#well there's one way to fix that... ◉⁠‿⁠◉

[beloveds-embrace]

(dark poly 141 x single pregnant reader, very rushed)

You don’t know when they first appeared in your life. Maybe it was the day at the grocery store when your feet ached, your belly heavy with the weight of your unborn child, and a stranger- a man too broad, too still, lingering in the same aisle as you- offered to load your bags into the car. Maybe it was when you were late getting home from work, the weight of exhaustion pulling at your limbs, and a burly man with sharp, blue eyes and a thick Scottish brogue insisted on walking you to your door, just to “make sure ye got in safe, bonnie.”

Or maybe it was before that, when your landlord suddenly decided not to raise the rent, when the lights in your apartment stopped flickering despite you never calling maintenance.

You don’t know when it started.

But by the time you notice them, it’s too late.

They come in pieces, never all at once. Maybe that’s why your focus never quite catches them when it should’ve.

Johnny is the easiest to trust. He’s warm, friendly, a constant presence that doesn’t seem out of place- until you look back and realize you don’t remember ever properly speaking to him for the first time. He’s always just there, standing behind you in line at the pharmacy, offering to carry your bags when you struggle. He calls you “bonnie” and clicks his tongue when he sees the exhaustion on your face.

“You’re pushin’ yourself too hard, lass.” His voice is teasing, but there’s something firm beneath it, much like his hands on your shoulders. “Should be restin’.”

Then there’s Kyle. He’s the one who keeps showing up at the diner you work at, at first just another regular, but then a fixture in your days. He leaves tips that are too big and stays long after he’s finished his food, asking you questions- small, harmless things.

“How far along are you?”

“Got any family around?”

“You shouldn’t be on your feet all day. You got someone looking after you, love?”

There’s concern in his voice. It feels nice, being cared for, so you don’t let yourself worry about why he asks so many questions.

But you don’t notice the way his eyes track you when you move. The way he listens too closely, storing away every detail you give him.

Simon is a shadow. A presence you feel but never see too clearly. When your apartment door’s lock sticks one night, it’s mysteriously fixed by morning. When your feet swell too much for your shoes, a new, comfortable pair appears in a package at your door- no return address. When you wake up in the middle of the night, you think you hear movement outside your window, but when you check, there’s nothing there.

He introduces himself to you once, silently joining your side when a group of young men had attempted to follow you. You’d been to grateful to consider that he had been following you, as well. And thus, that had been your first meeting as far as you were aware.

And then there’s John. He comes last, when you’re already too exhausted to question why they’re all suddenly in your life.

“You shouldn’t be working like this,” he tells you one night when he shows up at the diner, sitting in your section like he belongs there. He watches you, steady and unshakable, like he’s waiting for you to break. “Not in your condition.”

“My condition?” you scoff, but you’re too tired to be indignant.

“You’re pregnant,” he says simply. “You need to rest.”

You want to rest.

But there’s rent to pay. Bills. A baby coming soon, and no one else to help.

Except, suddenly, there is someone. Maybe more than one person, even if you don’t notice the changes at first because they start so small.

Johnny shows up when you’re struggling with your bags, even when you don’t remember telling him where you’d be. Kyle appears at your work just when you need an extra hand. John tells you he has “connections” when your hours get cut and suddenly, your landlord is more lenient about late payments.

When your doctor’s office calls to confirm your next prenatal appointment, the receptionist mentions your “husband” already checked in about your test results.

You don’t have a husband.

But when you try to ask for details, the woman on the phone just laughs. “Oh, don’t worry- he said everything’s fine. Had a lovely Mancunian accent! You’ve got yourself quite a lovely man, mrs.”

You never get a name, and you don’t know what to do about your suspicions.

And you don’t notice the cameras.

Not when Johnny pulls you into a hug, his hands lingering a little too long on your back. Not when Kyle helps you rearrange your furniture, brushing his fingers against the edges of your walls. Not when John “fixes” your heater, or when Simon sits silently in the corner after he’s given you a teddy bear for your little bean, its eyes beady and gleaming.

But they’re there. Tiny, black dots tucked into the corners of your home. A microphone nestled near the nightstand. A wire running under the couch.

They see you.

They always see you.

You wake up one night to the sound of your apartment door unlocking.

Fear grips you instantly, but before you can move, a voice rumbles in the darkness.

“Shh. It’s just me.”

John. How-?

Your heart is pounding, but he sounds calm. Steady. You hear the door click shut, hear his boots move across your floor, even when you wheeze in fear and press your back against the headboard of your bed.

“You forgot to lock up again.” He says, a quiet reprimand. He was always telling you to do that, but-

“I- I don’t think I did-“

“You did,” he assures you. “Anyone could’ve walked in.”

Like him.

There’s a shift in the air, something heavy settling between you. You swallow hard, pressing a hand to your belly, eyes teary from fright even if he is calm.

John exhales softly, and his face softens. Then, a warm hand rests over yours, heavy and possessive.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmurs. “Let us take care of you.”

The words settle into you like a brand, curling around your ribs.

You should say no. Demand what the fuck is going on, why is he here, why them-

But you’re too tired. Too scared.

And his hand is so steady.

[lizardho]

Before I knew I was bisexual I was just insanely dramatic and weird around guys I liked. I had a crush on this guy in my ward - he was older than me, he played bagpipes and had a cheerful dog and an old Volkswagen bus that he worked on all the time. He also had nice scruff and unnaturally attractive hands and a good sense of humor, so I was like FULLY smitten.

I talked about him a lot and about how he was just so dang COOL, dang it, because he was so frickin’ cool. And I really liked him. I thought he was funny and smart and interesting and cool and fascinating and a bunch of other weird feelings I barely had the attention span to think about (I think my ADHD may have prevented me from coming out for a while tbh).

One day, I’m like 14-15, his dad is called to be my Sunday School teacher. His dad is this ex-military hardass with a chip on his shoulder for absolutely no reason and unattainable standards for his children. He spent most of Sunday School talking shit about his eldest boy and how he was rebellious and didn’t listen to him and how that was going to make him a bad adult and a bad son forever. How his son was too lazy and unmotivated to be successful because he didn’t listen to his advice on how to read the scriptures. He complained about how our generation was too weak to do things right and that our generation would surely be the one that brought the world’s downfall because of our laziness and sin.

And like, first of all, that guy can already go fuck himself for that. To clarify, that’s already stupid. BUT. He was talking about the man I had uncomfortable dreams about at least once a month. I couldn’t stand it. I’d get so mad I’d go home shaking sometimes because how fucking DARE he insult his hardworking stunning son by calling him lazy? For not reading the Bible the way his dad wants? When he’s already spending his time learning bagpipes? And fixing cars? And being cool? And cute? Who the fuck even cares if he uses the footnotes in the Book of Mormon? Who gives a rotten rat’s ass if he doesn’t use the scripture study manual his dad uses? He’s so cool he doesn’t even need it? So fuck off?

And eventually I got fucking Sick Of It and decided to mutiny. And by mutiny, I mean skip class. I’d just not go. And after a bit, adults started noticing and bugging me about it. At first, this was put off by small talk and excuses, but as my absence from Sunday School became more well-known, my excuses began to be rejected.

“Oh, Lizard, why aren’t you in class?” Uhm idk because my Sunday School teacher is mean to his kid and that makes me so mad wtf do you want from me? 🫠🤔

“Where��s your class, I’ll go with you!” Oh no ty I’d rather peel my own eyes than have my taste in men critiqued tyty 🩷

“Lizard, you should go to class, I’m sure they miss you!” And I miss the innocent days where my stomach didn’t hurt when a cool boy I knew was being belittled but unfortunately for us both those days are LONG gone and all that’s left is a budding psychosexual clusterfuck that will render me almost fully incapable of functioning for the better part of a decade so Bye Bye, sister Smith 🙂‍↕️

It had gotten to the point that ward leadership was involved. I was being approached by members of the Young Men’s presidency and the Bishopric to try and make me to back to class. They were telling me God had told them to find me and instruct me on my rebelliousness. This is where I implemented my secret weapon - women. Mormons are weird as hell about a lot of things, but especially about women. And I was GREAT with women. So to combat the leadership’s attention, I started helping women.

Our ward had a lot of new moms with babies who were, as babies tend to be, fussy. But for Mormon women the church is often their only social outlet, so they try to power through as long as they can even if it means enduring the exhausting ordeal of taking care of a fussy baby at church.

For what it’s worth, I have a lot of sway with babies. I got baby street cred. Me and babies have a rapport. I have always known this. I have always loved this. And in this crucial gay time in my faggot life my baby mind powers came in clutch - Every time I saw a member of the bishopric getting close, or a young men’s leader giving me side-eye, I’d start walking slowly towards class, passing by relief society. I’d wait until a mom’s baby had gotten too fussy and needed to leave the room, and I’d swoop in like a knight. “Oh, don’t you worry sister, I’ll bounce him a bit. You go back and hang out with your friends in class. You deserve a break.”

If it was a diaper change or something they’d tell me no. But if it was just some good old-fashioned baby fusses, I mean, they’d be moved almost to tears. They just got their social time back AND a free babysitter who is renowned as the Baby Whisperer. And because I was holding a baby as a favor for someone else, I of course could not reasonably be bothered to return to class.

So just like that, I was out of everyone’s sights. This went on for about a month before the straw that broke the camel’s back, which was that without my class participation the classes were quiet and awkward. I’d often take the brunt of Sunday school lectures by answering questions impulsively and over explaining myself enough that the clock could run out without anyone needing to do or say much. My absence meant everyone else was getting hit with the full unpleasantness of this guy’s bullshit. And so slowly, one-by-one, I had a group of about 8 kids on baby-holding duty. These new moms were so overjoyed, they and their husbands were both so actively in our corner that now chastising us was untenable. Now we had bargaining power. So the Bishopric approached us, confused beyond confused and uncomfortable beyond uncomfortable, and said,

“What’s it gonna take to get you back to class?”

The POWER I possessed in that moment was addictive. By being kind to the women of the ward and ignoring the Mormon de facto Rule of Law of following rules en-masse so the rule breakers feel left out, there were now so many people breaking ranks that we had effectively enacted a church boy labor strike. And they crumbled so fast it was almost like we had swayed God himself to our cause.

“I want brother assholedad gone. He sucks at teaching.”

I didn’t even have to say it. One of my rebels said it for me. I just nodded sagely and said “Yes, his class is not edifying. It’s better to not go and hold babies.”

And just like that, with a snap of my limp-wristed, Christ-wounding, bottom-brained fingers my faggot will was enacted. God’s revelation that brother shitdad was his chosen Sunday school teacher flipped on a dime. Suddenly brother shitdad was asked to be an usher and the fun dad of another one of my crushes was called in to teach us. I still stayed to hold babies a lot, but the rest of the class returned and all was well again.

Although I didn’t recognize it then, I think that was a formative moment for me in a lot of ways. I learned that being really persistently annoying will get me what I want from authority eventually. I learned that God’s will can be swayed by going in strike. I learned that ignoring men’s made up authority forces them to level with you as a person. I learned that caring for women, especially vulnerable women, can make a whole world happier. I learned that letting women rest can help them feel more love for the things that matter in their life. I learned that social bonds make everyone stronger and happier. And I learned that loving others in a gay way can change the world.

Be gayer. Read Terry Pratchett. I love y’all 💕

[reignpage]

♛ Sukuna in Wonderland ♛

"W e ' r e a l l m a d h e r e"

Synopsis: a quest to search for a cursed item in a new world isn't all sunshine and rainbows — you're learning that the hard way. you just want to find what you need to find and get out of here asap. but the mystical universe must hate you because you've been paired with the biggest pain your ass: the one person that can show you up on a test or experiment. well, you won't let him get his way this time. But one question...why is everything in this place freaky? Warnings: 18+ porn with plot, fantasy au, Hogwarts-esque magic system, academic rival!sukuna, mixed with some comedy (there's a lot of self-awareness here), forced proximity, hate sex, exhibitionism, degradation, fingering, cunnilingus, blowjob, 69, pussy inspection, personification of the puss puss, dumbification, unprotected sex, creampie, masturbation, voyeurism, sex whilst inebriated - dubcon, doggy, cockwarming, slight food play, anal sex, barely proofread Word Count: 17.2k

“Walk faster,” he spits. 

You roll your eyes.

There is nothing worse than being stuck with Ryomen Sukuna for an inter-dimensional quest. Truly. 

When Professor Yaga had breached the news to you, in his office, your jaw dropped. There was absolutely no conceivable way your Intro to Exploration partner is Sukuna. The man is a monster. Truly. He stole your position on Advanced Illusions by burning your application paper, he tripped you up on the Grand Foyer, humiliating you in front of all your peers, and he calls you ‘princess’ in lieu of your actual name. 

He’s the worst. 

“Y/n, he’s your partner and that’s that,” the Professor said. 

Spluttering, you tried to reason with him. “B-but sir! I’ve been looking forward to this trip the whole year — no, all my life! I worked so hard to accumulate enough points on my Exploration licence. I need someone I can trust. Someone who won’t get in the way.”

Your pleadings were falling into deaf ears. The Professor merely sighed and conjured a journal. It fell onto the wooden desk with a mocking thump. 

“Your petty rivalry ceases here.” Leaning forward on his elbows, he fixed you a steady glare. It was so serious, so insistent, you zipped your lips tight. 

“Underland is a Grade A dimension. A place unlike any other. Everything works differently there, and you will indubitably face tasks so dangerous you will either give up your hopes of studying Exploration altogether or you will emerge as the greatest Exploration pupil I have ever had the pleasure of teaching. But all of that depends on whether you can rise to the occasion with the most difficult of partners.”

“B-but…”

That was nice to hear and all. However, you weren’t convinced. Sure, you had been sure to earn enough points to take on the advanced quests because they looked great on applications, but the ‘Underland’ place didn’t sound like anything special. In fact, when you and the others in your class had been briefed by the students in the year above who had gone through the same trial, you didn’t hear any talks about Underland.

You were worried that the dimension you’ve been assigned to was a dud. Just great. 

Meanwhile, Sukuna to your left was more interested in messing with some first year he had spotted, through the window, crossing the meadow. He was using a basic incantation to make the papers fly out of his satchel and scattering it all over the grass. 

Typical. 

When he sensed your judgmental gaze, he leisurely looked back at you, hooded eyes unimpressed even as he flicks his finger around, ensuring those papers continue to flutter in the air and out of the grasp of that poor first year. And then he raised his brow in challenge and drawled, “See something you like, princess?”

You didn’t dare look at him the whole two hours you were there. 

“As you know very well, much is riding on you providing a great performance and returning with the enchanted item. If you want to do a master’s on Exploration and then go on to become an Explorer of the Great Beyond, you will do your best to put aside your petty grievances with Mr. Ryomen, yes?”

Dejected, you nodded reluctantly. 

“Now, please, exert your energy on seeing through this quest. As you know, grades are awarded based on speed and efficiency, among other things. So do be sure to spend less time arguing with your partner and more time seeking out your assigned item. What was it again?”

In a sullen tone, you answered, “A cursed finger.”

“Ah, yes. An ancient and powerful relic. That was my assigned item many, many years ago now. And the faculty have, once again, gone through great lengths to ensure it’s been carefully hidden in Underland to really challenge our top students, so you’ll have your work cut out for you,” he remarked humorously. 

“Great.”

Seemingly pleased enough, the journal flew into the air, whizzing across the room and out the door. Your time was up, and your fate was decided. 

Halfway out of the door, Professor Yaga gave one last musing. “As wonderful as it is to follow instructions to the letter, I do hope Mr. Ryomen’s innovative thinking will rub off on you, just as your discipline will rub off on him. Let it not be wishful thinking, y/n.”

And now here you are. 

Walking through some forest in a new world, wondering where the hell the portal had placed you. From the description the Student Advisors had given you, Underland was much more colourful and interesting than this. Where are the talking animals and the sentient inanimate objects?

“Are we in the right place?” You ask. 

It’s been quite some time now and you’re ashamed to admit that your calves are burning ever so slightly; you ought to exercise more. On the other hand, Sukuna walks ahead of you, hands shoved in his pockets, and not looking the least bit exhausted. It’s as if you’re on two different journeys — you’re trekking somewhere dangerous, mysterious, a place that’s pushing your body to its limits (more or less), and the arrogant dick is taking a lovely stroll down Genesis Park. 

He doesn’t answer your question. Of course not. Because why would he, the great king that he is, bother talking to you?

Prick. 

“Oh!”

Something furry brushes up against your calf. Two sets of eyes follow it. 

“Is that a fucking rat?”

Giving him a deadpan look, you shove him to the side to run after the strange creature, suddenly invigorated. “You’re such an annoying asshole. Hurry up. It might lead us to Underland.”

It is certainly unlike any animal you’ve seen back home. But, having studied all the known forms animals can take across the expansive universe, you aren’t distressed in the slightest to come across such a well-dressed little fella. 

“Excuse me, sir?”

Jogging beside you, your partner scoffs. “‘Excuse me, sir?’ Seriously?”

Merlin, why did it have to be him? 

The rabbit doesn’t slow down. Even as the two of you have caught up right behind him, weaving and meandering around trees and dodging logs and fallen branches. Instead, the little thing continues ahead, peering occasionally at a pocket-watch and muttering, ‘Oh, dear. Oh, dear,’ repeatedly under its breath. 

“Damn. That is one stressed out rat.”

Rolling your eyes once more, you hiss, “It’s a rabbit, Sukuna. Stop fucking around. Try to catch its attention so we can ask it for directions.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re faster.” To punctuate your point, you pant. It’s a little embarrassing to be out of breath already, but in your defence, you’ve never had the time to join athletic clubs. 

Throwing you a look of judgement, likely because of your sweaty state, he jogs a little faster and manages to pick up the rabbit by its waistcoat. It dangles in the air making a face of complete alarm, and dare you say, insult. Sukuna only returns a look of revulsion. Clearly not a fan of animals. Great. 

“How dare you! Put me down at once.”

Snorting, your partner shakes him around. “Nah. Not until you tell us how to get to Underland.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” the rat— the rabbit mutters. It continues to check its watch in between looking around frantically and attempting to wriggle out of its captor’s grip with no such luck. “Let me go. I cannot be late! The Duchess needs her gloves! Oh! And her fan. Oh, dear. Oh, dear!”

Sukuna fixes you a stare of amusement and says with a smirk, “You didn’t happen to bring dried serenitea powder, did you? ‘Cause this guy could really use some.”

With your lungs full of air once more, you attempt to get somewhere with the local. It’s important that you don’t disrupt the system in any of the places you visit. That’s Section two, Article A of the Harmonious Entry Act. Of course, interacting with the world is permitted but explorers must be respectful at all times. The pink haired guy clearly didn’t get the memo. 

“Hi, I’m Y/n. We’re truly sorry to trouble you. But we really do need directions to Underland so if you could point the way, then we can all go our separate ways.”

The rabbit seems to like you better because he stops wriggling and says, “Oh! I suspect we are heading to the same place. Although we don’t really call it Underland— Oh, never mind. I don’t have time to discuss this any longer. Please put me down and follow me. We must go at once!”

And so, you and your quest partner run with your new friend through the forest and to a large tree. He doesn’t say anything else to you, he simply tumbles faster and adjusts his waistcoat sporadically, long ears twitching in an adorable way. At the tree, there’s a hole. And before you can process what was happening, he’s running inside without so much as a look back. 

“Hey! Wait!”

He doesn’t.

And he’s gone.

The hole is quite big. It’s just about big enough for Sukuna to fit through if he crawls but judging by the look on his face, he’s not exactly eager to get his clothes dirty so soon into the trip. You’re both wearing your uniforms — he wears a white shirt, unbuttoned at the top, of course, with a tie and under a lilac jumper, with the deep purple St. Eden blazer hanging off his shoulders. You wear the same on top but with a purple, pink and cream tartan skirt whereas he has on plain cream trousers. 

Being of standard practice, it’s always been important to proudly represent St. Eden on every school sanctioned trip out of its grounds. Sure, it might be wasted on people from worlds that don’t know of St. Eden’s existence, or of any planes of reality beyond their own, but the sentiment is still quite nice. 

You are a student of the finest academy of mystical arts there ever was and there ever will be. The uniform reflects that, which is why you’re just as unenthusiastic about dirtying your clothes as Sukuna is, but you know quite a few enchantments you can use to rid yourself of the inevitable mess; returning to Genesis all filthy would be sufficiently humiliating, after all. 

“Ladies first.” Gulping, you ignore his challenging look, and steel yourself. This is what it means to be an explorer: being dauntless. Anything for the quest, for your dreams and ambitions. 

“Just don’t look up my skirt,” you mutter. 

He scoffs. “Get over yourself. Actually, I’ll go first. Your arrogance is so confounding, I’m irritated.”

If there’s danger in the hole, better he faces it first, you think. So, you don’t fight him on that.

Inside, it’s just as you suspected: a long, hollow tunnel, all dark and seemingly endless. Hearing Sukuna grumble under his breath is quite entertaining, you have to admit. The man was always angry. Even when he was with his friends walking down the hallways, eating in the dining hall, or loitering in the meadows, he was always frowning as if the world had done him some great injustice. 

The only times you ever saw him smile were when he was tormenting someone, whether it be a student, a teacher, or you. 

“Hey, there’s a fucking hole in a hole, watch—“

Shit. 

You bumped your head against his ass. He disappears down a sudden dip in the tunnel. A hole within a hole, just as he said. You grimace, waiting for that telltale thud to echo. It doesn’t. Actually, the only thing you hear is an elongated, ‘you fucking cunt.’

Whoops. 

Trying to stifle your laughter, you fall in headfirst, muttering an enchantment to cushion your fall. Hopefully — or not, either is fine — Sukuna remembered to do the same. 

Oddly, you realise, either this well of sorts is very deep or you’re falling very slowly. Because you find plenty of time to look around your surroundings even with your clothes flying around and you have to hold your skirt down, praying he’s too far down to look up and see something he shouldn’t. The sides of the well are filled with cupboards and bookshelves, there are maps and pictures hung upon pegs. You swear you even see a jar labelled ‘ORANGE MARMALADE’ but it’s empty. 

What is going on?

Who could have possibly hung those up? And why? Was there a larger purpose to it all? It surely can’t be for tourists if none of the displayed items are for sale. There’s no dust you can see so this passage must be used often, just as those books are. 

How big is this planet? Is it small enough to fall right through and end up in an infinite void? No, surely, it’ll get hotter as you near the core, right? You can always drink a protection tonic from your enchanted satchel to be sure, but you don’t want to waste resources. 

You couldn’t find anything about this place in the textbooks. No history, no accounts from other explorers, and certainly nothing about how to actually get into Underland.

Or maybe this isn’t a way in at all!

Maybe the rabbit was so peeved about the indignation he suffered at the hands of Sukuna that he tricked you both. Are people of this land so petty? 

You’ve heard of places where people didn’t lie or harm each other. Why couldn’t Underland be such a place?

Down, down, down you go. There’s nothing else to do but ponder all possibilities. It’s likely you’ve failed the task already. You were rude to a local and now you’re being punished. It’s his fault. It’s always his fault. He takes everything from you. He’s even taken this from you. 

“Oh!”

You fall on a huge heap of sticks and dry leaves. The fall is over. Thankfully the enchantment worked well, and you aren’t the least bit hurt. Sukuna stands above you, brushing leaves from his clothes, even more pissed than before. He glares at you. 

