days, as you leeched your brain dry over blueprints and notes, if you were aware of it.

You scared him most delightfully, and he thought whether his heart should reveal itself to be more than a muscle, or a fist covered in blood.

That's why the resentful look in your eyes felt like fresh water on the fire in his chest. How could he let you drain yourself dry over this, when you had been the only light the moment his world blew out each candle.

So, his anger took the backseat, and he sighed. Drawn-out, long, and tortuous.

“Where you goin’, then?” he said, softer.

You felt it, the sorrow of his tone. It made your head swivel in his direction. You blinked, opened your mouth to answer, and hesitated.

“Bury,” you breathed, “Bury St. Edmunds.”

His eyes narrowed in thought: you could almost see the map of England he had cast in front of him reflected in his pupils.

“’s about a four-hour drive from here," his voice trailed off.

"Yeah," you mused, slightly confused by the abrupt switch in his behavior. But you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, were you?

Instead, your hands slid up your arms soothingly, "Found a nice flat there, in the city center.”

You shrugged, trying to act as if it wasn’t a big deal, although Simon could tell it was by the way your eyes twinkled at the mention. Something new, something fresh that promised a new beginning, away from bloodshed and loss, closer to warmth and familiarity.

Closer to home.

"It’s nice. It has a small balcony that faces the cathedral,” you went on, sounding almost bashful, “Was thinkin’ about growing my own herbs? Like basil, and such.”

He didn’t reply or move. Barely breathed.

Just stared.

Stared at the soft expression on your face, at the way your lashes framed your eyes. Stared at the way your lip trembled, ever so slightly, as you blabbered about such ordinary things like balconies, and churches and bloody herbs.

He could already picture you with dirt under your bitten fingernails as you dug into brown, ceramic vases, refusing to wear gardening gloves.

He could hear your bare feet padding against the hardwood floor as you went on to brew your tea. Or the squeaking sound of the cushions of a leather couch as you dropped on it, without a care in the world, holding a book by its spine.

You truly disarmed him in that simplicity – a dress he realized he would’ve loved to see you wear more often.

You seemed unaware of the subtle awe that glinted in his pupils, since you went on to add how the flat had a guest room – although it completely flew over his thick head. What did reach his eardrums, though, was what you said next, "And it has two keys."

He snapped out of his reverie and swallowed.

"Two keys," he echoed.

His willpower felt as thin as an ice slab under the blistering sun. It melted pitifully and turned into a warm puddle in his chest. Nothing could’ve stopped him as his feet marched to you, closing both physical and emotional gaps.

He palmed your cheek and whispered with certain hoarseness in his voice, "Two damn keys.”

Your heart swelled three times its size. You swore you felt the indents left against it by each rib. Leaning your cheek against his hand, like you’d done many nights before, the most subtle of smiles graced your features.

Simon vowed he’d fight tooth and nail to see it grow.

You whispered, then, "If you want, you can just drive those four hours 'n pop in. I'll make you a cuppa, maybe take you for a tour around Bury.”

His eyes softened – crinkles at the corners and brows twitching in the middle.

"Four fuckin' hours for a cuppa and a tour,” he mumbled, "What are you, the Queen of England?"

You huffed a chuckle, pretending to find his sarcasm annoying by adding a roll of your eyes. Truthfully, you’d pay good fucking money to hear it daily.

"I'm gonna need the spare key, though" he whispered, his thumb brushed your cheek reverently.

You lifted your hand to trace his often-cracked knuckles with the pads of your fingers, “Not a spare key – your key.”

Simon swallowed thickly again. He ran his tongue over his teeth, clamping his jaw shut. His gaze hardened, his pupils danced about your face, awfully concentrated, as if he were refraining from doing something.

His sudden silence made your resolve waver. You removed your hand from the back of his, curling your fingers as if you were touching some hot surface. It stayed there, furled in a loose fist in the space between your chests.

“You could come and spend your leaves there," you whispered tentatively, "Leave your things at my flat, so each time you come over they're already there."