“Thanks for literally kissing my ass. Had a great time falling, by the way.” 

Ignoring him, you look around the place. The rabbit’s no longer anywhere to be seen. And you’ve found yourself in a low hall, lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the ceiling. It reminds you somewhat of the halls of St. Eden. There are doors all-round the hall and when you begin muttering a door-opening spell, you’re interrupted by a scoff. 

“Don’t bother. I already checked. They’re all locked.”

“Did you check that, though?”

He follows your pointing finger to a three-legged table at the end of the hallway. Upon closer inspection, you see it’s made of solid glass and there’s nothing on it except a tiny, golden key. Flicking a finger, you lift the key up and attempt to slot it into every lock but to no avail. They were either too large or too small.

“That wasn’t there before” Sukuna asserts, still slightly annoyed. “Neither was that.”

There, a couple metres away, is a curtain, which you agree, wasn’t there before. You know by the tilt of his head that he thinks this place is weird. You’re inclined to agree. Behind the curtain is a door and the key slots in perfectly. You share a smile with him, which drops barely even a second later. He clears his throat. 

Kneeling on the floor, you look through that small door and see a garden. It’s lovely with beds of bright flowers and fountains. It’s not as great as any green space in Genesis but it’s better than this miserable dark hall. 

Sighing, you stand up. “We can’t fit through that. Do you remember any enlargement spells? I didn’t bring a biggening tonic ‘cause the Student Advisors didn’t say to.”

He fixes you a blank stare. Oh, right. He’s not even carrying anything with him. Classic. 

What was he even thinking venturing to a foreign place without any of the recommended items? Not a vial of invisibility, a language-adapting elixir, Grimoire of Spells All Travellers Need Volume I to VI, not even a bottle of water. He’s useless. And to think Professor Yaga genuinely believed he has something to teach you. Please. 

“Quit judging me, prissy princess. I don’t need textbooks. Everything I need is in my head. And in any case, look. There’s something on the table. And it wasn’t there before. What kind of fucked up magic system do they have here? Shit’s just appearing out of nowhere for no goddamn reason.” 

You pay his grumbling no mind.

On the table, is a little bottle. Around its neck is a paper label with the words ‘DRINK ME’ written quite beautifully. And on the back, in small writing, appears to be instructions. “It says, ‘To get out, drink this. Share with your companion.’”

“Yeah, that ain’t happening. If I get food poisoning, I’m gonna kill everyone here.”

Hissing, you argue, “That’s not funny, Sukuna. We have no choice since you didn’t bring anything.”

“Well, then, by all means, go fucking ahead.”

The Explorer’s Guide to Otherworldly Travel advises against consuming food from unfamiliar places. One, they may not sit well in your stomachs, and two, they could be poisoned; not all places deal well with foreign interference. 

Well, anyways, down the hatch it goes.

“Woah, don’t actually drink it, idiot,” he chastises you, but it’s too late. In one pour, it’s in your mouth. All of it. Your eyes are wide. You hadn’t meant to drink the whole thing. Thank Merlin you didn’t swallow immediately. “Good going, idiot. Now what?”

Muffled, you make sounds of panic and attempt to say through a mouthful of the mysterious drink, “Quick. Do something.”

All you see is an eye roll and a frustrated brush of his hair before he smashes his face to yours. You’re taken aback by the feel of his firm hand gripping the back of your head, keeping you still, and even more shocked by the softness of his lips. That softness disappears instantly, however, when his tongue plunges inside your mouth and the drink pools from yours to his. 

He pulls away, swallowing, and sees the wideness of your eyes. Grunting, he mutters something to himself before you feel his tongue lick up the errant drop of juice on your chin. 

Your lips tingle. And then they stop when he hastily wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his blazer. 

The drink doesn’t burn and you’re not feeling odd. It tastes quite nice, actually. Like a mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast. Oddly, you want more. 

“Fuck.”

You look up at Sukuna. And you blink. The hall had grown. The table is metres tall and the door to the garden is suddenly big enough to get through. No, wait. You’re smaller. So is he. 

You’ve shrunk. 

“This is weird as hell.”

Sukuna suddenly laughs. And it’s a sound you’re completely repulsed by. You’ve only ever heard him laugh like that when he was making someone’s life miserable, and so to hear it in any other context is off-putting. Especially as your lips continue to tingle.

Silently, you make a note to yourself — drinks in Underland can resemble potions in Genesis, where they have the ability to transform the body into something else. You do wonder, however, how things appear out of nowhere with seemingly no conjurer in sight. Energy is transferred and controlled; it doesn’t have a mind of its own. This place is growing curiouser and curiouser by the minute.

Now, just to get out of this place. 

“Shit. The key.”

Shooting you a mocking look, your quest partner walks ahead to the door and fishes out something from his pocket. “Relax. Wasn’t dumb enough not to hold onto it. Come on. We gotta find that damn finger. And the faster the better. I’m already growing tired of this damn place.”

And out of the darkness you left. 

——————

“We’re lost.”

“Yeah, no fucking kidding. This place’s all turned around.”

For the past hour, you two had been wandering around yet another forest searching for —well, anything. And nothing is what you’ve stumbled upon. As interesting as the different coloured leaves are, you can’t spend your time appreciating the forage. 

With every passing moment you sense Sukuna getting more and more irritated. He walks a brisk pace ahead of you, and all your attempts to catch up and stroll beside him are ignored in favour of walking faster. You knew the guy couldn’t stand you, but this is just another level. Everything about him is so unprofessional. For one, his shirt is untucked, and his hair is all roughed up and messy. Two, he curses far too often by anyone’s standards. And three, he can’t even pretend to get along with you for the sake of this quest. 

There’s no way you’re going to maintain your perfect record of A’s and it’ll all be because of the arrogant prick. The one consolation you have is that he’s coming down with you on your fall. 

“I can’t sense the finger’s cursed energy at all,” you mutter, slightly anxious. 

He side-eyes you and then shoves his hands in his trousers. “Relax. Quests, on average, take a week to complete. Of course, if we could complete it in much less, that’d be ideal but we’re not in a rush right now.”

“I know that. Don’t mansplain this to me.”

The eye roll he gives you is especially scathing. Typical. You two only ever seemed to look at each other just to exercise your eyes a little. Even when your gazes meet across a lecture hall one would make a face and the other scowls. It’s routine. You’ve long since convinced yourself to not let it bother you, but you won’t lie, many nights have been spent scouring the archives for a spell on how to swap someone’s asshole for their mouth. 

In the distance, there’s a clearing and a house. 

You smack him in the chest. He groans. “I fucking saw it. You didn’t need to hit me, idiot.”

On the door of the neat little house is a bright brass plate with the name “W. Rabbit,” engraved upon it. Sharing a look, you know you’ve both come to the same conclusion: you might just run into a familiar face.

Raising a hand to knock, you hear a scoff before the door’s being spelled open and Sukuna pushes past you. Even in a different dimension, he’s still a bitch. You don’t even bother to tell him off for trespassing, it seems he’d been looking forward to terrorising the inhabitants of this world long before he stepped foot here. 

“You don’t think the professors hid the finger here, do you?”

He doesn’t look at you when he casually replies, “Nah. Too easy. This is a Grade S plane and we’re advanced students. It would never be this straightforward. I reckon they’re trying to lead us around, encouraging us to become one with nature or some shit.”

Can’t argue with that. 

“So why are we here? It’s not like the rabbit’s home; we can’t ask him if he’s noticed anything out of the ordinary recently.”

Admiring the paintings on the wall, Sukuna’s response comes out a little distracted when he says, “We need a map, idiot. We can’t just keep walking everywhere hoping for the best.”

Flustered over him one-upping you, you don’t entertain his callous tone and instead you walk around. The little house is nice. It’s cozy and homely. Somewhat messy and untidy but you aren’t really surprised considered how neurotic the rabbit appeared upon first meeting, the poor thing. 

You find yourself in a tidy little room with a table in the window, and on it a fan and two or three pairs of tiny white kid gloves. This must have been what the rabbit was looking for but if they’re still here that means you beat him to it. Where had he gone that two outsiders would stumble upon his home faster than he would himself?

“What’s this?”

There, near a looking-glass, is a bottle. It’s similar to the one in the hallway with all the doors but this one doesn’t have a label with the words ‘DRINK ME’ and instructions. Guess this one isn’t for drinking. Or maybe it is?

Maybe this is a trick. 

What if the professors had placed these odd concoctions here? It can’t possibly be a coincidence that two drinks would appear all perfectly bottled after all, right?

Biting your lip, you contemplate what to do with it. It’s a terrible risk to take but it could pay off. It’d be great if you could get a leg up over Sukuna, even if you succeed together as partners, if he somehow found the cursed finger before you, you’d never be able to live with yourself. You just can’t let him have any more justifications for his arrogance. 

Fuck it.

Uncorking it, you put the rim to your lips and smell. There’s no immediate suspicious scent, like the bitter smell of poison. That’s a good sign. You know something interesting is sure to happen whenever you drink anything here, so you’ll just have to see what this bottle does. You hope it’ll make you large again, because even though you’ve only just adjusted to the world here, you’re quite tired of being such a tiny little thing. 

Maybe you can even step on Sukuna and pass it off as an accident. 

The thought makes you smile. And without even thinking, you’ve already drunk half the bottle. 

Watching your limbs, you wait for a change to occur. Nothing happens. You haven’t grown taller or shorter. Slightly disappointed, you place the bottle back down and stagger to a window. 

“It’s hot in here,” you mutter. 

You’re a little dizzy and out of breath. It’s as if all the air has been sucked out of the room and when you push the panes out, you take desperate gulps of air. 

“Fuck are you up to?” Unsurprised by his sudden appearance, you don’t turn. Instead, you continue to pant. You feel itchy everywhere. “Oi, don’t ignore me.”

Quiet mumblings come out of your mouth.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you? You’re panting like a damn dog.”

Prick. 

“Shit, did you drink that? You’re a fucking idiot. What kind of logic are you operating under? Are you trying to sabotage us? No, wait, ha! You were trying to sniff out a clue, weren’t you? What’d you think was gonna happen? You’d find the finger all by yourself and then ditch me? Nice fucking try.”

He never shuts up, but you can’t tell him to shove his accusations, accurate as they are, up his ass. Head thumping against the wood, you grip the windowpane tight, fearful you’ll fall over. You’re not yourself right now. The drink did something to you. 

A hand presses itself to your forehead. It’s hot and your lashes flutter. “Fuck. Talk to me.”

“Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Fetch me my gloves this moment!” Light pattering of feet can be heard on the stairs. Through the haze of your sudden light-headedness, you know it to be the rabbit, though you know not who this ‘Mary Ann’ is. You tremble. 

The pattering is inside the room and an aghast sound reaches your ears. Sukuna gathers you up in his arms, grunting when your head lolls to his chest. He smells like sin, and you hate it. 

“W-what are you doing here? Goodness, this is my home! I say, get out this instant.”

Darkly, your partner asserts, “Not happening until you tell me what the fuck that drink was and why she’s like this.”

“You drank that? Oh, dear. W-well, that is not my concern. You wandered in here and did as you please. It is your fault. Now leave. Please, old fellow.”

Dropping even lower, you barely recognise Sukuna’s voice. “You didn’t hear me? If you don’t fix her, I’ll roast you on a spit and chew you up.”

What is he even saying? He can’t do that. It’s illegal. He’d be shunned from St. Eden and by the whole of Genesis. Oh, right. He’s bluffing. You laugh against his jumper. He sure does sound convincing. 

“My! You must withhold your threats. You needn’t be so angry. Your friend, Y/n, if I remember correctly, will be just fine…eventually.”

“How long is eventually?”

The rabbit makes some noise you can’t decipher, and he coyly answers, “Two weeks or so.” And then he splutters, gasps and coughs. “Put me down! Ah! No, good fellow, you must calm down! She can be cured faster!”

You sure do hope Sukuna isn’t misusing his abilities to literally shake out the information he wants out of the poor thing, but you know, without looking, that’s exactly what he’s doing. This can’t possibly be what Professor Yaga meant by ‘innovative thinking.’ Or if it was, then you seriously need to consider idolising another teacher.

Without needing further prompting, the rabbit mumbles the secret. You don’t hear it, but you do hear the door click shut and an abrupt swear word hiss out of Sukuna’s mouth. He throws you down on an armchair and kneels down.

“What’re you doing?” You slur.

A muscle in his jaw ticks and he reluctantly makes eye contact with you. “The rat said the effects wear off once your limbs tense up and you shake out the numbness in your body. Shit doesn’t fucking make sense but nothing in this goddamn place does so, do you consent or what?”

Firm hand gripping your knee, he parts your thighs. Heat rises up your face and you can’t argue with him — you don’t even have the energy to kick him in the face for alluding something so ridiculous. There’s no way he’s suggesting the cure is an orgasm, is he?

“N-no,” you breathe out, “we can’t.”

Grunting, he reminds you, “We have to. We can’t wait two weeks. That’ll be way too late, and we’ll fail the fucking quest. And that’s if your body is anything like theirs. It could take longer and I’m not staying here longer than I have to. So, you gonna let me make you cum or you just gonna fuck up our grades?”

This is crazy. 

“I’ll do it myself. Get out.”

Sukuna blows frustrated air out of his nose and brushes his hair back. He’s growing impatient. Snatching an arm up, he waves the limp limb in front of your face. It flails embarrassingly. 

“You can’t do shit in this state. Don’t be difficult. Let’s just get this over with.”

“F-fine,” you acquiesce and then hurriedly add, “but just your hand, okay?”

And that is all he needs. 

Through the haze, you feel cold air blow over your core when your panties are pulled off your legs. There isn’t even any time for embarrassment before long fingers are pushing your slit apart and a thumb is circling your clit with expert navigation. 

“Talk me through it. Tell me how you like your pussy played with.”

Why does he sound like that? 

Raspy and with a chocolatey smooth timbre, you can’t focus on your breathing when you can feel the vibrations of his words on your skin. Everything is constrained — your clothes feel suffocating, your body is heavy, and his spare hand is keeping your legs wide open. He can see everything and there isn’t a hint of shame on his face when he leans in closer and presses down harder on your clit. 

You moan. 

“Like that. I like it like that.”

“Yeah?”

Humming, you watch him watch you. 

His heated gaze slides from between your legs to your eyes, searching for any sign that this is working, that the extra gravity on your body will go away and you’ll go back to normal. And you can feel it working too. Can feel your fingers twitch, aching to grip his wrist and urge him away or to go faster, you can’t tell anymore.

A grunt leaves his lips. “You’re fucking soaked. You think you ready to take my fingers?”

No answer comes from you, only a whimper. And that is good enough for him, so he shoves two fingers inside, to the hilt, and wastes no time in curling them against that soft spot inside you.

“Fuck!”

“Yeah, ‘fuck’ is right.” He laughs, breathlessly. “You’re crazy tight. You always like this or is that the damn drink?”

In and out and in and out. Sukuna is pumping his fingers inside of you, feeling your ridges and thumbing your clit. They feel great, even when you wish they didn’t. They’re long and nimble, but thick and filling. Manoeuvring inside your pussy as if they’ve been there before, as if it’s their second home, moans are being wrenched out of you.

“Watch the nails, idiot.”

Your eyes open — you didn’t even realise they had shut— and you notice your hand has loosened enough to clutch his wrist, digging into his skin, and pulling him closer. So so so close. Just a little more. Just one more push and you’ll be rid of the adverse effects of the stupid drink. 

“You’re much more tolerable with your pretty pussy plugged than when you’re free to nag my ear off,” he mutters.

And you cum. 

——————

“Those are some fuck ass mushrooms.”

They are, indeed. But you don’t voice your agreement. In fact, since walking away from that little house and that very angry rabbit, you haven’t said a word to him at all. You don’t even look at him. 

You can’t.

What transpired in that house was wrong. Completely wrong. It was unprofessional, unethical, and shameful. To think, you had been so competitive that you drank some unknown drink just to get ahead was one thing. To have made your expedition partner finger you to completion?

Yeah, there’s no coming back from that.

Not that Sukuna seems to mind — he’s acting like normal. He snarked about how weird this world was, how the sandwiches you packed are shit and he misses the canteen food on campus (he still ate it all), and he made fun of you when you tripped over a rock. You’re a little hurt, but you don’t dare dwell on that for too long. 

Now, you two are staring at large mushrooms, about the same height as you are, all different, with wacky colours and more importantly, you’re staring at a gigantic caterpillar by your world’s standards, and you have to remind yourself it isn’t that the creatures here are big but rather that you have grown small. 

The caterpillar, oddly, is sitting on top of a mushroom, a pair of arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and not taking the faintest notice of either of you or of anything else. 

“Is that a chain-smoking worm? Fushiguro owes me money, ha.” Sukuna sounds quite pleased.

Then, when its eyes met yours, it took the hookah out of its mouth and addresses you in a languid, sleepy voice. “Who are you?”

“Hi, sir,” You begin nervously, “we’re travellers from another world, you see.”

“No, I don’t see,” says the caterpillar. 

You meet Sukuna’s amused stare. He’s content to let you take the reins on this one, clearly. Merlin, he’s useless. “I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly, especially not when we’ve had quite the day; it’s all been so very confusing.”

“It isn’t.”

Frowning, you try again. “I assure you; it has been. But that is neither here nor there. We’d just like to ask if you’ve noticed anything strange. Maybe other travellers like us? Or an odd energy about the place? A finger more specifically.”

“A finger? I have many. We all have fingers.”

Sukuna snorts. You feel heat rise to your face. And he finally steps in. 

“Listen, forget whatever she just said. Tell us how to get bigger. Being like three inches tall is a pain.”

The caterpillar rears itself upright and says angrily, “Three inches is a very good height to be!”

Okay, so clearly, you’re not going to get anywhere with the worm— caterpillar. At least not with those two being argumentative creatures. So, stepping in between them, you ask, being sure to sound extra polite, “Are these mushrooms edible? They wouldn’t, by any chance, help in making us grow taller, would they?”

Calming down, the thing takes the hookah out of its mouth, yawns once or twice, and shook itself. It comes down from the mushroom and crawls away in the grass, remarking merely as it goes, “Eat. And eat from each other. You will grow. Or don’t and you won’t.”

But before you can ask what the hell he meant, it’s already out of sight. 

“Don’t fucking think about it,” Sukuna growls. “Eating shit clearly isn’t a good idea so don’t go chomping on mushrooms.”

“But we have to grow taller. You really think we can return to Genesis at this height?”

He shoves a hand through his hair. “You gonna trust a worm? Knew you weren’t all right in the head when you substituted silver-beetle for the bronze one in first year, but this is just another level of idiocy, seriously.”

“Merlin, shut up! I was trying something new. The textbook said it ‘recommends’ you use silver-beetle, but it never said to only use silver-beetle. I was trying to be innovative.”

You get an eyeroll. “That’s not your fucking style, is it? You’re a rule-follower, a goody-two-shoes. You don’t trial new things.”

“Yeah, not since then. When it quite literally blew up in my face and I was made the laughingstock of our potions class. But I was just…”

Regretting letting your emotions get the best of you before you say something undeservedly vulnerable, you shut your mouth. But your partner isn’t blind or stupid. He saw that. He heard it. And the guy is a pest. 

“Finish your sentence.” You press your lips tighter together. He steps into your space and when you don’t look at him, he grabs your face and smooshes your cheeks, glaring down at you. “You were just what?”

Words muffled, you reluctantly, and with a lot of shame and embarrassment, admit, “I just wanted to be more like you. You always try new things. Even back then. You did something different the week before. Using moonflower oil instead of nightbane and you were applauded for your so-called ‘genius.’ No one’s ever done that for me.”

Sukuna stays silent for a minute and then he groans. His hand, and his heat, leaves for just a second and then the next, something is being shoved in your mouth and once again, you’re ingesting something you really shouldn’t but there doesn’t seem to be any other choice. 

The mushroom doesn’t really taste of much and there aren’t any sudden changes. You watch him chew, observing his body for anything out of the ordinary and nothing. 

“If you feel off, even just a little, say something, alright?”

You nod. 

“I don’t feel different at all. Was he just messing with us? You don’t think he took actual offence to the height comment, do you?” 

Time is passing and you don’t have a clue whether Underland’s time and Genesis’ are compatible. What if a month and passed within a day here? 

Getting this quest done in a week gets you a C, getting it done within two days is an A, but finishing in a month or longer would be a fail. No, it’d be worse than a fail. You’ll be humiliated. All your chances of pursuing this as a career will be over before you could even really try. 

“Now what?”

Sukuna throws a glance at you and then he shrugs. “Guess we gotta keep moving. Can’t sense the finger here so we shouldn’t stick around too long. I’d ascend and scan the area for the direction but since I’m the size of a fucking pinkie, I’d use up more energy than I can afford.”

“Wait. The caterpillar said something about eating from each other, didn’t he?”

“Dunno. Wasn’t really listening.”

Ignoring that, you continue, “What’d you think he meant by that?”

“Cannibalism?” 

You shoot him an unimpressed look. That couldn’t have possibly been what he meant, and even if it was, the casual way in which he said that puts you on edge. Cannibalism is not a standard practice, it’s not a practice at all, except for maybe a few groups of people in the far reaches of the worl— No. Stop. Don’t entertain his ridiculous ideas. 

Think. 

The drink that made you small. The instructions had been similar. ‘Share with your companion.’ At first, you thought you made the mistake of taking too big a gulp, but you were sure you didn’t. You’d never be so stupid. And that led him to kiss you. You quite literally shared with your companion. And then the drink from the rabbit’s house. That slowly paralysed your body, and the cure was to push your muscles to its limits. 

No. It really was an orgasm. It wasn’t just one way to make your muscles tense, it was the way, that’s why the rabbit knew to leave and give you two space. 

In a world where things appear and disappear conveniently, things out of order actually do have purpose. None of it was a coincidence. 

“Sukuna.”

He kicks a mushroom absentmindedly and assesses the height from where he stands and all the way up to where he needs to be to get a clear picture of the land. “What?”

“You need to eat me out.”

There’s a pause. A palpable silence so thick it could be cut with a knife. If you listen closely enough, you’re sure you can hear the creaking of his neck as he slowly turns his head back towards you. There’s a look on his face you can’t quite decipher but you imagine it’s something similar to confusion, disbelief and a ‘you’re fucking kidding.’

“If you’re horny,” he begins, exasperation lacing his words like he’s talking to a child, “go deal with it yourself. I’m not your walking rattletoy.”

Shuffling on your feet, you reassert, “No, I’m serious. I think that’s what the caterpillar meant. He said we need to eat the mushrooms and then we need to eat from one another. Through some weird logic, I can only guess he means that to activate the enlargement effect of the mushrooms it must be ingested from bodily fluids.”

“No fucking way. That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“Nothing in this world does!” You yell.

It isn’t like you want this to happen. This is humiliating beyond speech. When your friends ask how your first quest went down, you’re never going to be able to tell them the full truth. This will be a secret you take to your grave. And if you have to kill him once you get the finger to keep this shame a secret, you’ll do it without a moment’s thought.

Pinching his nose bridge, Sukuna growls out, “If I eat you out, I’ll grow faster and you won’t even be able to reach my fucking dick so you’ll stay that height. And I’m not gonna carry you around in my pocket whilst I do all the work.”

An idea comes to you. 

You grimace. “Well…”

“No. Absolutely fucking not.” He sees you inch closer to him, eyeing his belt and he steps back. “This is insane. Get the fuck away from my crotch.”

Once in his face, his body backed up against a mushroom leaving him nowhere to run, you whisper, embarrassed, “We have to try. We’ll be able to cover more ground when we’re bigger and we can’t afford to waste time. We have absolutely no clue where that cursed finger is and we’re at a loss, Sukuna. I need to complete this quest. So do you…please?”

“Ah, fuck.”

That’s all he says before you’re being pulled to the ground and flipped around. Facing the crotch you’d been eyeing before, you take this as a sign to unbuckle his belt, zip down his fly, and fish his cock out of his boxers. He’s big. Huge. It’s scary. 

Veins scale up his long length, leading you to his angry-red tip. And the carpet does not match the drapes. How interesting. But more than that…his cock is delicious looking. Something about it looks like it’d devour you whole instead of the other way around, and you lick your lips at the challenge.

A finger feels your slit through the gusset of your panties and a warm breath fan over it. You shiver. 

“Didn’t think I’d see her again,” he mutters.

Somewhat uncomfortable by this entire thing, you get to work. Licking a stripe from base to tip, you familiarise yourself with the smell, feel, and taste of him. He’s very musky in the best way. Like salt and danger. He’s rock-hard, hot and you need to lick him again. 

Not one to be shown up, Sukuna palms the globes of your ass from under your skirt and then flips it over. He wastes no time in diving forward just as those firm, calloused hands pull you down onto his face. Merciless lips suck at your clit through your soaked panties, making slurping sounds that you really do not want to be hearing. 

When you suckle on his tip, he hisses. “Go gently at first, idiot. Not a fucking lollipop. And put those hands to good use. Jerk me off and play with my balls.”

So fucking bossy. You have half a mind to tell him to get over himself but you need him to cum faster so you can get this over and done with. So, you fondle his heavy balls, venturing up and down his length with your hand as you hollow your cheeks and take as much of him as you can. 

“Fuck yeah. Always been a good student, haven’t you?”

As if to reward you, he pushes your panties to the side and feasts on your dripping cunt with no reservations. You can hear the shameless squelches he’s making, and you know he’s doing it on purpose, to embarrass you, to rub it in your face how wet you’ve gotten for him, for someone you supposedly hate.

“Look how sloppy you are. Ha!” He spreads your lips apart, blowing cool air right into your pulsing hole. “She wants my -hngh yeah keep going- fingers. Almost feel bad to tell her -ha- she can’t have it. N-need her to leak all her juices out so I can drink it up. Be a good girl and feed me good, yeah?”

Your legs lock around his head, shaky and sweaty. Sukuna is sucking your clit like a vacuum, using two fingers to spread your wetness around your inner thighs, painting them. And the way his big hands are digging into your flesh, claiming you, is driving you crazy. Your hips begin shaking, grinding itself on his mouth just as you bob your head up and down his cock, eager to make a mess of him too. 

“Sukuna! You’re being too -ngh!- rough” 

He snickers and the vibrations make your eyes roll back. “She likes it. Hear how wet she is?”

Squelch! Squelch! Squelch!

“Pussy tastes so good. So fucking sweet can’t believe it’s yours. Maybe you should be as nice as your cunt is to me. We’d get along much better.”

If you thought he was the worst before, now you think he’s a completely irredeemable bastard. He’s no gentleman. He doesn’t treat you with respect or care, he’s just using you as his personal entertainment. As if he can hear your thoughts and wants to prove you right, he braces himself and begins to fuck your throat just as his fingers thrust inside your wet canal. 

You’re being jostled around by his monstrous whims and there’s nothing you can do but hold on tight as you feel that tsunami of pleasure rising and rising. 

“Y’know,” he mutters, teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue, “no one -ha- applauds you for your -shit that’s good- g-genius ‘cause they just expect it from you, right? Don’t gotta have a -oh fuck your mouth’s tight- a-a complex over it. Don’t need to prove a thing. Just gotta cum. Can you do that? Can you be a good little princess and cum for me?”

Everyone knows you’re good at following instructions. 

Mere seconds apart, you both cum. Hot, salty cum laced with his magical essence floods your mouth. It burns its way down your bruised and battered throat until all you can see and hear is how good he sounds when he groans your name out. 

“Oh fuck! Sukuna!” He won’t stop lapping up your juices, thumbing your clit and shoving his fingers inside. Even through his orgasm, he’s dragging yours out, pulling waves and waves of pleasure from your body like he can’t get enough. “S-stop! No more!”

Overstimulated from his relentless sucking and licking, you climb off of him and fall down on the grass, cupping your poor pussy, still soaked and spasming. 

There, you both catch your breath. 

So delirious, you don’t even notice you’ve grown much taller, towering over the mushrooms and you’re back to your original size. That wasn’t supposed to be as good as it was. It wasn’t supposed to feel mind-blowing. And you really shouldn’t be wanting more. 

“Did you mean what you said? About me being smart?”

He’s the first to get up. “I may be a lot of things, all negative in your eyes I’m sure, but I’m not a liar. Meant it when I said you’re smart and you shouldn’t try so hard.”

You meet his gaze and something in your eyes must strike him deep because he scoffs and mumbles an enchantment, conjuring a handkerchief that gets to work between your legs. 

“Also meant it when I said your pussy’s sweet. You get an A from me. Should stop by my dorm whenever you’re bored.”

Aaaaaand he’s back.

You throw his handkerchief, all wet from your juices, in his face. Irritated by his arrogance, you fix your skirt and wipe the sweat from your forehead on your sleeve and then you fly yourself up, searching for the next place to go where the finger might be. 

This isn’t personal. This is just for the quest. He knows that and so do too.

——————

“I’m gonna rip your stupid fucking head off.”

Having seen a path along to a castle, you led your partner to where the gravel began and followed it up. It was on that very path that you ran into an odd creature. A cat with a grin so wide you were immediately put off. No words were exchanged but with just one look at each other, you knew better than to engage any further with the odd inhabitants of this curiouser and curiouser Underland. 

It would have been a great plan, meander and keep an eye out for anything odd, any sign that your teachers had been here, looking for an appropriate place to hide the finger, except…

The damn cat kept following you. 

Sukuna blew a gust of wind at it, but it disappeared before it could hit a tree. And then it reappeared with the same shit-eating grin. Then, sensing that he was going get even more aggressive, you attempted to converse with your new companion against your better judgement. 

“Hi. We’re travellers in search of….an item our teachers have hidden here. You wouldn’t have happened to see something odd recently, have you? Maybe other travellers or a strange glow?”

Purring, it blinked and grinned wider. “Why, yes, I have.”

“Oh, great. Would you tell us please which way we ought to go from here?”

The cat said, “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.”

And Sukuna piped up. “We don’t have a destination in mind—“

“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go.”

“—as long as we get to wherever the finger is.”

“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”

Sukuna snatched your hand and dragged you away, very clearly fed up. Neither of you mentioned the cat that kept popping up along the trail, grinning and occasionally humming, nor the fact that your hand was still firmly held in your partner’s grip. 

You made the mistake of looking at the cat and saw that its mischievous eyes were on your intertwined hands and then the shyness in your face. Its grin grew wider. 

Eventually, a dreaded scene appeared: a fork in the road. Of course, neither of you knew where to go and asking the cat was out of the question for, he surely would have toyed with you back and forth, up and down, and side to side until you either grew too dizzy to string logical thoughts or you grew so frustrated you march ahead, leaving it up to chance. 

Tapping his foot, Sukuna seemed to be weighing his options, and it was somewhat endearing, especially when he subconsciously brushes his thumb against your knuckles whilst deep in thought.

The cat said, “I could point you in the right direction. For a price.”

“No fucking way,” your partner growled. “Knowing this fucked up place, it’s gonna be something sick and perverted.”

“Let’s just hear him out.” Turning to the innocently smiling cat, you asked, “What’s the price?”

POOF!

It appeared right in front of you, suspended in the air. As if walking on a platform, it trots around your heads, tail slithering across your necks, and whispers, “A Hatter lives in one direction and a March Hare in another. To find out which is the right direction, you’ll have to put on a show, just for me.”

“Fat fucking chance. We’ll try our luck, dumb cat.”

Pulling on his hand, you argued, “This is our first real lead, Sukuna. We can’t pass it up.”

His nostrils flared. He wasn’t happy but he knew you had a point. 

“Fuck, alright. Oi, cat. How do we know you even saw shit? You could just be making it up.”

“Oh, well, I saw two people wearing your clothes —ugly things by the way— carrying a glass box with a finger. They spoke of a quest and tests and marks. Very tedious, I thought. But they sounded curious and so I followed them down one of these paths.”

Well fuck, you thought.

So, he was telling the truth. Sukuna understood the implications, but he looked conflicted. Maybe he wasn’t keen on the possibility of having to do more perverse things with you, and you have to admit, you couldn’t blame him. Despite his horrible attitude, he had still gone above and beyond to help you. If your partner had been anyone else, you would have been stuck here for weeks. 

“Sukuna.” You tugged your hand out of his grip and bit your lip. “We should split up, that way we can cover more grou—“

His glare cut you off. “No. Splitting up is dumb, idiot. Who knows what kinda dangers lurk around this place? And in any case, we need to return at the same time to complete the quest. So, cat, name your price and stay true to your fucking words, or else I’ll kill you and wear your tail as a tie.”

Spinning in the air, the cat grinned. 

“Wonderful!”

And then it poofed onto a tree branch, getting itself all nice and cozy before it languidly blinked and demanded, “Show the pretty lady how you like to feel good.”

That it brings us to now when Sukuna snarls, “I’m gonna rip your stupid fucking head off.”

“Yeah, I actually agree with him. We can’t do that!”

The cat makes a gesture a lot like a shrug and began to disappear before the man beside you curses under his breath and rakes a hand through his hair. “Alright, fine. How long do I have to keep going for?”

“Why, until the very end, of course.”

You’re gobsmacked. Truly. Your jaw is slack, and it falls down even further when for the second time today, Sukuna throws his blazer and jumper to the side, leaving him in a wrinkled white button-up, the sleeves of which he rolls up, and then finally, he unbuckles his belt. The sound of metal clinking makes you flinch. His semi-hard cock comes out. Even when he isn’t fully hard, he’s still packing something significant. It’s yet another thing you hate him for. 

His eyes meet yours before he sighs and throws his head back, muttering some kind of mantra to himself. It’s bad enough that you’re watching but a mean cat is here too — you can’t even imagine how uncomfortable your partner must be. 

“This place is fucked. Why do the Supremes even allow it to exist? Merlin be warned, I’m snitching about the depravities of this forsaken place as soon as we get back.”

Yet, his huge hand wraps around the base and he gives himself a couple pumps before he spits into his palm and rubs the head. You can’t look away, not even because you’re not allowed to but because fuck, he looks good. With one hand, he loosens his tie, showing off the well-defined veins in his muscular arm.

“The fucking cat better not be lying or I’ll burn it alive.”

Up, down, up, down and up, around the head, thumbing the slit, and then down again. He starts off slow, heavy breaths pushed out of his lungs, gradually increasing his pace and you swear you can feel each pump into your pussy.

“I hate this fucking place,” he growls out.

Growing frustrated with the white shirt getting in the way, he curses under his breath and lifts up the hem to bite on it, exposing his toned torso. The muscles there tense with his exertion and despite his age, you sense the strength that courses through his veins, imbuing his body with terrifying prowess. 

You’ve seen that very body bulldoze students in the hallway, wrangle beasts from all corners of reality, and have felt it grip you today. “Fuck, quit staring so hard.” 

You mutter an apology but he’s not listening, he’s focused on the way your eyes can’t stick to one place to look at and that spurns him on, thumb pressing into his slit with a hiss and spreading the pre cum down his length.  

Even the way he treats his own dick is unforgiving. His pace is rhythmic and elegant but also just plain mean. When your eyes flutter at the intensity in his, roving over your features, dropping for just a second down to the hem of your skirt where your skin is exposed before rising to your face again. Red tints the tips of his ears and he curses again like he had been caught. 

An hour passes, or maybe mere seconds, but you forget all about the cat and the quest and the fact that you’re supposed to hate him. Though, you can always count on Sukuna to remind you — with practically no shame, he fishes out something from his pocket. It’s the handkerchief he used to clean you earlier. 

Not having to spend a single moment wondering why he’s got it or what he’s going to do with it, the man presses it up to his nose and inhales deeply. So deeply, in fact, you see his eyes roll back.

“You sure love to stare at me, don’t ya? You -ngh- do it all the time during lectures and even across the meadows. Just can’t help yourself, can you? Always so damn inquisitive.”

Managing to find the will, you fire back, “T-that inquisitiveness helped me beat you in Professor Miya’s class last year, don’t forget.”

His pace increases. “Merlin, your voice is fucking annoying.”

Panties soaked, you resist the urge to press a hand to your pussy to alleviate the growing need there, settling instead for pressing your thighs together.

“S-seriously. You’ve -ha- seen my dick before. Quit fucking staring. You’re acting like you think it’s pretty.” His tone is unnecessarily sarcastic and aggressive, but you let him have this one. 

Just as breathless, you reply, “Yeah. It’s pretty.”

“Fuck!”

Spurts of white cum spew out, landing on the ground between you two. They haven’t touched you and yet you feel their heat. Or maybe it’s coming from his body which glistens ever so slightly with sweat. Maybe it’s even coming from the way he glares at you — eyes dark and blaming, he accuses you of pushing him to release early. 

You hadn’t meant to; you could have watched forever. 

Sukuna packs his softening cock back in, clean hand running through his hair. Awkwardly, you clear your throat and conjure a handkerchief. You offer it to him, but he stretches his hand out. Biting your tongue, you allow him that one thing too since that couldn’t have possibly been easy and you consider the favour repaid.

Diligently wiping his spend away, muttering an enchantment to thoroughly clean him up, you flinch when his clean fingers skim your cheek, pushing a strand of hair back. 

The cat spins in the air. “You put up a great performance. It was very…revealing.”

“Spare me your bullshit. Hold up your end of the deal, cat.”

It begins disappearing, starting from the end of its tails and ending with the grin, which remains. Widening, it finally reveals before leaving, “Go right. To the Mad Hatter.”

A rock flies through the air and thuds against a tree. When it falls, a huge dent is left in the trunk. Sukuna had just tried to kill the cat. This quest is dead. 

Worried, you muse, “I’m not sure how I feel about a ‘mad’ hatter. Everyone here seems pretty mad to me so by their standards, he must be truly insane.”

A mischievous whisper grazes your ear. “You’re right. We’re all mad here.”

And then it’s gone again, but not without another rock flying near your head, whizzing past just a second too late. You give Sukuna an unimpressed look but he’s already picking his clothes up, dusting them off, and marching ahead without looking back. 

——————

There’s a table set out under a tree in front of a house. The ‘March Hare,’ you guess, and Hatter are having tea at it with a mouse sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two are using as it as a cushion, resting their elbows on the mouse and talking over its head. You fear it’d be very uncomfortable for the mouse, but it doesn’t seem to mind as it snoozes. 

“That cat lied to us. They were both here all along. That bitch.”

Again, can’t argue with that.

The table may be large, but the three are all crowded in one corner of the table and when they spot you two approaching, they cry out, “No room! No room!”

“Fuck are you talking about? There’s plenty of room. Move over,” Sukuna snarls. You elbow him and he rolls his eyes.

Two chairs pull out and you feel the crackle of his magic in the air. You take the seat and are offered wine by the March Hare. 

“I don’t see any wine,” you remark. 

The March Hare says, “There isn’t any.”

“Then why the fuck would you offer?”

The March hare says, “Why would you sit down without being invited?”

Fair enough. 

“Your hair wants cutting,” says the Hatter. He’s been looking at you for some time with great curiosity. Dressed in a patchwork of many different cloths of various colours and textures, he is an oddity. You both study each other

“You should learn not to make personal fucking remarks,” Sukuna snarls with some severity; “it’s fucking rude.”

The Hatter opens his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he replies is, “Why is a raven like a writing-desk?”

Somewhat eager to ease the sudden tense atmosphere, you force an enthusiastic tone. “I love riddles. I believe I can guess that.”

“Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?” Asks the March Hare. You nod. “Then you should say what you mean,” the March Hare goes on.

“I do,” you hastily respond; “I mean what I say—that’s the same thing, you know.”

“Not the same thing a bit!” Shouts the Hatter. “You might just as well say that ‘I see what I eat’ is the same thing as ‘I eat what I see’!”

“You might just as well say,” adds the March Hare, “that ‘I like what I get’ is the same thing as ‘I get what I like’!”

“You might just as well say,” mumbles the mouse, who seems to be talking in his sleep, “that ‘I breathe when I sleep’ is the same thing as ‘I sleep when I breathe’!”

THUD!

All eyes fall on Sukuna who’s hit the table with a fist, seemingly innocently as he reclines in his seat the way he does in lectures and classes. You sigh. This whole thing is a mess. It’s impossible to get through any of these people and you’ve got no real clue where the hell the cursed item is. 

“We were directed here by a cat. A grinning cat. He said you might know something about this thing we’re looking for. It might sound odd but it’s a finger. It should feel weird, not at all a good feeling.”

The mouse mumbles, “Finger…we saw…it’s taken.”

You both sit up. “Taken? Where?”

“Tea!” The Hatter exclaims. “Since the Queen screamed that I was murdering time at her concert, it’s always been six o’clock here. So, we must have tea!”

Two cups find their way in front of you and your partner. A thick sense of dread fills you; you already know where this is going. What will it be this time? Lick each other’s toes? Spank each other on the ass?

“We’re not drinking this.”

“Oh, but you must. Tea is a great drink! It’s the best drink. This one offers clarity of mind. Perhaps it will lead you to where you’d like to go.”

Great. 

The day’s almost over and you’d really hate to spend a night here. Again, who knows how much time has passed in Genesis. You really can’t afford to dilly-daddle anymore. When you share a look with Sukuna, you know he’s thinking the same thing, albeit begrudgingly.

And so down it goes without much further argument.

Just as you had suspected, the tea is no ordinary tea — you feel its effects immediately. Your head is growing heavy, and your sight is blurring, but you feel alive. Your body is far more sensitive than it was before. Every breeze sets goosebumps on your arms and heat rises to your cheeks at the sensation of clothes brushing against your skin. 

“Shit. I t-thought you said this gives clarity of mind,” Sukuna spews out accusingly. 

They all laugh. Or maybe none of them do. 

“Let’s have some fun! The Dormouse will tell a story, and you must make it till the end.”

“The catch,” you croak out. “What’s the catch?”

The March Hare remarks, “Clever! Well, you two must be in embrace. It is simply how things are done here. Otherwise, how else will we know if a story is good?”

Flexing his hand like he’s worried he’s losing control over it, your partner presses, “You want us to hug? How does that make sense?”

“No, of course not. She must hug you. The most intimate of hugs!”

“The warmest.”

“The tightest!”

Oh fuck.

“Oh fuck,” Sukuna groans at the same time the thought occurs to you. “There’s always something with this fucking place. I’m losing my mind. Hey, let’s just quit this entire thing.”

“What!”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t look so horrified. Does this shit mean that much to you? Everything we’ve done here is unethical as fuck. If we return and explain, they can’t fail us. We’ve already gone above and beyond.”

“B-but what if they don’t go easy on us? I can’t get a bad grade, Sukuna. I just can’t.”

“Grow the fuck up! This is too fucking far. What they’re suggesting… it’s insane and you know it. We’re both top students, they wouldn’t dare kick us out of the course or the fucking school, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

The chair is pushed back and he’s leaving, shrugging his blazer on and tightening his tie. He’s ready to throw in the towel. You’re not. Heart beating out of your chest, your hands shake as you stand, lunging for him. “N-no! Sukuna, we’ve come so far already. We’re close. I can feel it. Please. It won’t mean anything, we can just get it over and done with.”

Darkness clouds his eyes and the heaviness in his body from the tea makes sweat bead down his neck. Rolling his head around, he tries to calm himself, collecting his mind and resisting the warming effects of the tea. 

“Stop talking. We’re going back. Hate me all you want but I refuse to take a part in this farce any longer. This whole thing was fucked from the beginning.”

He’s reaching in his inside pocket, searching for that one thing that would end this. You’ve looked forward to this all your life, you can’t just let this go without having given it your all. 

“Sukuna!”

Something about your tone stops him in his tracks and his unfocused eyes find yours. 

“My dad…H-he was an explorer.” You blame the tea on the tears welling up and threatening to humiliate you further. “He gave his life to the cause. It was everything to him. A-and this is the only part of him I can keep alive so please one more chance and then I’ll do everything you want. I’ll do your homework, I’ll give up job opportunities for you, I’ll rescind the complaint I made about you where I complained about your bad breath.”

“I don’t have bad breath.”

“Yeah, I know! I just wanted to be petty, fuck. Please?”

Combing his hair with his hand, a tick in his jaw jumps and you think maybe he’ll kill you, strangle you finally after years of…whatever the fuck you two have been doing. Instead, he says…

“Take off your fucking panties and let’s fucking hope the hamster is a good orator.”

And so, you find yourself sitting on Sukuna’s thick thighs, panty-less, and stuffed full. Easing him in is difficult beyond belief — you’re already wet, or had remained wet, the details are unclear, and he’s hard, which is the problem. His huge cock doesn’t make the easiest of entrances. 

“Loosen up, princess. You’re gonna cut the circulation off my damn dick,” he hisses in your ear. It sends shivers down your back and when you tighten up in response, his fingers dig into your hips as punishment. 

“Once upon a time there were three little sisters,” the Dormouse begins in no hurry; “and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well—”

“What did they live on?” Asks the Hatter. 

Sukuna doesn’t feel anywhere near close to being buried to the hilt inside your pussy and he’s pushing his way through your gummy walls, fingers rubbing your clit to encourage you to loosen up. You’re already sweaty and well out of breath. To maintain some dignity, you decide to blame it on the tea. 

“They lived on treacle,” says the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two.

“They couldn’t have done that, you know,” you gently remark, attempting to distract yourself from the fact that they’re watching you ease yourself down on the pink-haired man’s throbbing length; “they’d have been ill.”

“So they were,” says the Dormouse; “very ill.”

“But why did they live at the bottom of a we—Ah, fuck! Sukuna!”

He’d grabbed you by the hips and shoved you down, forcing your walls to stretch impossibly quickly. A dull pain vibrates inside, it causes you to tear up. Shushing you, a hand reaches up underneath your jumper, it rips your shirt open, buttons falling down. That hand, calloused and scalding, weighs up your breast. Your head falls back on his shoulder when he pinches a nipple.

“Don’t fucking interrupt him, dumbass.”

The Dormouse again takes a minute or two to think about it, and then confirms, “It was a treacle-well. And so, these three little sisters—they were learning to draw, you know—”

“What did they draw?” You wonder, forgetting yourself. Sukuna thrusts inside you. 

Pooling under, your wetness coats his cock, dribbling down his balls. He’s so much bigger inside you than outside and by the Heavens, it’s like he’s in your lungs. Every ridge, every vein, every throb — you feel it all. Sukuna’s lips skim your neck. “Are you interrupting the fucking thing ‘cause you want to elongate this? Huh, you irritating -hngh- p-pain in my ass? So quiet now that you’ve got a cock plugging you up, aren’t you? Maybe that’s all you -ha- needed from the very beginning, you dirty little thing.”

A moan leaks out just as he flicks your nipple again and again. 

“Treacle,” says the Dormouse, with a little amusement in his words. 