It took all your courage to speak, but you knew the die had been cast already. The only thing left for you to do was to simply go for it and take the damage, or leave victorious.

"Until it's full of you,” you released a shaky breath, “Until it's your little flat, too."

Simon’s breath suddenly shortened. He'd never felt at home, not even when he was supposed to have one. He'd come close to it when his brother got clean and managed to build a family for himself, or when the task force was tight-knit, with Johnny chatting his ear off with his incomprehensible Scottish lilt. But it was never his.

This, though.

He’d be damned if he let it slip through the cracks of his fingers.

"Until it's our flat," he breathed.

His other hand reached out as well, and he placed it on your opposite cheek, "Until it’s our little flat.”

You’d be lying if you said those weren’t words you had been reciting in your head ever since you put in your retirement request. Ever since you started looking for a flat that could host two people instead of one.

Indeed, you’d naively thought that the moment they would be uttered (if ever) you would have been ready for them. But you weren't, not at all – they felt like a gut punch.

You had to bite your lip to repress tears that had treacherously made their way into your eyes, now glossy and a little wide. To think that you were able, somehow, to give him some reprieve from a life that seemed to not want him, gave you incommensurable joy.

"Our home," you croaked.

"Our home," he echoed languidly, with a thick voice, as if it hurt to speak, "Our bed. And our bloody balcony on the cathedral, and our sofa, our kitchen, and – “

He paused. Swallowed, seemingly torn. Words seemed to fail him again, but he didn’t let them – not this time. He’d fight through the fear of it all being the umpteenth joke life was taunting him with. Not you, never you – his one good hand in a lifetime of poor draws.

"And every – fucking – thing in between."

You chuckled. It’s wet with tears and disbelief.

Oh, to see him thrive in anticipation for something, instead of dreading what life has in store for him.

Your hand left the gentle grip it had on his knuckles, and you cupped his face as well – mimicking how he was holding yours.

"Every," you whispered, "Bloody, fucking thing," and nudged your nose with his, "In between."

Your lips landed on his instantly.

It was stupidly clumsy at first because you were both torn in half between what felt good and what was right. His tongue slipped between your lips as soon as you parted them for air; your teeth clacked together. You chuckled against his lips; he drank it like an oasis. His life parched of what you could give him, what you were giving him.

It took him a moment to get used to the sensation, to adjust to you. But when he finally did, he kissed you back ravenously, nothing shy from desperate. He craved your touch so fiercely. A push and pull of wandering hands, tangled in your hair and yours in his.

You were finally back where he wanted you, in the cocoon he crafted just for you, made with his flesh. He held you to his chest as if his ribcage could open and like bony fingers wrap around you and keep you safe.

He placed his foot between your legs, pushing them open. You complied when he gently nudged your knee so you’d fall back against the mattress.

Eventually, your lips parted, yielding to his, to a shared breath.

You were positively flushed, breathless, and limp in his grasp. He thought he'd never seen anything this breathtaking.

You smiled, all teeth and creases at the corners of your eyes, cheeks tipped pink as they pushed against your eyes – little crescents he’d look at for days on end.

Simon was left a little dumbfounded, though, when you squirmed under his weight to extend an arm. He followed it with his eyes and saw your hand struggling to fumble with the drawer of your nightstand. You pulled out a key and held it in the space between your faces.

"Your key," you whispered bashfully, as if unaware that the mere sight sent Simon's heart into arrhythmia.

You placed a soft peck to his lips, "To our home."

Simon let out a staggered exhale. He wrapped his fingers around the key, closed his fist around it.

A symbol of a new beginning, one that Simon finally didn’t dread. Something good rippling through his life like fresh water, even amidst the mud of shared grief and loss.

We're good people,

And we both deserve peace.

"To our home," he whispered back, "To our home."

And let breath be air,

And love the things I know might disappear.

And the last light of the sun

I let it slow me down

I'll crawl where everybody runs.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #ghost x reader #soft simon riley

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