You can’t even remark about how ridiculous this whole thing is anymore because now it’s your fault. You had an out and you didn’t take it when offered. Now you’re practically drooling against Sukuna’s neck as he holds back from thrusting into your wet heat. 

“Did you ever think that w-we’d -ha- end up like this? When you shoved me out of your way years ago, unprovoked, did you know I’d be balls deep inside this pretty fucking pussy, hmm? Fuck, you’re so tight, baby. Is it turning you on to be watched? Do you like how e-everyone’s listening to your -ngh fuck don’t clench down on me- y-your moans, watching you grind on my dick? What would your s-snooty friends think?”

“They were learning to draw,” the Dormouse goes on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it’s getting very sleepy; “and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with an M—”

“Why with an M?” Enquires the Hatter.

 The March Hare asks, “Why not?”

You’re silent, or as silent as you can be with the way you feel him pulsing inside of you. His clutch on you is much sweeter than you’d like it to be, so are the words of praise he’s whispering in your ears. Sukuna’s being unfair. Your knees are shaking from the pressure building up inside you and you really have to fight back the whimpers that claw their up your throat, reminding you how he filled it mere hours ago. 

“Just filled your sloppy cunt with my cock and you’re -mhm- already fucked dumb? Always wondered how long it’d take to wipe that pretentious smirk of your face, you self-righteous brat. Now look at you.”

“You’ve been -hgnh!- thinking about f-fucking me?”

He laughs and you feel it rumble behind you. “More times than I’ll ever admit. And only ever when you pissed me off. You’re always glaring at me when I talk in lectures, walking fast so you won’t h-have to breathe the same fucking air as me, and worse of all, when you wear these short fucking skirts and if I looked hard enough or conjured a breeze, I could see your prissy little panties. Always with frills and always with bows.”

“S-shut up, Sukuna. Your crazy talk’s scaring me.”

Sharp teeth cling onto your neck, digging just a little to draw out a sudden moan. Satisfied, he licks up the mark. “Didn’t you learn anything from Professor Hinata’s class on spiritual attachments? Love is fear. Y-you falling -ah fuck, I won’t last- falling for me, prissy little princess?”

“No, he said, people f-feel a different sense of -ooh fuck so full ha- fear when in love.”

“Same fucking difference.”

The Dormouse closes its eyes by this time, and is going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it wakes up again with a little shriek, and goes on: “—that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness—you know you say things are ‘much of a muchness’—did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?”

“How much longer?” You all but scream out at the three other people. 

Looking startled, they laugh. The Hatter confesses. “The story was over before it began.”

The March Hare adds, “Or there was no story to tell to begin with.”

“The finger! Where’s the finger?”

“The Queen has it. Took it away.”

Your orgasm hits you like a shooting star, piercing you from inside. Back arching, head thrown back, eyes rolling, you tense all over. Sukuna’s grip on you tightens impossibly and triggers his own orgasm. Together, you both moan and groan, shaky knees hitting the table. It rattles. “Fuck, Sukuna! So b-big! I c-can’t. So good, so so so good.”

“That’s it, baby. Ride my dick, that’s it. Ah, fuck, you’re so damn good at that. Better than I coulda ever dreamed. Smell and taste better too, ha! Shit!”

The world fades away. All you can hear, feel, see, and hear is Sukuna. Pink hair, steel muscles, piercing sword buried to the hilt, and careful hand wiping an errant tear from your cheek. Hot ropes of cum paint your insides, driven by an intense throbbing. It’s the fullest you’ve ever been — the most satisfied too but you can’t dwell on that for too long.

You slump against him, completely spent and drenched. 

His chin rests against your shoulder and sometime later, with the three Underlanders talking among themselves, bored of you two now, he whispers, “Didn’t pull you down too hard, did I?”

“A little…but it was good.”

“Yeah?”

You hum. 

Standing, you wince when cool air kisses your swollen lips. There’s a gaping Sukuna-sized hole inside you and it’s leaking cum, which trails down your thighs before the man responsible kneels down and wipes it up with a new handkerchief — man you two are going through handkerchiefs like it’s nothing and well, you suppose it is considering they’re so light, they can be easily conjured with little to no effort. 

Once clean, he helps you slip into the panties you had discarded, what feels like, a millennia ago. And then, with a distracted instruction from the Mad Hatter, you two leave the tea-drinkers in search of the so-called, ‘Queen of Hearts.’

Neither of you mention the fact that your hands are interlinked the whole way.

——————

A large rose-tree stands near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it are white, but there are three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. From your hiding spot behind a hedge, you hear one shout, “Look out now, Five! Don’t go splashing paint over me like that!”

“I couldn’t help it,” says Five, in a sulky tone; “Seven jogged my elbow.”

On which Seven looks up and sarcastically agrees, “That’s right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!”

“You’d better not talk!” Demands Five. “I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!”

“What for?” Asks the one who had spoken first.

“That’s none of your business, Two!” Says Seven.

“Yes, it is his business!” Five says, “and I’ll tell him—it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.”

Sukuna snorts, “Fuck’s their problem?”

“It looks like they’re painting the roses red. Why?”

At this moment Five, who’s been anxiously looking across the garden, calls out, “The Queen! The Queen!” and the three gardeners instantly throw themselves flat upon their faces. There’s a sound of many footsteps, and you look around, eager to see this woman.

First comes ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these are ornamented all over with diamonds, and walks two and two, as the soldiers did. After these come the royal children; there are a ten of them, and the little dears come jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they’re all ornamented with hearts. Then the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them you recognise the White Rabbit: it’s talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that’s said, and goes by without noticing you two. Then follows the Knave of Hearts, carrying something on a velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, comes the King and Queen of Hearts.

“And who are these?” Asks the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who are lying round the rose-tree; they’re lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs are the same as the rest of the pack, so she can’t tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. Then, sensing they won’t want to out themselves, she screams, “Off with their heads!”

“What a bitch,” you mutter.

Beside you, Sukuna shrugs. “Nah, she’s valid.”

Ignoring him, you point to the cushion. “Do you feel that?”

He nods. There’s an intense energy coming from the velvet cushion. You already know it’s the finger encased in a glass box. The box itself would have been crafted with keeping most of the cursed energy contained in mind, so you know its malevolent effects are limited, but the sooner you can retrieve and return to school grounds, the better. You’ve overstayed your welcome, the proof of that is still pooling in your panties. 

“Let’s grab it and get the fuck outta here.”

Grabbing your bag, you search for something you’ve been saving for this very moment: a vial of blue liquid swirls in your hand. You uncork it and with a nod to Sukuna, you take a gulp. Hand outstretched to offer the rest to him, you’re somehow not surprised to feel hands on your head and lips on your own. 

The liquid sloshes into his mouth. You both gulp. 

“Prick.”

“Princess.”

And then you’re invisible. 

Creeping through the shrubbery, you wander into a curious game. 

“Get to your places!” Screams the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people begin running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they get settled down in a minute or two, and the game begins. You’ve never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it’s all ridges and furrows; the balls are live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingos, and the soldiers have to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.

The players all play at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short time the Queen’s in a furious passion, and stomps around, shouting “Off with his head!” or “Off with her head!” about once in a minute.

If there was anyone to avoid pissing off in here, it’s surely her. So, you two make your way around, avoiding soldiers, children, hedgehogs, kings and queens and flamingos. 

Upon reaching the Knave, you pluck the box in your hands and feel immense energy coursing through your veins, sparking your hair up. Something fizzles and splutters. 

Gasps stagger around. 

“W-who is this interloper with dreadful clothes?” The Queen screams. “She’s taking my finger! It’s mine. I found it!”

The cursed item must have off-set the effects of the potion. This thing is strong, there’s no doubt about it. Everyone’s looking at you, some in curiosity, inching closer, and others in horror, lunging back when your eyes meet theirs. 

“Off with her head! Off with her head! Off with her head!” The bitch repeats on a loop, growing red in the face as she stomps about the place. 

Just as guards reach for you, you’re grabbed back by a pair of strong arms. Sukuna’s still invisible but you know it’s him when a calloused hand brushes your hair back and fixes up your uniform in quick succession. Something soft and warm brushes your forehead and then a purple coin is flipped in the air. 

Bright lights blind, encircling you in a cool and refreshing hug, before your body is vanishing in spots. 

Blink. 

You’re standing on solid ground. 

A hall of uniformed scholars and students alike are waiting. They beam at you; deafening rounds of applause meets your ears, and you stumble back into a hard body. Sukuna’s visible again, thanks to the effects of the portal. Gone are the angry kings and queens, the oddly shaped soldiers, and talking animals. Instead, you’re face with academics who express impressed respect.

“Congratulations!” Professor Yaga smiles. He shakes your hand and then your partner’s. “You’re the first students to return — as expected of my best students. Come, drink some water, replenish yourselves, and then I’d like to introduce you to recruiters.”

And so that’s how your return proceeds.

You meet so many people, most you’ve already forgotten, that your head actually hurts by the time you’re able to slip away into your dorm-room. Showered and fed, you lay in bed trying desperately to grasp the events of the day. The professor had revealed that you made it back in record time, which of course will look great on your application, so that’s one chip off your shoulder. 

Still, everything feels unreal. You had travelled, unchaperoned, to a world unknown to you. You explored and discovered and stumbled and learnt — most of which you’d never feel comfortable sharing with anyone else, try as they did in the reception. 

In hindsight, there were things you could have done differently, should have done differently. None of that seems to matter now though. You’ve done it. You’ve succeeded. Passed with flying colours. An A-grade dimension on your first go, too. You should pat yourself on the back. 

For some reason, however, you don’t feel like celebrating. The friends that hugged and pressed you for information didn’t really understand that numbness in your chest. This is all you’ve ever wanted and now that you have it, you feel empty. Is it because now you have nothing? 

Is it guilt? Shame?

You don’t know. 

Your feet meet the cold, wooden floors. Slipping into slippers and tying a robe around you, you sneak out into the hallways, this time not to study, but rather to do the opposite. There’s one thing you need to know. One thing that might set your mind and soul at ease. Facing a high likelihood that that something would not take kindly to being disturbed late at night, you brave the hardest journey so far, and come upon a door, this time, at a good height. 

You knock. 

Every second that passes drives away that confidence but when that door opens and you see a startled Sukuna, shirtless and glistening from a recent shower, it seems, you feel assured again. It’s just him. There’s no reason to be nervous. You’ve seen and felt him, just as he had done with you. Despite the years of petty rivalry, you’ve learned, he’s not that bad actually. 

“Fuck do you want?”

Nevermind. 

Rolling your eyes, you begin walking away. A solid grip wraps itself around your arm and you’re yanked back. Your hand grabs purchase on his torso —hard, hot and wet, images are conjured in your mind that you shouldn’t be thinking about. 

“Don’t get all prissy. Was just asking.”

One or two students pass by, sparing a glance but mostly at Sukuna’s impressive bod. Neither of you care that gossip will pass around; you’ve done a lot of being watched. It no longer bothers you. He leans against the door, arms crossed and raising a brow at you. 

“I just wanted to talk, or something. Like, we didn’t really get to when we got back because it all got so crazy, y’know?”

He grunts. “That’s an understatement. Those stuffy old goats were somehow more annoying than the freaks in Underland.”

You smile. 

“Can’t believe we actually survived. It seemed so impossible at so many points, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it did. But we did good.”

“Yeah, we did...”

The conversation’s dwindling. You thought you would have so much to say, and well, you do, but none of it is coming out. What do you say to someone’s who’s been inside you?

‘Hey, thanks!’ Or ‘Nice?’

In a flash, he tugs you by the fuzzy belt of your robe. You’re in his arms and he growls out some insult to a passing student who had almost bumped into you. Just as quickly, he spins you two around, closes the door and you’re inside his room. Both leaning against his door now, he doesn’t let you go, and you don’t shuffle out of his embrace. 

Gaze softening, he pinches your chin and tilts your head back so you can meet his eyes. “That story about your father…”

“Didn’t happen,” you confess. 

He laughs. “Fucking knew it. You can be such a nerd, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, grades are important, Sukuna. If you knew that, then you wouldn’t be five points behind me.” 

“Fuck you.” He walks forward, pushing you back until you fall on the bed. He follows, drops of water splattering on your face and the sheets. “I was seven points ahead before. I’ll get you back soon.”

You’ve never thought him foul-smelling, even when you searched the deepest darkest parts of yourself to find the most creative insults you could gather to satisfy your need for vindication. But now, his scent fills your nose in an overwhelming, almost suffocating way. 

Clean and mature, you’re suddenly aware of the stubble on his chin when his face skims past yours to smell you. “Hmm, don’t change your shampoo.”

“Do you conjure a breeze to get a whiff of my hair too?” You tease and just as the last word comes out, a ‘yes’ reaches your ears. He’s being painfully transparent and vulnerable and you don’t know how to feel or what to say, so you settle on nothing but silence. 

Truthfully, you don’t know what you had expected to happen when you come here, but this sudden change in your dynamic isn’t terrible.

There, in his bed and in his arms, you rest. Neither of you are asleep, you’re both much too aware of each other to do so, but the quietude’s nice. Just the day before, if you had been told you’d end up like this with him you’d have laughed and levitated a book into their head. It would have been worse than impossible — if it had happened, the world, all the dimensions and planes of existence that fills it, would have folded into itself, swallowed into nothing. 

But it hasn’t and it won’t. 

“Your heart’s beating quite fast,” he murmurs against your neck. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

The question is loaded, and you can’t help yourself when you fire back, “Are you afraid of me, Ryomen?”

“Terrified.”

His face is all you see when he leans on his forearms, then slowly, he leans back down, skimming his sharp nose against your jaw and all the way up to your ear where his lips just barely touch the shell. 

“So afraid I was actually getting dressed to go to your room…but you just had to one-up me, didn’t you? My little overachiever.”

Sukuna doesn’t stop there. 

He kisses you on your temple and then pushes the robe open, revealing an oversized shirt which he pulls up. He presses a kiss onto your clavicle, then your stomach, and the hem of your shorts. He looks up at you. “So afraid that I enjoyed every single fucked up thing we did today, and I’d do it all over again, cursed finger be damned.”

Those shorts are ripped away and, once again, you’re laid all open for him. You should be embarrassed, or feeling shy at the very least, but you aren’t. Because Sukuna isn’t looking at you like he used to — with disdain. No, he’s looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and might ever see even if he explored all the corners of the universe. 

“I was terrified when you yelled at me for burning your application paper for Ad-Ill.”

You smack him on the head. “You were such a prick for that, by the way.”

Big hands push your thighs open, and he slots himself perfectly between your legs, keeping you nice and spread for him. “It was an accident.”

“The hell it was.”

He licks a stripe up your slit, and you moan. Just that one taste had him feral — he dives in like he had done before. Practically making out with your pussy, he laps up the essence steadily building out of your slightly sore hole. “It was. I didn’t know you were -mm- applying too until you came to hand in your paper. Thought it’d be fun to have someone who actually -fuck you tastes so good- knows a thing or two in class so I tried to set alight someone else’s paper, but some loser bumped into me. Made me miss and shit.”

There are so many more incidents you want to bring up, but when he’s suckling on your clit so diligently — far more than diligent than you’d ever seen him be — you can’t do anything but tug at his hair and writhe beneath his hands. 

“Quit fucking moving.” Sukuna smacks the bundle of nerves, and you cream onto his tongue, which earns you soothing caresses on your clammy thighs. “You’re taking the tonic, aren’t you?”

You nod, distracted. 

“Good, because I’m not fucking you with a barrier. Can’t possibly downgrade when I’ve had the real thing, can I?”

That sinful tongue is forcing moans and moans out from you, noises you’ve never heard yourself make. Your eyes fly open when it begins venturing lower, tracing a hole you’ve never touched. “S-sukuna, don’t.”

Of course, he doesn’t listen. It presses in and you feel stretched in a way so different than you’ve ever been stretched before. The sensation isn’t bad. No, not at all but it’s an addictive feeling you’re not sure you can stomach. 

With fingers pistoning inside you and a tongue exploring you in that hole, it’s no surprise to either of you when you squirt all over his face. You screech, back arched painfully and tearing at the sheets beneath you. 

He doesn’t give you a second to breathe before you’re being spun around and positioned onto your knees. Arms pulled back, he thrusts into your sloppy pussy with a long squeeelch. 

“Ah, fuck! Sukuna!”

“God, do you ever loosen up?” He growls. 

Powerful hips make quick work of you, pushing in and out, cock head massaging that gooey spot inside your gummy walls. His balls are swinging with the force of his thrusts, and they kiss your clit. You’re being stimulated inside and out, especially when every time he smacks into you, you’re shoved forward, shirt around your neck, and your tits graze deliciously against the silky sheets. 

“T-too rough…you’re being too rough!”

Sukuna makes a noise of amusement. “You like it rough, though. Can fucking feel -ngh- h-how much you like it. No use in lying to me, baby.”

“Fine!” You huff a laugh. “Fuck me harder then, Ryomen.” He pulls out till only the tip is in your cunt and then he shoves it all back in. “Fuck!”

His groans are making you delirious: “How do you feel so damn good? Seriously. It’s like you were -ah shit- created just to spite me, ha.”

You’re being fucked stupid, and no one can help you. You just have to take his relentless pummelling over and over again. And thank the Heavens you’re not the type to back away from a challenge because he’s fucking you better than anyone else has before, and this kind of euphoria is a crime to miss in anyone’s lifetime.

“Eat.” Through the blurriness of the tears in your eyes, you see a cake hovering in front of you. “Swiped it from Underland. Had it tested so I know exactly what it does. Go on. Be a good girl and open wide.”

Despite better wisdom, you lick up the frosting. He pulls you upright, still ramming his huge cock inside your sopping pussy. A hand grabs your head back, his tongue shoves into your mouth and you share the cream. Through the sweetness, you can taste him, and you just can’t help but lick up the dribble down his chin and meet his lips again for a kiss. 

“Ow! Suku—Ah! Fuck! Right there! Yes, yes, yes!”

Sukuna had bitten your bottom lip. Blood pools in your mouth but he sucks away the iron and distracts you with the flicking of your nipples. Just as he’s had his momentary fill, you’re shoved back down onto the bed, a hand on your head keeping you down as he bulldozes into you with little care. 

“Even your blood tastes sweet ha. God, I can’t get enough of you. I don’t care what you -ngh fuck- have to say. I’m keeping you.”

You explode all over his cock, cream pooling out of your pussy and soaking the sheets underneath. The soreness in your back is barely felt over the maddening pleasure radiating all over your body. “Yes, fuck! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Body limp, you let him keep pummelling you until he pauses suddenly. You look back.

Two cocks meet your stare. 

Bewildered and literally afraid, you attempt to inch away but he grips your ankle in one hand whilst the other strokes the new one. There’s a sadistic smile on his lips and that’s far more horrifying than anything else. It’s the kind of smile that promises pleasure and pain on levels you can only ever achieve with him. 

“You like, baby? Don’t worry your dumb little head -ha- only men grow this. Aren’t we lucky? The women, on the other hand…”

Before you can even think of a reply, he’s spitting onto your second hole and prodding the head of his temporary —at least you hope it is — cock there. You brace yourself for pain, hands flying to try and push him away, but when he pushes in, you’re surprised to find your hole stretching accommodatingly. It wraps around him just as your pussy does when he pushes his original cock in at the same time. 

Thoroughly filled, you’re breathless. Truly. All you can think about is Sukuna. Nothing about your shared history or the insane events of the day. Just Sukuna. You were already being driven crazy by one of him and now there’s two monsters fucking you from behind, rubbing against parts you didn’t know could feel so good. 

“Oh, God, Sukuna. It’s all too much, I can’t.”

He laughs and it’s an incredibly cruel sound. It’s also incredibly hot. “You’ve said that -ngh- before and you’ve been doing j-just fine. Can’t believe we waited so long to do this.”

You’re yanked back by your hair. Your eyes roll back. 

“Don’t make me wait again.”

“Let me do -oh Sukuna!- b-better than you in the next test and I’ll let you fuuuuck! fuck me whenever.”

Body towering over you, he leans forward, driving deeper inside of you at an angle that makes you see dancing gryphons. His jaw clamps down onto your shoulder, leaving, you’re sure, indents that you’ll curse him out for tomorrow. “Yeah? How about you try your damn best to beat me, and I fuck you whenever and wherever I want? I can be quite good with words, after all.”

“Bullshit.”

So many noises echo in the room. The neighbouring students will surely complain to the Head of Student Housing, but you don’t care. The bed is creaking as it slams into the wall with loud thuds. Your moans and his low groans and hisses are making your clit pulse. Squelch! Squelch! Squelch! And smack! Smack! Smack!

It’s like Sukuna’s purposefully being as loud as possible to drive you more and more insane. And it’s fucking working.

“Yeah? You don’t believe me?” He licks a stripe up your spine, laying a firm slap against the glove of your ass just to watch it ripple. “Try this one.”

Steeling yourself, you brace for the impact of whatever lie spews out of his mouth. You don’t want to let him get the best of you; you need to remind him of who’s better out of the two of you. Whether it’s in the examination hall, in a quest, or on the damn bed — you have to come out victorious. 

He kisses your nape before he whispers against the skin there. “I was so fearful of you I convinced Professor Yaga to pair me up with you.”

You cum. 

Stars explode in your vision, and you’re stunned. Your vision must have disappeared. Or maybe your mind has vaporised. Whatever the case, pleasure erupts in both your pussy and your ass, and the feeling is so overwhelming you’re screaming bloody murder into his pillow, drenching it in your drool. 

“Ah, fuck! You’re fucking choking my cocks.” 

With a hiss, Sukuna unloads his cum inside of you. There’s so much of it. It’s overfilling, flowing out of your holes even as he’s still got you stuffed full. You can feel phantom cum pool in your mouth and the taste of him, the branding sear of his body on and in you, relieve you of tension you didn’t realise you had. 

Knowing he’s suffocating you; he rolls you two over so you’re lying on him. His skin is sweaty, as is yours. Through his curtains, you see rays of light peek in — you hadn’t realised you’ve been at it for hours, though you’re sure to feel it later. 

A stillness hangs in the air. For the next couple of weeks, you’ll be busy. Recruiters will conduct interviews, you’ll write reports, and answer questions for local papers and even lead classes on what you’ve learnt. You’ll indubitably meet many more people and go through a different kind of hell. For reasons beyond you, however, you don’t feel any kind of dread. 

“Did you mean what you said? Any of it?”

He snorts and then pecks your forehead, pulling up the blanket over the two of you. “Every damn word, unfortunately.”

“So now what?”

Eyes closed and body shuffling to get comfortable, you can do nothing but be compelled by the sudden call for sleep luring you two away from consciousness. “Whatever you want.”

Somehow, ‘whatever’ is the perfect answer. 

You fall asleep in each other’s arms, fulfilled and satisfied on levels you hadn’t expected to be when you set off that morning. Wherever this goes, neither of you know, but the fact that you’re both willing to see it through, means everything to you. 

That morning, your dreams are filled with visions of delicious drinks, animated animals, and a malevolent monarch who cradles your head close to his heart.

[rubystudios-yt]

He held the small thing in his hands, gently shifting it from side to side, careful to not puncture it's frail flesh with pointed bone. Softly poking at it's face with a knuckle to see the skin move with it and it squirm at the feeling.

The tuff of wool on top of it's head looked clean, thoroughly washed and cared for. He only wished his flesh hadn't rotted off some time ago, maybe then he'd be able to feel it's warm softness, even if just a smidge.

The little sheep had made it's way up the hill to greet him, and took it upon itself to try and climb up his robes when he didn't respond. He had to catch it when it started to slip.

He hadn't ignored it on purpose, he had simply just not heard the sheep's little bleats. Far too small to make a sound really that loud enough for him to hear when it had been on the ground.

But with him cradling it in his palms with his legs pulled up by his chest, leaning back onto an old redwood tree, he could hear it just fine. He wasn't entirely sure what it had been babbling on about, only really half paying attention. He did hear it ask what the scars on his bones that where his wrists where. The question went unanswered.

The sheep didn't seem to mind the old god prying at it or his lack of any vocal responses, after a while it did seem to finally tire itself out of talking and were content with taking a nap as he held it.

It was intriguing to him.

He watched it's chest rise and fall as it breathed small and evenly through it's slumber. The way it's face twitched and softened, a reflection of it's dreams it held onto.

It was fragile and light, any wrong move of his could crush bones and tear it's flesh apart. Surely the creature knew of this as well, and yet it still entrusted it's life within his hands.

He looked up over at the village that the mortal had come from, nearly hidden in the dense forest of Darkwood. It was a cute little place, decorated beautifully with bright florals and different brilliant shades of green. Roofs of straw and hay bundled together tightly to protect from the weather outside sat atop of wooden walls with carved windows.

He wondered which one the sleeping sheep had come from. Did it have any family? Did he? The four gods who had found him in chains called him their brother, so he supposed he had them. But their every movement and word seemed like they didn't know what to do with him. They were afraid to touch him, like he would wither away if they pressed on his bones too roughly, spoke with shaking soft voices that sounded forced. Like they didn't want to speak with him, he never reciprocated their words so he knows not why they forced themselves to.

In a way he knew why, having the need to use a slickly scythe designed for combat as nothing more than a walking stick (which now lay against the same tree as he), easily falling down as his legs felt as though caving in on themselves. But those where nothing time couldn't fix, if he kept walking without over exceeding himself then he wouldn't have to walk with one of the gods trailing close behind any longer. He wouldn't have to be a burden to them, it was troublesome enough as is.

He had managed to find escape away from the worm this time around. He felt terrible using his blindness to his own advantage, but he felt as though they had been suffocating him, coddling him as though he couldn't do anything at all on his own. He felt pathetically small around them, despite his height causing him to practically loom over the four of them.

The sky that overcasted the village was dark with the night's colorful blues and blacks. Stars twinkled bright above them. It felt like only minutes before the colors shifted to allow room for the sun's early morning rays. Highlighting the shadowy purples with pinks and golden orange and yellows. It made the village below feel more full in a way. Like this was how it was meant to be viewed as.

small doodle for a snippet I wrote a couple of months ago lol

[valewright67]

Jayce some time later going: "Mom, I want this blanket! It's super soft, and- and look! One side is blue, but the other side is red! Just like that mage!"

And then that blanket, warm and well loved as it is, eventually finds it way onto the little couch against the wall in the lab he shares with Viktor.

And one day, it's wrapped around Viktor, in an effort to protect him from and welcome him back into the world, a dual and equal measure.

And one day? Viktor realizes it's the one thing he has left of Jayce, and he delves into the sands of time to try and fix things.

It feels have red and blue… is it the blanket？:O

----

[himbosandhardwear]

Steve is rifling through Eddie's collection of magazines, while he's waiting on Eddie and Wayne to get done fixing the dryer(Wayne's fixing, Eddie's getting in the way it sounds like), when he realizes how insane the assortment is; Heavy Metal, Car and Driver, Rolling Stone, National Geographic, OMNI, MAD, even a copy of Good Housekeeping. It's all so Eddie though, to have so many varying interests. He's a little jealous, if he's being honest with himself.

"You have a lot of stuff," he comments when Eddie comes back, closing the copy of Rolling Stone.

"Oh, yeah, sorry, let me just..." He starts kicking a pile of clothes under the bed.

Steve huffs a laugh. "No, I meant you have a lot of interests." He waves the magazine. "Hobbies and stuff."

Eddie nods, continues to shove piles of stuff under the bed anyway. "I guess, yeah. I tend to jump from thing to thing though. Last night it was painting miniatures, tonight it could be writing a song. I don't really get a say in which one. Oh, nice, I've been looking for this," he says, holding up a random T-shirt.

He watches Eddie get distracted by the new discovery and leave the rest of the pile where it's at, smiling to himself as Eddie goes on a tangent about merch vendors at concerts being the real enemy of the people.

"How do you know what you like?" Steve inadvertently blurts out during a gap in Eddie's tale.

He turns toward Steve. "What do you mean?"

What does he mean? "I guess... It's just, I like cars and sports and girls. That's, like, kind of it. And since I started being friends with Henderson and Robin and you I've figured out that's, like, the most basic shit a guy could be into. Level One Dude Interests. So, I guess I just want to know how you find other things? And how will I know if I'm interested?"

"Hmm." He frowns softly. "I've never had to think about it before. I kinda just...fall into things. I like it or I don't."

"Okay, but what's it feel like?"

Eddie puts the shirt down, forgotten again in a moment, and sits. "What does it feel like when you think about cars and sports and girls?"

Steve really thinks about it. Nothing is as consuming as when he was younger, but he does remember a vague sense of excitement, a feeling of connection with the people he surrounded himself with, who shared his interests. But he hasn't felt that in a while. Maybe he wasn't as into those things as he thought, was only into the connection.

"You're having very deep thoughts over there," Eddie points out with a grin.

"Shut up." He grins back. "I think maybe I don't actually know what it feels like to like something because I like it, not just because everyone else likes it. You know what I mean?"

"Well, yes but no." He waves both hands to indicate his person and also the chaos of the room around them.

"See? This is why I'm asking you. If anyone can help me figure out what I like it's you."

Eddie slaps both hands together and rubs. "A project! Excellent idea!"

Wasn't his idea but sure.

"First we have to get you exposure to new things. Movies, TV, music, culture. Then we'll rate how you feel about each demographic. Your music taste is already improving so that's good. Movies, I'm thinking 12 Angry Men to start. Food? Authentic Mexican. We're gonna get you excited about shit!" He seems excited enough for the both of them, which is great. "Excitement is key! You want enthusiasm, yearning even. Your interests should consume your every waking thought. When I'm consuming a new hobby, I'm focused like a shark, I'm obsessed. I go to bed thinking about it and wake up thinking about it. Excited to get back to whatever it is. I wanna talk about it, share it with other people. Complete and total immersion. You wanna marry that interest. You know what I mean?"

Steve blinks at him, stunned into silence. Eddie's just described how Steve feels about him...

Oh.

Oh.

[sturnmeovr]

♡‧₊˚ Babydaddy!Chris x Sweetheart!Reader - Couples Therapy

Picking at the skin on your fingers, you try your hardest to focus on the therapist in front of you but you couldn’t help but feel anxious. Talking to a stranger about your problem while you were in one of your most vulnerable states wasn’t exactly on your bucket list. You knew it’d help yours and Chris’ relationship, though. And you’d do just about anything to keep you and Chris above water while the two of you raised your son together. You watch as the therapist, Marvin, flips through the papers on his clipboard. One leg crossed over the other as he clears his throat, “and what would you say is one of the greatest aspect of your relationship?”

Chris’ hand placed on your knee, giving you a light and comforting squeeze as you attempt muster up a response. Chris had been to a few sessions on his own so this wasn’t out of his comfort zone. You on the other hand — your nerves were eating you alive. Your babydaddy knowing you too well, he knew exactly how you were feeling in the moment.

The only thing you were more nervous about was moving back in with him after the appointment. It was a deal, there was no way he wouldn't hold you to it.

Luckily, Chris speaks before you, giving you time to think on your answer, “her presence. Just her being there, you know? I feel like I can tell her anything.”

But he didn’t.

You look over at him, forcing a small smile as you speak, “I could say the same. We have a really good time when we’re together but when we’re apart, I don’t know what he’s doing and —,” your voice coming to a halt as Marvin finishes the sentence for you. Chris’ icy blues on you the whole time you speak, his expression cracking at your words as he breaks eye contact.

Chris‘ gaze quickly falls to the floor as the therapist takes the words from your mouth, “— and you don’t trust him.” Reluctantly, you nod in agreement. You knew the fact hurt Chris’ feelings and that was the last thing you wanted to do. The soft girl in your wanted to wrap him a bear hug and tell him you didn’t mean it but the nasty bitch in you that was still holding a grudge wanted him to feel the exact same hurt he caused you. It’d never happen, you didn’t have the animosity for it.

“How does that make you feel — that she can’t trust you — Chris?”

Watching as Chris lifts his head, looking at you briefly before fixing gaze on Marvin. He lets out a pitiful laugh, almost like he’s uncomfortable, “like shit,” before running a hand thru his hair and letting out a lengthy breath, “I know I fucked up. I just wish I could make things go back to normal.”

Marvin scribbles a few notes on his notebook, “what’s normal look like to you?”

“Living under the same roof. Sleeping in the same bed. Morning showers together. Movie marathon nights. Late night store runs. Just being together — we’re never together anymore. I don’t know — t’starting to feel like she hates me,” pain weaves through his words, making his voice crack slightly.

Wonder fucking why.

The therapist nods as he listens intently, jotting a few more notes down. You watch as he scratches his chin, tapping the clipboard with his pen a few times, “now, y/n — what steps would your relationship have to take in order for it to be ‘normal’ again?”

The real question. The question that had been looping thru your mind like a broken record the whole time you had been separated from him. How would it ever go back to normal? Would life with Chris ever go back to normal? Could you even get past the situation? I guess that’s why you were sitting parallel from a relationship counselor, the mixed emotion laying deep in your gut making you feel like you could vomit at any given moment.

Biting down on your bottom lip, you couldn’t get the words wouldn’t come to you. Chris’ strong grip giving your thigh another squeeze, almost like he was pressuring you into answering the question.

“I — I don’t know,” you croak, “I just need to be able to trust him again,” your voice barely above a whisper, as you blink away the tears brimming your eyes. Fixing gaze on Chris as the therapist speaks once again, “that’s okay — that’s what we’re here for — to get your guys back on track. Somethings take time and that’s okay.”

You felt bad but not nearly as bad as you didn’t when you found out about his infidelity. As much as it hurt you to see him upset, you knew there was no other way around it than to go through it. His infidelity couldn’t be ignored, the only way the relationship would work was if the two of you fixed it.

With Bear being due in just a few short weeks, it was crunch time in more ways than one. You were just happy he was willing to take responsibility for his faults and work on his faults for the family he played a big part in creating.

Everyone has to start somewhere, right?

wc - 880

♡‧₊˚ Chey’s Note - I’m back bitchess 🤭🤪 all jokes aside, I sincerely apologize for abandoning my babies! 💔😪 life has been kicking ass — car issues, house issues, health issues — but I’m here and I’m ready to serve. I hope you guys didn’t think you could get rid of me that’s easily 😋

Babydaddy!Chris Masterlist

Masterlist

Taglist (comment to be added)

Babydaddy!Chris Bot

[nerd-party]

Well. This is new.

"What happened here, Luci?" I ask, blinking in the sudden bright sunlight. All around, people relax and laugh, looking uncomfortable but relieved.

Luci shrugs. "Meh, got bored." Asshole. He always was impulsive like that- part of the reason he was cast down, really. "Come to enjoy the resort?" He flashes me a perfect, dazzling smile.

What a prick. Even when we were both angels he was always flirting with me- brushing his hands over the small of my back when he passed, lifting me up to reach things and putting his hand a little too far up my thigh, holding eye contact a little too long. When the humans really started developing, he'd change his appearance to match the latest hot guy in town- right now, he's stolen the visage of a mortal called 'Ian Somerhalder'. I can't figure out if I care or not.

"As if. You know your father is going to be pisse- annoyed?" I bite back the curse at the top of my tongue. Something about him always makes me slip up- last time I spent fifty years in accounting for swearing at him. Fuck's sake.

At least the Father doesn't police pur thoughts unless we do something untoward. He believes we should have autonomy over our actions, and we can't have that if we live afraid of what he would do. He doesn't want us to fear him.

Luci never cared about that.

His grin is infuriatingly beautiful. "The more pissed off he is, the better. Say, care for a tour?" He gestures around and begins to walk down the red-marble steps, each languid, graceful step making me jog to catch up.

"So how exactly is this up to code?" I ask, gazing in mild amazement at the flaming trees and steaming pools. Devils and mortals alike soak their bones and bathe in the almost-shade of the towering hotel stretching high through the Seven Layers.

"Well, of you look to your right you'll realize the water in our state-of-the-art pools is still at boiling point, and our trees offer no respite from the heat of the Eternal Furnace below. Each floor of our hotel reaches into a different Layer and the things inside correspond to this. I'm guessing you'll need to check, though?" He bats his long, perfect eyelashes at me. For a split second, he doesn't look human anymore- he looks more like the old him, with softly curling brown hair, tanned skin and sparkling eyes, but it's quickly replaced with a mortal face once again.

"I certainly do." It's becoming harder and harder to focus on my job. It seems like all the heat in the worlds is emanating from him as we walk together, his hand brushing my arm as he steers me towards the entrance. His skin is cold to the touch.

I pull away from him and smartly knock on the looming doors of the hotel. He raises an eyebrow at me.

"What?" I snap at him, face flushing.

He says nothing, just snaps his fingers. The doors fly open at that instant, a rush of warm air flowing over me and blasting my golden hair back.

"Come on in." He leads the way as I frantically fix my hair, reclipping my butterfly clips and smoothing my silken dress.

"Tosser." I grumble, storming in behind him. My clipboard floats behind me, taking notes automatically.

"What was that, angel?" He says over his shoulder, walking up the first set of stairs into the first level - Envy.

"Nothing." I reply sweetly, blowing him a sarcastic kiss. He laughs, a warm, hearty sound, and it reverberates down my spine like a lighting bolt.

I need to focus. He is trying to distract me on purpose.

Envy turns out to be a mirror maze, filled with mirrors that distort your appearance in various ways. I peer through the magic of one mirror that shows me as having a perfectly skinny frame. Obviously as an angel I get to choose how I look so it has no effect, but looking through the veil shows a devil mimicking my movements. He waves at me.

"Your employees seem happy enough." I remark as we pass through Gluttony. Around us, mortals gorge themselves on red-hot metal and sharpened spikes. "What do they think they're eating?"

Luci snaps his fingers again and my vision blurs and shifts. On the tables now seems to be piles of delicious cupcakes, roast dinners and impeccable sweets. My mouth waters at just the sight of it all.

"Want some?" He suggests sweetly, holding out a red velvet cake to me.

"Fuck off." I slap it away, hearing it clatter to the ground. His grin widens, shark-like teeth embedded in his mouth like gems in stone.

We walk through Sloth (a gaming café), Pride (an awards ceremony), Greed (a casino) and eventually end up at the doors to Wrath.

I push them open, my legs burning from all this walking. I could use my wings, but I feel bad for Luci, flying while he's cursed to walk.

When I open the doors to Wrath I'm shocked. Instead of the shouting and yelling I expected, it is silent. The only sound is our footsteps on the feet-thick ice of the frozen waters that is Wrath.

"What is this?" I whisper, the noise disappearing off into the distance. Luci seems somber, walking almost silently beside me.

"The perfect Layer. You're assigned to the Layer you most aligned with in Life. What is the cruelest hell for a wrathful person but a silent, cold, empty expanse? All that rage, and nowhere to put it?"

I'm stunned silent. "Hell has changed."

Luci scuffs his feet on the ice, trainers kicking up frost. His breath is barely visible, while mine puffs out in huge clouds. "So have I."

"Since my last visit? In fifty years, your perception of hell has changed so much?"

His eyes meet mine, and for the second time this visit I see the angel he used to be below the beautiful facade of humanity. This time, I refuse to look away.

"I like this Layer best." He says suddenly, not breaking eye contact. He circles me, eyes trailing over every inch of my body like a predator surveying his prey. For some reason, it feels less intimidating and more... Intimate. I want to sink into the warmth he emanates like a soft blanket as he comes up behind me, gripping my shoulders with his cold hands and leaning right close to my ear. "It reminds me of you."

I jerk away. "Me?"

"Untouchable. Unknowable." He swallows. "Unhavable."

"That's not a word." I can't think of anything else to say.

"You know what I mean." His eyes, golden as candlelight are still fixed on mine.

"Luci..." I murmur, rooted to the spot as he steps towards me again, gently taking my hand. The cold is starting to get to me now.

"I love that you still call me that. After everything." He admits, squeezing my hand and tracing something in my palm.

We say nothing as he draws it, again and again whilst I try and commit it to memory, learn the shapes of by heart so I can learn this picture like I've learned him. Slowly, the lines make a shape in my head. A heart. Anatomically correct, the Perfect Design, his and mine matching. Human.

"Let's move on." He whispers, and snaps his fingers.

One sickening lurch later I am standing beside Luci looking at a set of pink doors in the shape of a heart, amorous sounds coming from within.

"Lust." He announced dramatically. I shiver, still adjusting from the cold, and realize his hand isn't in mine anymore. Without a word, he removes his dinner jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, the loose hurt he was wearing fully revealed. His biceps strain slightly against the rolled-up fabric of the white sleeves as he pushes open the door. I pretend not to notice, just like I'm pretending not to notice the spicy smell of his jacket on my body.

A pink haze fills the room, creeping around corners and seeping under doorways. Loud moans blare from speakers above each closed door of the private rooms, broadcasting what's happening inside. I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

"You don't like it?" Luci asks, mock-offended.

"This one hasn't changed." I remark bluntly. "I've always hated it."

A devastating smile flickers over his face. "Part of it has."

He leads me through winding corridors, up sets of carpeted pink stairs strewn with rose petals, past bathhouses with pink water and heart-shaped pools, and eventually, finally, out onto a balcony.

Roses twist and twine around the railing, adding pops of beautiful red and shimmering purple. The stars above twinkle brightly and I gasp, because, high above us, lies Heaven.

"Do you like this part?" Luci asks me, sneaking up behind me and resting his hands gently on my hips, gazing up at the stars with me as if that simple action isn't stamping down on the accelerator to my heart. My angel, human, confused heart that's betraying itself and heaven to fall in love with this man, this devil, this unstoppable force that's just zapped into my not-life-not-death and is pulling me forever towards him like a magnet.

"I love it." Honesty was always my best quality.

"Good. I made it for you." He's so, so still, so perfectly relaxed. It feels oddly safe in his arms, though I know it's false. Nothing about Hell is safe.

"Why? Why make me a special balcony in Lust of all places? You know I only visit once every half-century. What's the point?"

"Do I need to have one?" He replies, and I might be crazy but do his lips move right beside me ear, in a tentative almost-kiss? I think they do. I hope they do.

"Yes." I'm resolute, trying not to let my stupid human knees buckle below me as his arms snake around my waist and twist me around to face him.

I gasp. He's dropped his human face fully, revealing the Luci I knew. The one I know, with hair as shining golden as mine with a dark streak at the front, with gorgeous eyes and perfect teeth and he's beautiful. As beautiful as the day I had to see him go.

"Fine." He replies, and drags his lips across my skin towards my ear, breath tickling the strands of hair beside it. "This is my reason."

His lips are soft and insistent, sweet like liquor and just as intoxicating. I lose myself in the drag and slide of his lips, gripping his hair as his arms pull me impossibly closer and yet not close enough. Never close enough.

We break apart, breathing heavily. "Will that suffice, angel?" He grins, pressing two fingers to his lips in half-shock, half-arrogance.

"I suppose it will have to. I'm being summoned back." I say, removing my hands from his face (when did that happen?) and inspecting them, detecting the soft, sparkling glow that seems me finished.

Luci's eyes are pleading. "Stay?"

I shake my head sadly. "I can't. Out of my power. I'll see you in a half-century as always." I glance towards heaven, a glittering silver kingdom in the night, and Luci nods again sadly.

"Until then, my love."

~~~

The Father barely looks at me when I return before ordering the other angels out.

"Are you happy?" He asks me abruptly, still seated in his throne.

I'm taken aback but I nod, almost on command. "I am, Lord. But what shall become of me now?"

He smiles a twinkling, fond smile. "Whatever you wish, child. Love is not merely a mortal thing. It is My blessing to all those that deserve it. And you, child, deserve this."

"Then what do I do?"

He sits back and spreads his arms. "What you wish."

~~~

Luci open the door six days later.

"Angel?" He says in disbelief as I drop my bags and throw my arms around him. "What are you doing here? You should be in Heaven!"

I point at my new name badge. "Meet the first and only angel in the Heaven/Hell Relations Department! Once a year I'll go back up and tell the Father about how it's going down here."

"So you're staying with me?" His voice shines with joy as I nod and he scoops me up into his arms, burying his lips in my neck.

"I have a private room in Lust, if you like." He whispers to me.

"Perfect." I murmur back, and I don't even care that all the devils in Hell and angels in Heaven are gawping at us right now. The only thing that matters right now is Luci.

You are an angel sent down to Hell every half-century for a routine checkup. One day, you find it completely remade. It is now a luxury resort without a single scream to be heard. When you confront the Big Man, he simply says "Meh, got bored."

[luveline]

i just saw someone on tiktok say “behind every girl that always wants to be around their partner is a little who’s dad didn’t choose her.” with aaron pls :(( and reader reveals her daddy issues? xxx

—hotch comforts you when you worry you depend on him for the wrong reasons. fem, 2k

You were aware of the irony. Girl who hates her father latches onto the first older man to give her any positive attention: the framing isn’t complimentary to either of you, and it’s not true, really. You love Aaron because he’s kind, and he’s handsome, and because he loves you first. You won’t pretend he’s perfect even if he might say that about you. He doesn’t have to be. 

Aaron is kind where all the other men in your life have been cruel. He is the person you go to when things go wrong, even if you don’t expect him to fix things for you. You know you have ‘daddy issues’, and you don’t want them to affect how you and Aaron are when you’re together, but it’s obvious to the both of you that you crave being looked after. The way Aaron takes care of you absolutely factors into why you love him. 

He wraps the tail end of your scarf into your coat and flattens the lump of it until it’s under your chin. “Alright?” he asks, not expecting an answer as he turns away to grab his own scarf. “Will that coat be warm enough? It might be a few hours.” 

“Fine. We’ll be inside most of the time.” 

“Mm,” he hums, reaching back to pinch your side. You laugh and he smiles but doesn’t say anything further, pulling open the front door, and holding it for you until you’re on the porch. 

“You know you don’t have to… spoil him, so much,” you say lightly. 

“It’s not spoiling, he only wants a few things.” 

You’d personally felt that Jack’s birthday wish list was a bit long, but you don’t care. You don’t have a vendetta against Jack's happiness. If Aaron wants to spend half a paycheck (alright, a quarter, if that) on some toys, he should do it. But he probably knows already that Jack won’t care if he doesn’t get all of that stuff. “I didn’t get half as much for my birthdays,” you say. 

“Believe me, honey, neither did I.” 

“One year someone’s mom got me a full box set of movies though. That was a good one.” 

“One year, I got two different pagers.” He snorts. “And now they’re useless.” 

“I never used a pager.” 

Aaron goes a bit red, self-shame or something silly like that. “Don’t tell me that.” 

“Cradle snatcher.” 

“Stop, that’s not funny.” 

It’s funny. You aren’t shockingly younger than Aaron but it’s definitely enough time to see the difference (not that you care, you quite like him with his permanent wrinkle between his brows and his big, big hands). “I really haven’t. I know what they are, of course, but I went straight to a cell phone.” 

He grumbles something unheard. Together, you get into his car and drive to the shopping centre nearest the house, a maze of storefronts with outdoor entrances, like a mall that’s been shaken and thrown out over two streets. It’s not entertaining but in a way, it’s good. Aaron holds your hand and you can walk around with your head held high, proud to be a well-dressed, in love-looking partnership. See, your face says to anyone who’ll look, I’m well-loved. 

After an hour or two he kisses your cheek and decides aloud that you need dinner. He doesn’t ask if you’re hungry, he just chooses, and you love it. 

“Thank you for letting me come today,” you say, sitting across from him behind a dinner plate and a towering glass of lemon water. 

“Did I let you?” he asks, distracted by his steak and fries, though he sounds as loving as usual. 

“You could’ve said no.” 

“I have no reason to. I like when you’re with me. Thank you for letting me bring you, then, and boring you half to death.” 

“Freezing me the other half.” 

“Ah, so smart, so clever,” he murmurs. 

“Witty.” 

“Always, aren’t you?” 

You wonder about the dessert menu, find your mouth working of its own accord. “It doesn’t feel believable, sometimes. That you want me around so much.” 

He pauses, resting his knife across his fork. With a free hand, he gestures to your hand. “Would you like more proof?” 

You aren’t sure what he means, the tennis bracelet he got you for your first anniversary, or the engagement ring that sits heavily on your marriage finger waiting to be traded for a golden band. Maybe he means the teeny silver bracelet that falls down your arm whenever you move, that one just for fun. 

“Not,” he says slowly, his eyes squinted to tell you that you’re caught, “that jewellery should be your sole proof.” 

“Would you like to prove it to me now?” 

He reaches over to squeeze your hand. “I want you around all of the time. If I could I’d have us sewn together at the hip.” He’s grinning, thumbing against your knuckles. “It might not be comfortable at night when you’re trying to climb all over me.” 

“You climb all over me, Hotchner, don’t lie.” 

Aaron nods appreciatively. “That’s right. You’re the second most important thing in my life, and that’s not your fault, only Jack is so endearing.” 

“He’s a lucky kid.” 

“No, he’s not,” Aaron says gently, “but I really do love him.” 

“Of course he’s lucky. He has a dad who loves him to pieces, his Aunt Jess is like, superwoman, and– you know, I know I’m not the same as that, but I love him.”

“You look after him,” Aaron says. 

“It’s honestly just nice that you seem to like him. You don’t act like he’s an annoyance for you, you aren’t angry to have to come out today to get him his presents.” 

“Well, no. It’s not something to be angry about. When you have kids, you’re signing up for every part of having them.” 

“I know.” 

He takes a sip of his drink and puts it down beside your own in what you know to be him buying a little time. “Honey, is there something… I don’t know, something you want to talk about? Is it Jack's birthday…?”

You feel your heart fall into your mouth, as though it began life somewhere else, heartbeat mortified on your tongue. He sees you fluster and immediately softens, turning your hand in his to stroke along the inside of your wrist. 

“Nevermind,” he says. 

“No.” You clear your throat. “It’s not about Jack’s birthday. It’s just… you know you weren’t always the best father you could’ve been.” 

He nods. “I do.” 

“But you are now. You’ve made sacrifices, you– you chose Jack.” 

“I couldn’t not.” You’re quiet. He understands. “Sweetheart, we don’t have to talk about it now. Would that be better? You can think about what you have to say, and I promise I’ll listen without judging you when you’re ready to tell me about it. Okay?” He gives your wrist a squeeze. “You aren’t upset, are you?” 

“I’m just thinking.” 

“Are you too distracted for dessert?” 

You let Aaron pick one for you. Let him pay the bill, he’d be insulted if you even asked about splitting it, and he might genuinely get annoyed if you offered yourself. You usually love it. Someone loves you enough that money is practically immaterial. Just last month he had to have the roof of the house redone, and you know his money isn’t infinite, as does he, and yet it didn’t stop you from being spoiled, because any money he has was money shared. You know if he suddenly turned pauper he’d still spoil you, same way you’re spoiled with soft touches and less chores than you should take. 

“You know I don’t think of you as my father, right?” you ask. 

Aaron chokes on a startled laugh. “Of course I do,” he says, coughing, clutching your elbow. 

“So if I tell you that sometimes the way you treat me reminds me of my father, you won’t take it the wrong way?” 

“No.” He smiles where he should frown, wraps an arm behind your back when he should be judging you. “Men are still men. And I am a father, so it makes sense that you’d have those connotations in mind sometimes.” 

“I don’t want you to be my dad, but I do wonder… I wonder if I want to be around you so much because my father didn’t want to be around me. Does that make sense?” 

“I think it makes sense to wonder about it,” he says diplomatically. 

You’re nearly back to the car and this is a strange place to bare your heart, but it’s not so dramatic, you suppose. “I just think that sometimes I cling to you so much, and it must be– I’m insecure about you.”

“Mm, but you have no reason to be,” he says, pulling you closer still, his fingers aligned against your ribs and warming through your layers. 

“My father didn’t like me, not like you like Jack. There were things that were far more important to him. But with you, I’m important, and– and I know it’s not the same relationship, but–” You groan, not sure what you’re trying to say to him, or what you want him to understand. 

“My father didn’t like me, either,” Aaron says, encouraging you to keep walking to the car. “He was not a nice person. And it absolutely affected how I feel now, even if I don’t always think about him. The way he treated me when I was young influenced the person I am now. And looking for the things I wish he was, looking for kindness, for a gentle partner, it doesn’t mean that I need a placeholder for him, does it? I know what you’re saying to me. Don’t think you’re wrong for wanting to be looked after.” 

You can’t help breathing out a sigh of relief. “Right.” 

“I’ve never been a young woman, and I don’t have a daughter, but it’s not hard to imagine how you felt. It’s okay to wish you’d been loved properly.” 

“I was never a daddy’s girl,” you confess. 

“It’s not fair. Everyone wants to be treasured when they're a kid. And it makes sense that you’re still looking for that feeling. We both know it’s not the same, but I really will look after you.” He smiles. “Okay?” 

“Okay. Sorry if it’s too weird.” 

“It’s not weird to want someone who takes care of you.” 

You bring your hands to his face. They’re smaller than his, you’ve shorter fingers with softer palms, but they fit perfectly on his cheeks. You tease the scratchy hill of his chin with your thumb before closing your eyes, reaching up for a kiss. The bags hanging from your elbows crack, crushed as Aaron gets his hands behind your back to hold you. 

“You’re too good to me,” you say softly, returning flat to your heels. 

Aaron pulls your face back to kiss your cheek. “You deserve everything you get, honey. I promise.” 

[cybsoo2]

parasite

╰┈➤ synopsis — Jungkook swears the two of you are in love. Two hearts harbouring the same feeling for one another, but a blue screen always keeping you apart. However, an impromptu live steam reveals some interesting information that could finally destroy the distance.

╰┈➤ pairing — yandere!jungkook x camgirl!reader

╰┈➤ word count — 2.5k

╰┈➤ content warning — mature themes, obsessive behavior, masturbation (m&f), semi-public masturbation, voyeurism (by eavesdropping), sexting, porn, he's delusional

“I can’t sleep.” Your voice is soft and sleep-laced. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about it.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. Speaking to him like you’re confessing a secret. “I thought I could make it until Friday–”

Friday.  Jungkook’s favourite day. The one day of the week he can see you through the screen. He hates how much distance there is between you. His hands twitching to reach through the screen, body begging to pull you close. You always say how lonely the winters get, how cold it is in your room.

He could keep you warm.

And while his head knows that you’re just two strangers through a screen, his heart begs to differ. Because every time you come online, sit down in your chair and stare into the camera, you look into the lens like you can see him.

You’re looking at him like that right now. Looking into his eyes like you need him.

Jungkook knows just what you like. He knows how to heat you up– airy moans sounding through his headphones. And he knows how to cool you down– praising your performance and telling you how pretty you looked. But even though he knows you better than you know yourself, you bring out a part of Jungkook he didn’t know he had.

You destroy him. Tearing him to pieces and putting them back together again. Stretching him so thin he thinks he’ll snap, only to be let back like an elastic band.

He craves you like he can’t understand. Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, aching to sink his teeth into your skin. You’re all he thinks about, every day of the week until Friday– when he finally gets to speak his mind. It’s a short second of pleasure in a sea of pain, but you make it worth the while.

That’s why this stream is such a blessing. You answered his call and came to him when he needed it most. And it seems like you needed him too.

“I can’t stop thinking about–” You pause to bite your lip, a look of pain etched upon your face. “How much it hurts.”

It does look like it hurts. Your teary eyes are red-rimmed, as if you kept rubbing at them– trying to rid yourself of these intrusive thoughts. Your lips stand out to him too, bitten and bleeding just a bit. You’re quick to lick it away, almost like you could sense his staring.

Jungkook is in pain too. That string in his stomach is tightening by the second. It begins to burn and it hurts with the way he’s straining through his pants. His blue pajamas are growing a bit of a dark spot near the front. They’re too tight, so why even bother keeping them on?

“You won’t be mad at me right?” You’ve begun to rock yourself back and forth. The pillow in between your legs brings just a bit of relief. “I tried so hard to last till Friday– I really did. But then again, this could be like a little treat to the both of us.”

Your eyes remain fixed on the flood of new messages. Hands fisting the sheets tightly, you’re whole body tense because you refuse to go any further unless your viewers tell you to. All the responses scream at you, begging for you to continue, but you stay still.

Jungkook can’t take it any longer. His pants discarded on the floor, shirt somewhere he forgot. He palms himself through his boxers, hips jutting up to meet his hand. Arousal shoots through his skin and he’s staining himself a dark blue. If he can touch himself so carelessly, then don’t you deserve to as well?

kookiejar: keep going kookiejar: i know we both need it

Jungkook can see you reach your hand down slowly. Pushing past the waistband of your underwear and reaching that aching part of you.

From where you lie on your side, Jungkook can see everything. Your shirt is riding up, risen up along your stomach to reveal your bare skin. The cotton clings to you, you’ve already broken a sweat from the raging heat in your core.

The black panties you wear grow darker as you keep drowning in desire. They’ve gotten messy, lacy patterns sticking to your skin. The fabric creates too much distance, so you slowly slide them off. Now nothing separates you from the sin you’re so caught up in. A sheer wetness coating your thighs. You keep rubbing them together to get more friction, trapping your fingers in between your legs.

Your movements are lazy as you chase your lust. Tired and still sleepy, there’s no reason to rush into it. You slowly circle your clit, building up a tension that has you clenching around nothing. That aching need only rises as you slip your fingers down further. Pushing two fingers into your puffy, pink hole. You let out a groan at the sensation and Jungkook thinks he’ll go insane.

He’s a total mess. Warm and wet, he’s completely soaked through his shorts. The fabric begins to inch at his sensitive skin and his face contorts at the feeling. He peels them off, thighs trembling as they stick together.

His cock stands tall. Angry and red as pearly drops of pre-cum roll down the slide. He’s barely touched himself, only lazy strokes after desperately palming himself through his pants, but he can already feel himself tipping over the edge if he doesn’t slow down.

His insides are tied tight, abs tensing and hands shaking. His whole body feels as if it’s on fire. He grips onto the corner of his computer to hold himself still. Thumbs brushing against your hair through the screen. His eyes lock onto you, focused on watching you ride out your pleasure before he even thinks about his own.

You’re covering up all the pretty little sounds you make. Biting down on your fist as you try to fight off every moan that makes its way up your throat. All Jungkook can hear is the rusting sheets and your heavy breathing– hitching as you hit that sweet spot.

You’ve never been very vocal when you’re like this. None of those obnoxiously loud moans or phony cries of climax. You’re not like those porn stars of the week, fake and nothing but fictional. You’re real. That’s why Jungkook was so drawn to you. Your sweet sighs as your head arched back. The way you’d talk to the chat, always so worried if they were enjoying themselves or not, saying you wouldn’t finish unless they did first. And how you’d always end up breathless whenever you finally came undone. Jungkook knows how you act when you’re deep in desire, but this isn’t it.

kookiejar: what are you hiding from?

You scan over the chat as you lazily fuck yourself. Jungkook can see the reflection of his message in your iris. The bright blue words burnt into your retinas, they stay there for a second before you try to blink them away.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” You say between heavy breathes. Still blissed out and struggling to think. “I couldn’t wait, and if we’re too loud, people could hear.” Your voice is a bit muffled, face hiding in your pillow in embarrassment.

kookiejar: all that matters is you and me kookiejar: don’t worry about anyone else

His blue words burn into the screen. They’re all you can see. 

Were you really so bad at concealing your emotions? Hiding your hesitation in between dirty  words and a dark room. You tried to cater to your fans while still enjoying the ecstasy, all without ever truly letting go. Yet, you can never outrun the eyes of anonymous. He sees right through your lies. He looks into your heart and knows what you really want. 

Perhaps letting go wouldn’t be so bad? To let yourself indulge in the dark night. To be truly tangled up in this heat. To have your fingers pushed up inside. Knuckle-deep and stroking at the softest parts of you. Reaching deeper and rubbing against that sweet spot– the one that has you arching your back and letting out a sweet sigh. 

Screw the neighbours and what they’ll say the next morning, you’ll deal with the consequences when they come. And even if you did have a bit of doubt in your mind, a notification from the chat eases all your worries.

user ‘kookiejar’ sent you $250

kookiejar: let yourself go

And you do just that. Sounds of pure pleasure play through Jungkook’s headphones: airy moans and heavy breathing– that creaky bed frame that you can’t afford to fix. You’re wrapped up in the bedsheets, baby blue colour that keeps getting darker. Blue turnt to black with how much you’re working yourself up. Wetness dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets. You turn over slightly onto your stomach. Grinding down onto the mattress while your hand grabs a fistful of the sheets. Searching for something to hold on to as open mouthed moans muffle themselves into your pillow. 

Tonight is intimate. You could’ve chosen to be selfish– gotten off as the sun fell from the sky. Giving into your cravings and chasing the heat. A few minutes spent pulling at your clit, teasing yourself a little before and pumping them inside. You could’ve come undone in quiet, hiding it like a secret in the dark. But instead, you chose to come online.

You’re sharing all the secrets about yourself. Giving your viewers a voyeuristic look at the little details that make up your life. Small details that you should’ve been more careful to conceal. Because as you let your mind relax and your emotions take over, your muted moans make their way through the single white wall that separates you. 

Jungkook can barely make out the noises coming from the room right next to him. It’s all so muffled he has to stain himself to hear. His headphones lay abandoned on his bed. Computer tossed to the side and for the very first time, his eyes aren’t on you. Instead he stares at the white wall in front of him. Eyebrows furrowed as he tries to focus on what he can’t hear. Jungkook pushes himself closer to the wall, ear pressed up against it. No air leaves his lips, he’s completely quiet. All his attention on your hushed moans that sound through the wall. 

He can hear you. 

He can actually hear you– and not through a stupid screen or on replay in his memories, but right next door. It’s almost as if you’re right next to him, and Jungkook can’t help himself from imagining it. 

You two sitting on the same bed, not even an inch of distance between your bodies. You’re breaking a sweat, the moisture gathers at your hairline and drips down to your flushed cheeks. They’ve turnt red with how hot you’ve grown. 

With your warm body in reach, Jungkook can barely hold himself back. His once forgotten arousal has only been intensified. Back is the ache in his bones and he lets out a groan at the feeling. Jungkook lets out a small whine, sensitive to the cold air against his burning body. He left the lonely sheets in search of your voice and now he sits slumped against the wall. He wraps one hand around his cock, his needs have been neglected and he doesn’t know if he can ignore them any longer. 

He starts out slow, lazy strokes going down his dick, but it isn’t very long before he picks up the pace. His other hand tries to grip onto the wall. Jungkook’s mind is a mess and he needs something to steady himself with. Not only that, but with his palm pressed flat against the wall, it’s almost as if he could reach right through and take you in his arms. Just a single touch from you would be enough to push him over the edge. He’s close– and from what he can hear, you are too. 

Almost at your breaking point, you’re so desperate to cum it’s hard to hold back– but you do. Pulling your fingers away from your aching cunt, letting out a breathy whine as you do so. Biting down on your sticky fingers, you try to ignore the throbbing of your core. Your body begs for more, but you turnt to look into the lens instead. 

“Fuck– I’m so close.” You say through a muffled moan. “You are too, aren’t you?” You look at the camera in anticipation, waiting for a response with baited breath. 

Jungkook doesn’t even have to grab his headphones to hear your question, he can hear it right through the wall. A part of him jumps to answer you, the words threatening to tumble past his lips. But he clamps his hand down on his mouth and swallows back the sentence. He wouldn’t want to scare you after all. Instead, Jungkook is quick to snatch up the laptop laying open on his bed and type out a reply.

kookiejar: yes, please– i’m so close kookiejar: you make me insane when you make those pretty sounds

“You want me to keep going?” You ask the chat. Head rolling back as you reach back down. Slender fingers encircle your clit, rubbing at the sensitive spot. The feeling is so good it has you slipping out a soft moan. “Like when I make these sounds?” Your eyes flutter over to the chat once again. You ask the question almost teasingly. And even if you can’t see him, Jungkook can’t stop himself from frantically nodding his head yes. 

He types with trembling fingers. No doubt making a mess of his computer. Sticky hands traveling over the keys, begging you to keep doing what you’re doing His hand travels up to the tip of his cock. So slick it’s easy to start thumbing over his slit. The new sensation and noises of you doing the same has his eyes rolling back. His head lolls to the side, temple resting against the cold wall. Frantic eyes flicker to your form, still teasing at your clit as pretty sighs tumble past your pink lips. 

Jungkook’s almost there. A burning heat builds up in his stomach. It spreads through his body and reaches his crotch. He’s a second away from cumming and he wants you to do the same.

kookiejar: don’t stop

Eyes drifting amongst the dark, they find the light and focus on a single sentence. Don’t stop. 

“Okay–” You manage to say through a sigh. And with your face buried into the pillow and fingers rubbing against your bud, the string inside you finally snaps. As you reach your peak, you mumble out the remainder of your sentence. “Kookie…”

With his name on your lips and his hands thumbing at the tip, Jungkook can’t hold back any longer. He cums all over himself. A stickiness that covers his hand and the wall in between you. And instead of the screen that used to separate you, it’s the room that entraps you. A room with white walls and iron bars. One that he just has to figure out how to sneak into.

© cybsoo2 2025, all rights reserved

[damneddamsy]

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

summary: Winter rolls into Jackson once more, but things are heating up in the big, white house across the street.

a/n: 18+ MDNI smut, but are you ready for the most wholesome smut you've ever read in your life? also update -> so, heh, I'm not really great at smut per se, this one, I've really tried to capture the luuurv, the physicality of it, and I really hope I've done it justice. also, happy earth day people!

There came a time in Joel’s life when he grew so used to boring bullshit that he actually preferred it. He didn’t know if that was old age creeping up on him, dragging him toward the inevitability of doing absolutely nothing, or if he was just plain tired of a life spent running from one disaster to the next. Either way, he found himself appreciating the small mercies. His own simple pleasures.

Going to bed without whiskey clawing its way down his throat. Waking up without his head feeling like a busted canteen. Fresh, warm socks straight from the laundry. Knuckling down and figuring out how to cook something that wasn’t just oatmeal or meat cooked to leather, not because he had to, but because he wanted to get it right.

At some point, he realized he didn’t care much to keep busy anymore—except for when it came to Leela and Maya. But it was strange how a simple life could still surprise him, could still land a punch straight to the ribs with five little words:

“Why don’t you stay here?”

It had caught him mid-sip, a few days after Leela’s little weed trip, while they were eating dinner. He’d had to set his cup down and stare at her. Make sense of it for three seconds. Even though the answer had already been waiting in his gut, inevitable as sunrise, he had smiled:

“Why not, darlin’?”

And yeah, he loved the big, white house. It was Jackson's history, with old black-and-white pictures lining the walls—Leela’s parents, grandparents, ghosts of people who had walked these halls before him. And maybe, in some small way, he was stitching himself into its bones with his work, care, and name. All the little fond memories in every nook of the home. His hands had worn themselves raw winterizing the garden, keeping the fences up, and scraping, painting, hammering, and patching up Maya’s nursery when she got naughty enough to climb right out of the crib. Light fixtures, floorboards, leaky pipes—he’d wrenched his calf muscle twice trying to fix that goddamn water heater.

Now, as Joel sat at Tommy’s dining table, peeling peas like a goddamn housewife, shoulders hunched, fingers working on autopilot, he continued sneaking glances at them—stuck on them. On all the ways it wasn’t working—on all the ways it was. Why not him?

Maya was perched on Tommy’s arm, fiddling with the salt shaker like it was some great mystery waiting to be solved. Tommy, for all his grumbling about how much of a menace she was, held her tight. That kid had him wrapped around her tiny little finger, and everyone knew it. He’d drive her nuts—hide her favourite toy just to get a rise out of her, tease her until she was practically throwing hands at him—but she’d always come racing back, tossing her arms around his neck, giggling as he swung her up high.

Joel’s hands stilled into peeling the peapod.

It was impossible not to notice how Maria and Tommy moved like two parts of a well-oiled machine. He watched them in the kitchen, just weaving in and out of each other’s space without thinking. Like those buzz magnets Sarah used to stick on the fridge from the capsule toys, repelling, colliding, but always snapping back into place. A hand passed a spoon without looking, a playful bump of the hip, a shared smile that needed no words. Tommy smoothed a hand over Maria’s forehead as she ducked too close to a sharp corner, and she didn’t flinch—just trusted.

Maria smirked at him. “Baby, you hover worse than Joel.”

“Please,” Tommy scoffed, stroking up her back. “Joel’s got me beat by a mile. He’s like a damn watchdog with our kid.” He bounced Maya on his arm, glancing at Joel. “Ain’t that right, big brother?”

Joel rolled his eyes, focusing back on the peas. “She’s one. Anybody with a brain watches a toddler.”

Tommy tsked. “You hear that, Maya? Your mean ol' daddy just called me stupid.”

“I mean, if the shoe fits,” Maria teased, setting a pot on the stove.

Maya giggled, still turning the salt shaker in her hands, getting salt everywhere. “Stew-pid.”

Tommy let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like he’d been wounded. “Et tu, Brute?” He kissed her cheek anyway, undeterred.

Joel shook his head, hiding a smirk. He didn’t say it, but Tommy wasn’t wrong. He was like a watchdog when it came to Maya. Couldn’t help it. That little girl had carved out a place in him that he didn’t even know was still open. His little girl. Maybe not by blood. Maybe not by title. But she was his. Just like Sarah had been. Just like Ellie was.

But maybe that’s why watching Tommy and Maria hurt in a way he wasn’t ready to admit. Because what they had—this effortless, built-in kind of love—wasn’t something he’d dreamt of. Now he wanted it.

It wasn’t even physical, not really. It was just… love. Uncomplicated. Reciprocated. A year ago, he would’ve grunted something about getting a room. Tommy would’ve shot back about owning the whole damn house. But now—

He swallowed, shifting in his chair, wondering. Did he and Leela look like that in their home?

No, hell no. No, he wasn’t the type to put effort into how they were perceived. He barely liked acknowledging it himself, how he softened around her, how he let himself be someone else—someone better—when she was near. But it happened anyway, didn’t it? Without him meaning to. Made him want things.

And ever since he wholly made his home at their big, white house, he was sinking into it.

His love for her wasn’t flashy. He didn’t know how far to go beyond small things. He wasn’t the romantic kind of man, the kind to pick flowers or whisper pretty words. He wasn’t great at it, and wasn’t sure how far to go beyond having her coffee ready by her bedside in the morning. Beyond making sure that when he washed the dishes, hers were the first ones he cleaned, every time. Beyond leaving all the hot water for her and Maya, even if it meant stepping into a freezing shower himself when the temperatures were dropping fast.

She never noticed.

Or maybe she did. Because she had her own ways.

He wasn’t proud of how stupidly fond he got over the little things. The times he’d find his old boots, the ones he refused to part with, sitting by his bed freshly polished, patched up with rubber cement like new. Or how the busted projector in the dusty TV room—the one he’d given up on fixing—suddenly worked one night, humming quietly, waiting for him to indulge in some shitty action flick. She never made a big deal out of it and never expected anything in return. She just did things, because that’s how she loved.

God, the damn dopey grin he let out every time he caught on.

But they didn’t move in sync the way Tommy and Maria did around their home. here were rituals and rhythms, but they were dominoes—Joel would pick up where she left off.

Hell, they didn’t even sleep in the same bed. There was always a line. Physical. Emotional. Always a line, a place where he had to stop, where he had to get off.

He hated that fucking line.

He thought they’d been getting somewhere. That all the careful comforts, the small reassurances, the time—that it had chipped away at whatever was keeping her so guarded. Then there was that night.

That late night played back in his mind like a bad dream.

Leela, pacing back and forth, frustrated noises slipping past her throat, her blackboards covered in endless scribbles, eyes darting too fast, too desperate. Her hands shook as she wrote, erased, and rewrote. Then, suddenly, she just… crumpled. Joel found her there like that at two in the morning. Collapsed to her knees. Silent sobs racked her whole body, hands gripping at her hair, shoulders curling inward like she was trying to disappear into herself. The kind of cry that tore her apart, that was meant to be hidden.

It was like a jagged blade to the ribs, seeing her that way, and trying to ignore it. His Leela. His tireless, self-sufficient, do-everything-alone Leela, folded in on herself like a wounded animal.

He’d been on his knees before he even thought about it, hands reaching for hers.

“Hey, baby—” He cupped her palms, kissed them, trying to soothe her out. “It’s okay, darlin’. It’ll come to you.”

And then—she shoved him away. Like he burned her. Like she couldn’t stand him being there. “You don't know anything.”

“No,” he murmured, setting his palms on his knees, “but, talk me through it. I'm right here.”

And he tried to stroke the back of her head now, just to ground her to him, but before he could touch her, she'd jostled his hand off her.

“Please just leave me alone, please,” she’d choked out, voice small, broken. Final.

She might as well have reached into his chest and crushed his heart with her bare hands. He swallowed everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to do, and stood up, silent. Left her there like he was the one who had misstepped.

And ever since that fucking breakthrough—the discovery she had been chasing for years on end—it had been like this. Slipping. Slipping deeper into whatever obsession had taken hold of her, staring past her own life's work like there was another world hidden behind it. Like she’d solved the last goddamn piece of the puzzle but couldn’t stop staring past it, searching for something else. A prisoner to her mind, a slave to her intellect—and he had no clue how to save her from herself.

He thought a discovery meant solace. That she’d finally rest. Kick back and focus on raising her perfect kid. Instead, she was spiralling. Faster. Harder. And he was left standing there, watching her slip through his fingers.

And maybe he should just let it happen. Let her go. Let her chase whatever was in her head, let it take her, let it swallow her whole. Ignore it, let it blow up in his face, pick up the pieces, and move on. It seemed like the easier option.

Because he sure as hell wasn’t dragging her on some death trip to L.A. to get a bunch of scholars’ rubber stamp of approval. And for what? To hear a bunch of stuck-up assholes tell her what she already knew? To chase after something that might not even be there anymore, past the patrol trails that promised nothing but death?

It wasn’t happening. Not on his watch.

“Joel, can you take this out to the kids, please?” Maria’s voice cut clean through his thoughts. He blinked, glancing up just as she pushed a bowl of garlic knots toward him. “Don’t want them starving before dinner’s done.”

Kids. How the hell Leela had ended up in that category was beyond him. But she’d started hanging around Ellie and her friends more, all of them messing around with her, out of good heart or the fuck of it, he did not know. They’d even managed to rope her into their little hijinks late into the night, like right now.

He’d seen Ellie dragging her outside earlier, that same oversized stack of star charts that Leela had gifted her tucked under her arm, Dina and Jesse trailing right after her with waves, and practically buzzing with excitement. He’d heard snippets of the invitation—something about mapping the constellations, something about seeing the stars “like they used to be.” And, to his surprise, Leela had actually gone along with them.

From inside, he’d catch the sound of laughter floating through the backyard. It wasn’t much, but hell, it was a little relief, knowing she was out there, around some good spirits, instead of pacing around those goddamn blackboards like she was trying to solve the meaning of life.

He stood to take the bowl out, but before he could even make it past the table—

“Da-da.”

Joel stopped in his tracks. Maya had her hands stretched toward him, little fingers grabbing at the air, grinning mouth already open in expectation.

“Pease gimme,” she demanded.

He snorted, reaching over to pop his finger between her lips instead. “Nice try, baby girl. Dinner first.”

“Pease, pease! Aw, da-da!” she whined, brown eyes big and pleading, nearly changing his heart, wriggling against Tommy’s chest in an attempt to get to him.

He just shook his head, slipping away toward the hallway. “Gotta do better than that.”

Tommy was already distracting her with a spoonful of tomato soup that was bubbling away by the time he stepped out the back door.

Outside, the kids were alright. Dina and Jesse were off to one side by the fences, heads bent together in their own little world. Joel should’ve broken them up, should’ve told them to leave some damn space between them, but—

His eyes flicked to Ellie instead.

She was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, staring at the happy couple long and hard. And the second she felt Joel watching her, she snapped her gaze away, clearing her throat and focusing on Leela instead. He tried not to dwell on it, though his brows shot right up in question.

Leela, on the other hand—she wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

She had her head tilted up, her gaze tracking the sky, that damn star map spread open in her hands. She was muttering under her breath, tracing something invisible in the air, her brows drawn together in deep concentration. That look she got—the one where her whole world shrank down to whatever puzzle was in front of her—alive, glowing.

It was the same look she had when she worked through some problem scrawled across her blackboards. The same look she had when she was fixing something—quiet, focused, all sharp edges and restless movement, pulling things apart just to put them back together again. It was amazing how much Maya looked like her mama, she had that exact same look when she tried to decipher the chords as he played guitar.

And god help him, he loved Leela like this. Loved the way she got lost in things, the way her mind worked like a racecar engine. Loved the way she’d get so caught up in the details that she’d forget the rest of the world existed, forget to eat, forget to sleep—loved it, even when it pissed him off.

Loved her. Jesus, it was amazing how his old ass could still get hooked on a girl like this.

Ellie barely had a second to react before he shoved the bowl into her chest. “Haven’t missed the boat just yet, kiddo,” he teased.

Ellie shot him a glare. “Oh, fuck you, Joel.” She shoved a garlic knot into her mouth. “I know Leela’s only tolerating your ass.”

Joel chuckled, stepping forward.

Leela was still lost in the map, tapping a finger against her temple, muttering under her breath as her eyes darted between the lines and symbols. Joel quietly came up behind her, lowering just enough to brush his lips against her ear.

“Lookin' up at your own kind?” he murmured.

Ellie, mid-chew, made an exaggerated gagging noise.

Joel, grumbling, kicked a lazy leg in her direction. “Get outta here. Go on, git.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, snatching another garlic knot from the bowl before slinking off into the house.

Joel, though—he stayed.

Leela finally glanced up from her map, blinking at him like she’d just realized he was there. The slight furrow of her brow softened, the haze of focus giving way to a quiet, warm smile. “Hi, Joel.”

That smile. His name shaped like a hymn on her lips. Subtle. A thing most people wouldn’t catch if they weren’t looking for it. But Joel was always looking, listening. And God, he loved catching her like this. Unaware, until she wasn’t.

He smiled back, slow and knowing, waiting for her to say something else, maybe acknowledge the way he’d lowered his voice just for her, the way he’d leaned in close enough for his breath to stir a few strands of her hair—

But she didn’t. She just turned back to her damn star chart, completely disregarded his sorry attempt at flirting, as if he was nothing more than a passing shadow.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. The only thing worse than flirting with Leela was getting ignored by her.

The air had shifted before he had even noticed. Not by much—just enough that he could feel it. The barely-there stiffness in her shoulders, all the implicit everything sinking in the inches between them.

Because this was the first time he’d properly approached her in two days. He hadn't crossed past the courtesies or bare necessities, this time, he felt like it had soothed over.

The last time being her breakdown. And she was here now—outside, breathing, looking up at the sky like she hadn’t spent days holed up in that house, tangled in her own mind. Like she was okay.

But Joel knew better.

Leela clucked her tongue, rolling up the chart in frustration. “It’s like I’m wasting my potential.” A sigh, thin and frayed at the edges. “I can’t think straight. I can’t find the stupid… star. Something’s wrong with me.”

Joel nudged his shoulder into hers, trying to shake something loose. “There ain't nothin’ wrong with you. You just need to get out of the house a little more.”

She shook her head, already brushing him off. “I’m not teaching at the school, Joel. I told you, it's not for me.”

There was something automatic about the way she said it—premeditated. A flicker of irritation behind her eyes, like she’d already decided where this conversation was going before he even had the chance to take it there.

Joel just lifted a brow. “Not askin' you to.”

Leela blinked, lips parting slightly. Like maybe she’d expected an argument. But he wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t anyone else. He wasn’t trying to fix her.

Leela ran a hand down her face, rubbing at her eyes. “I just… it’s so incomplete.” Her voice wavered slightly, barely above a whisper. “I know I’m done, I ran the numbers a hundred times, but I—” She bit her lip, frustration flickering across her face. "I can’t stand the fact that I don’t have anything else to work toward.”

Joel studied her for a long moment.

This wasn’t just about the damn star chart. She needed something. A goal, a project—something to occupy her hands, her mind, something to pour herself into. Because without it, she was stuck in her own head. Stuck waiting.

He reached out, sliding a hand to the back of her head. His fingers traced slow, absentminded strokes before his arm draped heavy around her shoulders, pulling her into his side.

“You need a break, darlin’.”

Leela let herself sink against him, nestling her nose against the worn fabric of his shirt. Her hands slipped against his sides, resting at his ribs, tentative, like she hadn’t touched him in a while and wasn’t sure if she still could.

“And do what?”

“Help me fix up that swing for Maya’s birthday.”

Joel felt the small hitch in her breath before she even lifted her head.

“Maya’s—” She gasped, cupping a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, her birthday. I completely—” Her voice broke slightly. “How did you know?”

Joel shrugged. “Did some mental math. She was barely a month old when we first met. Figure it’s comin’ up soon.”

Leela closed her eyes. “Yes. Christmas.”

“Holly jolly Christmas baby,” he said, snickering. He didn’t know if it was hard-luck or fortuitous that their baby girl’s birthday overlapped with a holiday.

Leela groaned softly, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “I’m a terrible mother.”

Joel made a derisive noise, picking her hands off her eyes before cupping her cold cheek. “Nah, just a scatterbrained one.”

And when she finally laughed—light, breathy, warm—it was as if he’d struck gold.

He let himself look at her then. Her long hair was a mess, spilling around her face from the loose braid, wild and tangled from where she’d been tugging at it in frustration. The stars flecked in her big, dark eyes, dim and soft, like the whole night sky had been stitched there just for him.

Christ, he loved her. It hit him in strange moments like this. Not in the middle of some grand declaration, not when they were on the brink of tragedy. Just here. Just in the way she folded against him, breathing slow, in the way she trusted him enough to let her guard down.

Joel brushed his thumb against her temple. “You’re alright, you know that?”

Leela blinked. “What?”

“You,” he murmured. “You’re doin' okay. I've got you now.”

A breath. Then she smiled—small, almost imperceptible, but there. And Joel, stupid, old fool that he was—he fucking melted.

Because he’d said nothing special. Just a handful of words, low and gruff and barely above a whisper. And yet—there was something in her eyes now, reassurance, like she needed to hear it, and she hadn’t let herself believe it until now. Until he said it. Until it came from him.

She tiptoed, her forehead leaning into his, her fingers curling lightly into his shirt. He could feel the warmth of her breath, feel the way she hesitated for just a second, like maybe she was unsure—

But then she kissed him.

Slow, soft, uncertain, and God help him, but he could’ve crushed her right into his bones. “Right now?”

“Just a little one,” she whispered against his lips.

“Killin' me.”

Because it had been too fucking long since he had her like this—since she let him have her like this. And for weeks now, ever since that weed trip of hers, he’d been holding himself back, watching her from a distance, all while within their house, twenty-four by seven, just waiting for the right moment.

His large hand found the curve of her throat, his thumb pressing gently beneath her jaw as he tilted her into his smiling lips, deepening the kiss. She tasted of him, of her, a blend of them both, and Joel wanted to drown in it.

She made a soft noise against his lips, barely there, but felt, and he was already stretching for her ass, already—

“Mama!”

Joel flinched, eyes still half-lidded, mind heady with her, with them, but—Leela broke away immediately, her head snapping toward the deck.

And there stood Maya. The little menace herself, gripping the railing for balance, two entire garlic knots stuffed in her tiny fist.

Joel sighed sharply, tilting his head back toward the sky. Just on time, the peanut-butt cockblocker.

Maya’s attention wasn’t on them, though. No, she was too focused on her real struggle—getting herself down the stairs while holding onto both knots, because apparently, letting go was out of the question.

Joel huffed, already moving. “Hey-ey—now, who the heck gave you those?”

Because Maya didn’t just find food. No, that kid knew exactly who to ask and how to ask. A little manipulator before she even hit two years old.

Maya just grinned at him, all teeth and mischief, one cheek puffed out with the stolen bread, and Joel didn’t even have to guess which poor soul had caved under that wide-eyed, baby-faced con job.

He reached for Maya's hand. “Gimme that. Didn’t I tell you no snacks before dinner?”

And because she was, without a doubt, his worst nightmare—she twisted away from him with a high-pitched squeal, shoving another bite into her mouth as she waddled to the other side of the deck.

Joel sighed. “Goddamn it, trouble.”

Behind him, Leela laughed with her daughter, already climbing up onto the deck. “Alright. C’mere, baby.”

Maya didn’t fight her. Just beamed up at her mama, eyes bright and full of adoration. Leela crouched before her, brushing at the curls on her forehead.

“Can you feed Mama one?”

And just like that—without hesitation—Maya held one out. Anything her mother said, she followed. Anything at all. It was Joel she was coming to rebel against with her little cheekiness. And Joel being completely susceptible to her charms, fell for it constantly.

Leela leaned in, mouth open, and Maya giggled before pushing the knot between her lips.

Joel shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, watching them. Leela, the master Maya manipulator, struck once more.

She hummed in approval, chewing theatrically. “Mmm, so good. One more, please?”

And Maya, delighted, shoved the other half-eaten, slobbery garlic knot into her mother’s mouth.

Joel made a noise. “Jesus.”

Leela, struggling through a laugh, wiped her mouth, grinning. “Thank you, baby.”

Maya clapped her hands together, voice piping up—“No-mo.”

Leela licked some garlic butter from her thumb, grunting as lifted Maya onto her hip. “Let’s get something real to eat before your poor dad pops a vein on his head.”

Joel scoffed, following them up the stairs, feeling every damn step in his knees. “Pop a vein—psh, yeah, you wish.”

Dinner with the Millers' was always a big thing nowadays. Joel, finally, had found himself growing used to the way the table felt a little more complete now, moored closer to one of his own.

Back in the old days—hell, even when it was just him and Tess in Boston—meals were quiet, nothing but the clink of cutlery, the scrape of bowls, the occasional grunt of acknowledgement if someone asked for the last bite. Food had been something to get through, not something to enjoy.

But here? This? It was a whole damn production.

It seemed like Leela, Maria, and Tommy were trying to outdo each other on every dinner occasion. Joel never saw them outright say it, but the evidence was all right here—plates filled to the brim with roasted vegetables and some sort of braised meat that smelled damn near decadent. There was even fresh bread, sliced and golden, butter melting into the soft notches. Warmth, everywhere—lamplight spilling golden across the table, the faint crackle of the fireplace, boots nudging against each other under the table.

And noise. So much noise.

Jesse had ducked out early, leaving Dina to make herself at home beside Ellie, and it didn’t take long for them to get into it.

“Okay, but that is not how you use a fuckin' knife,” Ellie was saying, waving her fork in Dina’s face.

Maria sighed. “There's a talking toddler at the table.”

As if on cue, Maya smacked her little hand onto the table. Ellie showed her teeth at her, sheepish. “My bad.”

Dina rolled her eyes, all dramatic. “Well, excuse me for not being a serial killer, Miss ‘Lemme Show You The Proper Stabbing Technique.’”

Joel smirked at that one, chewing on a piece of trout.

It was a different kind of comfort. Something he still wasn’t used to—this abundance after a long time.

And then there was Leela, stealing his heart, piece by piece. The way she’d always scooted her chair a little closer to his. The way her knee brushed his under the table. The way she let him rest a hand over her thigh, stroke it when he was tense like it was all his. The way she’d laugh when someone cracked a joke at his expense—which was often—squeezing his shoulder like he was some goddamn kicked puppy before turning back to her plate.

Didn’t even take long for that to happen. Joel knew Tommy had that look in his eye—that look, the one that meant he was about to open his dumbass mouth. And sure enough...

“So,” Tommy started, all innocent-like. “How's shackin’ up in the big house treatin’ ya, Mensch Miller?”

Joel wanted to put his fork through his brother’s skull. Right between the eyes. So, he barely spared him a glance. “Go to hell.”

Tommy snorted. “C’mon now, ain't no shame in it. We're all real proud of you for finally gettin’ over your fear of commitment. Folks?”

A round of agreements circled the table—Maria, Dina, even Ellie with a smirk and a nod, like they’d all been waiting for this exact moment. Joel sighed through his nose, already regretting every life choice that led him to this.

Dina leaned in, grinning. “Oh my God. Joel, did you finally put a ring on it?”

Ellie snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause there’s so many jewellery stores open these days.”

Joel shot her a flat look. “Could always carve one outta bone.”

Dina sighed with literal heart eyes. “Aww. So metal.”

Ellie recoiled instead. "Dude—what the actual fuck?"

Tommy wheezed at that one. But Leela didn’t react much at all. Just blinked at them, her expression blank, like she had no idea why the hell they were making such a big deal out of it. Then, casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—

“We’re partners,” she said simply, reaching up to his jaw, nails scraping at his scruff. “Right, Joel?”

Joel damn near choked on his own tongue.

Because—what the hell? She wasn’t one for casual touches, wasn’t one for public anything, really. Wasn't some joke, not a passing comment—she just said it, plain as anything. Like it was a truth she’d already made peace with.

Partners. Not a maybe. Not a half-measure. A fact. Halves. Two mates. And it knocked the wind right out of him.

Because Joel had spent so damn long waiting—waiting for her to say something, to define this thing between them, to give him even the smallest indication that she saw him as more than just a man passing through her life.

And here she was, not making a big deal out of it. Not afraid of it, simply stating the obvious. Because fuck, she was right. They were partners now. He had a partner now.

A slow sip of his drink was the only thing that kept him from making an absolute fool of himself.

Dina cackled, slapping the table. “Look at his face. I frickin' love you, Leela.”

Ellie groaned, shoving a bite of food into her mouth. “Jesus, you two deserve each other.”

Maria smirked. “So when’s the big day?”

Dina hummed. “Mm-mm, she'll have to wait, Joel promised to make the ring out of bone.”

Ellie gagged. “Oh my God, Dina—could you please stop with the bone talk?”

Tommy snickered, elbowing him. “Never thought I’d see the day. Big brother all wrangled up.”

Joel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know I got a gun, right?”

Tommy waved a hand, still grinning. “Yeah, yeah. But you ain't shootin’ me ‘cause our baby girl would be real mad at you.”

And then, of course, there was his baby girl in the midst of all this. It had become second nature by now—the back-and-forth of it all, alternating between holding Maya, fending off his teasing family, and feeding her.

Not that it was much of a competition with her. Most of the time, she quietly ended up in his lap, legs dangling over his thigh, picking curiously at the old scar on his forearm as he spooned food into her mouth.

Leela swore she’d grow out of that habit, but Joel wasn’t so sure. He’d seen that girl study the mark like it held the secrets of the universe since she was a few months old. Tiny fingers tracing the jagged edges, soft and intent, like she was mapping him.

Didn’t matter what he put in front of her—if he ate it, she ate it.

Thank God she wasn’t a picky eater like her mama. He still remembered the first few months of trying to get Leela to eat like a normal person—always picking at her food, losing her appetite, always eating just enough and nothing more.

But Maya? Shit. She was his. His perfect little girl—but nothing like him. Loud, expressive, always moving, always talking. She loved to babble, loved to laugh, loved to feed him right from his own damn plate.

“Da-da, aah.”

He moved his head away. “Nuh-uh. Sit your little butt down.”

“Dinna, da-da.”

“I can eat my own dinner, thanks.”

When her adamant whine pierced through the noise on the table, he gave up. Joel barely glanced at her, already sighing as he opened his mouth.

Sure enough, Maya balanced her pudgy feet on his lap and shoved a forkful of fish into his mouth, giggling like she’d just accomplished something huge.

Joel chewed slowly, unimpressed. “Real nice.”

And then—just to add insult to injury—she reached up and patted his forehead, all delicate and reassuring, just like her mama did to her whenever she did something right.

Ellie snorted. “She's just teaching you manners, old man.”

Dina smirked. “Yeah, ever heard of ‘em?”

He shot them both a look but swallowed the bite anyway. Maya squealed like she knew she was being funny, then reached out for his plate again.

Joel sighed, nudging her grabby fingers away. “Alright, move it, baby girl. Ain’t no way you’re finishing my plate before I do.”

The conversation rolled on around him, blending into laughter and stories. Joel drifted in and out of it, shifting his focus between indulging Maya’s antics and half-listening to Tommy and Maria trade jabs about whose turn it was to cook next.

At some point, the conversation took a turn.

“So,” Tommy started, leaning back in his chair. “What’s next, Lee? The last big thing was that lightning harvester. Then you set up the new water filtration thing.” He gestured vaguely as if the list of things she’d accomplished was casual, nothing major. “You always got somethin’ cookin’. What’s next for Jackson?”

The table quieted just a fraction, all eyes shifting toward Leela with a familiar kind of expectation.

Joel felt her stiffen beside him. She didn’t answer right away, just glanced around at them—Dina, Ellie, Maria, Tommy—all waiting for some brilliant, world-changing answer.

But only Joel knew the sleepless nights, he’d seen her try to redo the math, rework the impossible, just to feel like she had something left to solve. So all he’d been able to do was let her at it, leave her to her circles and theories, and go back to bed, waiting for her to wear herself out. He knew that math of hers had wrecked her—driven her to the edge of exhaustion, of obsession.

And now, sitting here, she looked like she wanted to vanish.

So before the silence could stretch too long before they could push her for something she wasn’t ready to say—Joel spoke for her.

“She actually solved the Riemann hypothesis,” he said, casual as anything, like he was commenting on the weather. A little smug, too.

A beat.

Dina blinked. “The—what?”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “You just made that up.”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Nah. It’s a real thing.” He reached for his water and took a slow sip. “Some math theory. Big deal, apparently. Heck if I knew.”

Tommy, to his credit, pretended like he was just hearing about it for the first time, looking between Joel and Leela with exaggerated surprise.

Dina scoffed. “You don’t know?”

Joel gave her a look. “Do I look like someone who spends his time thinkin’ about math?”

Ellie snorted. “Okay, but you can’t just say it’s a big deal and not even try to explain it.”

Joel sighed again, this time more dramatically, because this truly was exhausting him. “Alright. Uh… somethin’ ‘bout numbers. Division. Shit, I don’t fuckin’ know.” He absently stroked Maya's curls. “S’got a lotta squiggles and letters. But little miss genius figured it out.”

Ellie’s face twisted to a shit-eating grin. “Squiggles?”

Joel turned to Leela, mortified at himself, seeking some reprieve. “Tell ‘em.”

Leela, looking a little like she wanted to shrink into the floor, tucked her hair behind her ear and gave a small nod. “I um, did prove the theory. Took my family a really long time to complete.”

“Wait, actually. I've read about Riemann,” Dina went on, straightening in her seat. “That’s the whole—prime numbers thing—no one’s been able to solve that, right? And if you did, you get like a million dollars or something?”

Leela barely glanced up. “Yes, actually. Millenium Prize problem.”

Joel, watching her carefully, felt the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her pants under the table.

Ellie leaned in. “Okay, but like—now what? You can’t just—sit on that, right? Don’t you have to tell someone?”

Leela exhaled, slowly. “It’s… complicated. Our world isn't the way it was.”

Joel saw it—the way her shoulders went tight, the way her face shut down.

Dina wasn’t getting it. “How? This is, like, huge. You should—”

Maria, sensing the tension, jumped in smoothly. “What about you, honey? You got any idea on this?”

Tommy, still side-eyeing Joel, shrugged. “Nah. Not a clue.” He sipped his drink. “I was more into the rabble-rousin’ with the Fireflies. And these FEDRA shits wouldn't care about all that.”

Joel let out a tense breath.

Dina groaned dramatically, throwing herself back in her chair. “Man. Would’ve been so cool to have your name in a book. Or somewhere. Professor of Mathematics, Leela.”

Leela managed a small smile, but her gaze had gone distant.

And Joel hated it. Hated that look. That quiet, almost-accepting disappointment.

He hated that she knew this world didn’t have room for her name in a book. That she’d spent years solving a problem no one would ever see, ever care about. And that should’ve been fine, right? Should’ve been something she could accept. But it wasn’t, because despite everything, despite how much she pretended not to care, she did.

And Joel, he wished like hell there was something he could do about it. That tiny drop of hope snuffed out in her eyes. Like for half a second, she thought—maybe there was a world where what she’d done actually mattered.

And it did. Just not in a way that’d ever change a damn thing.

Joel clenched his jaw, staring down at his glass like it might hold an answer.

There weren’t any. Not for this.

Because he knew how he could help her. Knew there were people—out west, in LA—who might care, who might listen, who might actually do something with what she’d done. There were still Fireflies, still remnants of old-world thinkers, people scraping together the last bits of science that hadn’t been buried under blood and ruin.

And if he told her—if he let her know they existed—she might go.

Leave him. Leave their perfect baby girl. Leave home. And that—he couldn’t let happen.

He needed her here.

Call him selfish? Monomaniacal? Maybe. But he didn’t give a fuck.

Joel had lived his life losing. Lost Sarah, lost Tess, lost whatever scraps of himself made him good once. And now—now, he had her. Had Maya. Had a reason to come home at the end of the day that wasn’t just the routine of it. He had that little vestige of trust and faith back in him, even if the ghosts lingered. He slept knowing he was going to wake up with purpose that wasn't just behind the flare of a rifle or the scent of blood. He had love, a warm home, all this food, these people.

And if Leela left—No.

He wouldn’t think about that. Not ever. He'd give up his breath before she risked it like a fucking idiot.

So he’d keep his mouth shut. Play dumb. Let the world stay small for her, even when she was meant for something bigger. Even when he saw the ache of it in her eyes. Even when he hated himself for it. But that was fine, he'd grown used to his hate.

So he did the only thing he could do—he raised his damn glass.

“To Leela,” he said, confident, eyes warm when they landed on her. “For doin’ the impossible.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes widening just a fraction. Under the table, her fingers curled tight around his knee, firm—don’t.

She wasn’t the type to bask in praise, wasn’t one to revel in attention. But Joel wasn’t gonna let her disappear into the silence. So instead of backing down, he just smirked, pried her hand off his knee, and brought it to his lips.

His mouth was rough, the scrape of his beard even rougher, but the way he kissed her knuckles—gentle, slow, promising. A prayer he wouldn’t say out loud.

She froze up, breath catching just enough for him to notice, just enough to make his heart slam against his ribs. This was good. She was okay.

The table had gone quiet.

Then Tommy grinned, lifting his glass. “To Lee.”

Maria followed, then Ellie and Dina, voices echoing the words, raising their drinks. “To Leela.”

And then—clap, clap, clap! Maya, grinning wide, smacked her little hands together, delighted by the sudden chorus of voices, as if she had any clue what was happening.

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You like that, baby?”

Maya just kept clapping, giggling as she looked between Joel and Leela, as if she understood this was about her mama, and that meant it was something right.

And Leela—God, she was looking at him now, like he was impossible, like she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kiss him or kill him. Joel just held her hand tight, letting his thumb trace slow circles into her skin.

“You deserve it,” he murmured in her ear, meant just for her.

Leela let out a soft breath, almost like a sigh. Then, with barely a beat between them, she squeezed his hand right back.

X

Joel knew he had it good because the thought of reality was the only thing keeping him awake. After all, it felt like his dreams had come true.

But of course, nowadays, when Joel slept, he closed his eyes and he fell deeply, just as he did in love and loss, displaced of his path back. When he did ultimately open his eyes once more to the old patterned ceiling, tucked up in a disgustingly comfortable bed, within a house you could hear the wind slide under the eaves, the soft creak of the old floors settling, Maya’s soft little snores down the hall, the occasional rustle of sheets when Leela moved on her bed, he wasn’t sure when life had slowed down like this, when the days stopped being about surviving and started being about living.

Whatever it was, it was all Leela. She had insisted he take the biggest room when he moved in, and she wouldn’t hear a word otherwise. Stubborn as a damn mule, she’d just stared him down when he tried to argue, and—hell. It wasn’t like he minded. The room was ridiculous, the bathroom even more, with more closet space than he’d ever need, but the real saving grace was the football-field-sized bed.

Probably a thousand silky white pillows, freshly washed and dusted, stacked against a plush leather headboard, spilling over a white duvet. Bed to end all beds. Big enough to sink in between. Lonely enough when it got dark. Close enough to Maya’s nursery that when she woke in the middle of the night, whimpering softly in the dark, he was already moving, already lifting her up before she got too lonely.

Outside, winter had crept in slowly. Mornings turned from golden to white, breaths corkscrewing in steam ribbons against the cold. The sky was that sharp, steel-grey that told you snow wasn’t far behind, and Joel had started waking up to a frost-lined world, rooftops silvered, trees edged in ice.

December now, and Jackson was easing into the Christmas season and spirit—garlands strung between shop corners, lights winking from one lamppost to the next, a huge tree going up in the square, handmade ornaments showing up on doors. He had his own big efforts for Maya's first birthday and Christmas.

And then—just like the night before—it hit him.

Maya was turning one soon. The thought still knocked something loose in him. This tiny thing, this impossibly small, impossibly bright piece of his world who barely reached his knee. Who stumbled around in her little boots like she had somewhere really important to be. Who giggled like it could undo every bad thing in the world, cutting straight through the cold, through the ache in his bones, like it was nothing.

His girl. God, that was still a hard thing to wrap his head around. That she belonged to him. That he belonged to her.

He lay back against the pillows, an arm resting behind his head, and let his fingers graze the stack of Polaroids and photographs scattered across his nightstand. He flipped through each one slowly like one of Maya's bedtime stories, but only this one was real.

One of him and Ellie, captured by Leela, sprawled out on the porch swing, their boots propped up against the rail. Ellie mid-laugh, a cup of iced lemonade dangling from her fingers, frozen in time. He could almost hear her voice, thick with dry humour, and see the way her nose scrunched when she got to the best part of whatever story she was telling.

Tommy, Maria and him, once again captured by Leela, arms slung around each other at the hoedown, cowboy hats tilted over their heads, two of them tipsy and flushed. A night of music and good beer and warmth—the kind of warmth that had been rare for too long. The kind they hadn’t thought they’d find again.

And then—his fingers slowed.

One of them. Pretty sure it was Ellie who took this one. Maya, wedged between him and Leela, four little teeth showing, curls and eyes shining, a fork clutched in her fist, attention stolen by something off-camera. Leela, so beautiful under the flash, one hand curled protectively at Maya’s back, the other resting lightly on the table. And Joel, beside them both, his smile unsure, caught between trying to look natural and trying not to think too much about how unnatural it still felt—being in a picture like this.

But when he looked at it now—it looked so real. The family aspect of it.

He held the photo at arm’s length, studying it, the three of them together.

Though he looked apart from them. Incohesive. Hell, anyone would say it. The rougher, older edges of him, the shade of his skin and theirs, the texture of his hair and their black locks, the way his eyes weren’t the same big, almond eyes. Maya had Leela’s delicate features, her wide dark gaze, and her gentle intensity. And him—well, he was just there. An outsider, a man slotted into the frame, but not quite of it.

Except… that wasn’t true, was it?

Because if he looked long enough, he could see it. The shape of familiarity, how lived-in he seemed.

The way Maya leaned toward him in the picture, just slightly, even distracted as she was. The way Leela’s fingers curled gently toward his wrist, even unconsciously. The way he fit there, in the space beside them, not because he forced it, but because—somehow, without realizing it—he belonged there.

It made sense. Anyone who looked at this—anyone who knew—they’d know exactly what they were to each other.

He swallowed thickly, staring at the picture like it might shift in his hands or it might tell him something new. He wanted to keep it that way, within this frame, the three of them, until the time was up. God, how long would that be? Another few years?

A knock at his door pulled him from it, and he blinked, turning his head.

Leela pushed the door open slightly, peering inside. “Sorry. Do you have some time?”

He had his whole life for her, even if it was overkill. Joel cleared his throat, setting the Polaroids aside. “Always.”

She stepped inside, and Christ.

She was barefoot, those thin gold-chain anklets winking at him in the low light. The soft curve of her calves disappeared beneath the loose folds of that goddamn pearl-button nightdress—the one that never failed to drive him insane. It was slipping off her shoulder just enough to make his life miserable, the bare silhouette of her body teasing at the edges of his vision, itching his palms with the worst kind of temptation.

Joel sat up, rubbing a slow hand down his face, across the scruff along his jaw, suddenly feeling a hell of a lot more awake.

She didn’t hesitate, swishing the fabric under her as she perched on the edge of his bed, legs dangling off.

“I was just on the swing set before it started to snow,” she told him, her voice all wistful. “I think I might love it more than Maya does.”

Joel chuckled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how baby girl’s gonna feel about sharing.”

It hadn’t taken him long to put together the swing set that stood proudly in the front yard—just a hell of a lot of effort, some cursing under his breath, and more muscle than he cared to admit. Sturdy wood, painted deep green, with painted pink and yellow flowers curling along the edges. The seat hung from two thick ropes, knotted tight, built to last. All safe and ready for his little girl.

Leela had helped, like she promised—though if her irritated grumbling was anything to go by, woodworking sure as hell wasn’t her calling. She hadn’t complained once about the splinters, but he caught her wincing every time she flexed her fingers, scowling down at the stubborn bits of wood lodged in her skin.

Joel, now, watched the way her gaze flicked to the photographs near his pillow, her expression shifting—soft, thoughtful. He didn’t move, just waited, letting her take her time.

Her brows furrowed slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “How are your feet?”

Joel smirked, sinking back onto one elbow. “They're toasty, thanks.”

She pulled one knee up to her chest, resting her chin on it, fingers absently picking at a loose thread on her nightdress. “Mine too.” A grin flickered across her face. “I feel like my parents around you nowadays.”

That had him raising an eyebrow. “How's that now?”

Leela hesitated, her fingers stilling. Then, almost cautiously, she said, “You know… a couple. Partners. Married.” That last word barely even made the breath.

Joel stayed quiet, processing that for a moment. Shit, he couldn't. He almost blacked out.

“They were so crazy in love, Joel. Even at eighty.” A fond laugh slipped from her. “Dad would have her coffee ready every morning, help her tie her shoelaces, and open doors for her. Dance with her every night before bed. Never let her raise a finger around the home, even after the whole world came crumbling down around us.”

She smiled to herself, the memory a gentle thing.

“I’m gonna make you the happiest, fattest, laziest wifey in Jackson, sweetheart,” she recited, voice taking on a deep, playful lilt, like she was echoing her father's exact words.

Joel huffed out a laugh. “Sounds like a stand-up fella'.”

Leela nodded, then faltered, her lips parting like there was something else—something she wasn’t sure she should say. Joel waited, his fingers twitching against the blanket, patient.

Then softly, quietly, “He would've liked you.”

Joel looked away, to itch at his temple, hiding a grin. The thought of this man—the man who had made Leela feel safe, loved—looking at him and thinking he’s good enough for my little girl? No, he would've given him a hard time. Especially since no one stood to compare to Leela, much less a man like Joel, hitting sixty and greying. Her father would've come at him with his expensive shotgun.

Leela’s gaze lifted to his, eyes foolproof. She took a breath. “I feel like that with you.”

Joel's throat worked tough. His body had already moved before his mind caught up, his hand reaching out, fingers trailing along her temple, dipping into the thick waves of her hair.

“Like a fat, lazy wifey?” he murmured.

Leela let out a tiny, breathless laugh and immediately covered her face with both hands, her shoulders curling in. “Yeah. Is that bad?”

Joel’s grin pulled at his mouth, satisfaction sitting right on his bones. His thumb brushed over the curve of her cheek, a little more deliberate now, a little more his. “That’s the goal, sweetheart.”

Leela peeked at him through her fingers, then, as if gathering herself, slowly reached out and took his hand from her face. She held it in her lap, turning it over, tracing the rough lines of his palm. The callouses, the broken skin, the deep grooves time had worn into him.

She ran her thumb along the ridge of a scar, a flash of quiet passing through her expression. Not pity—Leela never looked at him like that. Just knowing. Understanding.

“Do you remember what you told me?” she murmured, still studying his hand, watching the way her fingers disappeared against the breadth of his palm. “That night after the bar?”

Joel exhaled, a deep thing, pulse hammering up his veins. “Do you?”

She squinted, like she was trying to piece a puzzle together, like it lived just at the edges of her memory.

“I don’t remember much. It's hazy.” Her voice dipped even quieter. “You told me you love me.”

Joel swallowed. His fingers flexed against hers before curling, his palm pressing lightly to her own like she might slip away if he didn’t hold onto her properly.

“And I’ll say it again,” he assured.

Leela finally looked up, meeting his gaze fully. Her fingers curled tighter around his hand, holding him there.

“I want to feel you now, Joel,” she said, soft but sure, like it was something she had already decided. “Loving all of me.”

A deep and molten flame uncoiled in him at her words, cracked something wide open.

Because she remembered. And he remembered the way she had trembled under him that night, high and reckless and desperate for something he wouldn’t give her. And he had whispered the only inevitable promise that he had ever felt—

“One day, when I’m deep inside you, I am all you're gonna be thinkin' of. Just me, loving all of you.”

And now—now Leela was here, in front of him, sober and clear-eyed and asking him for the very thing he had promised her.

Joel didn’t rush. He just reached for her, wanting and calm, his fingers trailing from her wrist, up the length of her arm, to her chin. He tilted her face toward him, waiting. Giving her the space to change her mind.

Leela stared at him, eyes, lips, eyes, lips, and it had him in agony. A prolonged soon enough, she simply lifted her lips to his like an offering.

And he took.

He kissed her like a man who had gone without for too long, hands crushing her closer to him, like a man afraid to break the very thing he craved. Worshipping her was softer than before because now he knew she wanted this. He knew she was choosing this. Choosing him. Out of all the sick, sorry bastards in this world, she picked him. Him.

“Gonna make you feel good,” he promised between kisses, hungering forward for more. “I'll make you feel like a queen, baby. I'll give you everything.”

Her fingers trailed up, skimming the scruff at his neck before splaying over his chest. The warmth of her touch shot straight through him, and he exhaled against her mouth, pressing closer. Mad, so mad for this.

Then, gently, he guided her hands to his shirt buttons.

He wasn’t in any hurry. This wasn’t about taking—this was about letting. Letting her have control, letting her set the pace, letting her know she could stop whenever she wanted.

Leela pulled away just enough to glance down at his shirt, her breath catching.

“Go on then, help me out,” he urged.

That’s when he saw it—the hesitation. The clear-cut hysteria that hadn’t been there last time, numbed to the effects of weed. With her clarity came everything else. Every dread, every old wound, every aching recollection, every scar she carried in places he couldn’t see.

Joel stayed still, barely breathing, watching the way her fingers hovered over the buttons, how they trembled as she carefully popped the first one open. Then the next and next.

She pushed the fabric from his shoulders, her hands mapping him quietly, tracing it all. She touched everything—the pale scars left by unseen blades, the sealed bullet wounds, the old burns, the places where life had carved him up and forced him to heal around the damage. Her dark gaze lingered on the fine scruff dusting his chest, palms gliding lower, following the path where dark hair thinned down his stomach before vanishing beneath his waistband.

She wasn’t just looking. She was memorizing. Good, let her. This was all hers anyway.

“Ruined,” he mumbled.

“Survived,” she corrected.

He slid the sleeves off his arms, balling his shirt up in his hands before tossing it aside. Joel leaned back against the headboard like a king waiting on a feast, his legs spreading slightly, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he breathed. His gaze was heavy-lidded, thick, deep and everything unspoken.

Then, slowly, he stroked a palm over his thigh. “Come sit, darlin’.”

Leela hesitated. He could see it in the way her fingers curled and uncurled on the duvet, like she was feeling her way through the moment. But she followed, just like he knew she would, crawling over until she was straddling him, the seam of her legs spread over his zipper, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.

Joel felt the warmth of her, the light press of her thighs against him, the way her breath hitched when her hands came to his shoulders, fingers curling lightly over muscle and scar.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “You're just perfect, aren't you?”

She nodded. Then blinked in realization, then shook her head, sighing. “Shut up.”

“Psh. Look at you. I ain't gonna.”

His own hands found her waist, steadying her, tracing slow circles over the fabric of her nightdress. This girl was made to be loved.

Then his fingers slid up, tracing her figure, until he was right over those goddamn pearl buttons.

He wanted to take them apart with his teeth, but that wasn’t the way to do this—not tonight. So he traced the cool surface of each one before carefully slipping them free, one by one, big fingers graceless over the little buttons.

The moment the last one came undone, he leaned forward, his eyes never leaving hers, watching every flicker of emotion cross her face. The anxiety, the confusion... the curiosity way beneath it. Observing him.

And then he sank his teeth into the delicate skin on her sternum.

Leela sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening on his biceps.

Joel groaned against her, dragging his lips over the mark, spreading slow, open-mouthed kisses over the same spot, soothing it, claiming it.

He let the thin sleeves slide off her shoulders, watching the way the fabric slipped down her arms, pooling at her midriff.

Joel exhaled sharply, his grip tightening just a fraction before smoothing over her skin again like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

Because Christ, how was she real? Where had that lonely, grey fart upstairs been hiding her all this time?

She was all honey-warm skin and soft, dusky curves. Her breasts rose and fell with each uneven breath, her ribs tautening, beneath the subtle dip of her waist. His gaze traced the gentle flare of her hips, the little softness at her love handles, the way her toned stomach tensed as she held herself still, waiting—watching him with those deep, knowing eyes.

“Joel?” she whispered.

“You're...” He blinked twice. “You're so beautiful.”

For a terrible lack of words, he wasn't exactly a fucking poet. He really wanted to tell her that she was the Powerball lottery in his life, that even her smartass brain was sexy, and that when she breathed, he was pretty sure a flower bloomed right under her damn feet.

But she managed a quiet laugh. “Oh-kay.”

And Joel had never believed in God much, but if there was one, he’d have to offer up a damn prayer of thanks. Only took thirty whole years.

He let his hands roam, rough fingertips skating over the curve of her waist, following the soft lines of her body. She was delicate, strong, warm, and hesitant, all at once, and beneath the tension in her shoulders, he could feel the slight tremble in her limbs.

She trusted him with this. With herself.

Joel wasn’t about to fuck that up. So he took his time.

He smoothed his palms over her ribs, feeling the way her bones flexed beneath his touch. His thumbs brushed over her perfect nipples, the peaks stiffening, drawing the softest sound from her throat—a breathy little whimper that damn near destroyed him.

His control hung by a thread as he ducked his head, finally taking her into his mouth.

His lips closed over her, hot and slow, his tongue flicking, tasting, teasing. He lavished her with attention, spreading kisses across the swell of one, then the other, loving them equally, thoroughly.

“Fuckin' don't deserve any of this,” he said through his teeth, clutched on a nipple.

“What are you...” she whispered.

He was surrounded by Leela, arching into him, encouraging his lips where she wanted him, and he didn't spare a thought to her instincts. If she wanted him, she'd have it. Her fingers trembled before they slid into his hair, sweeping back through the silver-streaked strands, holding him there like she was trying to commit the sight of him—eyes half-closed, mouth on her, glorifying her—to memory.

Then, without thinking, Joel bit down—just enough to pull a sound from her throat, her grip on his hair tightening, nails scraping against his scalp.

Didn’t think she’d like that. But she did. Nice.

“Joel,” she whispered.

His smirk was slow, lazy, drawn out against her flushed skin as he let his tongue wander over the reddening mark he’d left before sealing it with a leisurely, possessive suck.

“Shit, baby,” he muttered, voice gone husky. “If this is what you taste like here, can’t imagine what you taste like down there.”

Leela’s breath hitched hard. “Down what…?”

The way she said it—uncertain, like the thought had never fully occurred to her—lit a fire in his gut. Primal, claiming, wanting. Frantic.

She wouldn’t know. Of course, she wouldn’t.

It wasn’t like there had been time for teenage exploration when the world had gone to hell. No fumbling hands in the dark, no stolen kisses at parties, no whispered giggles between sheets. Sex was a free-for-all in QZs obviously, and he sure as hell doubted porn had been a practicality when she’d been at that wonderful age of curiosity.

Which meant this—the way she looked at him, the way her breaths stared back up when he so much as hinted at what he wanted to do—was something else entirely.

Yeah, Joel had never been more careful in his damn life.

“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his hands slowly down her back, fingers tracing the dip of her spine, the delicate lines of her body. "Well, at least a little touch. Lemme feel you.”

“Feel,” she murmured, confused.

He showed her his hand. Then two fingers. Then his thumb. Hoping that was enough for her to get the message across. “Feel.”

She hesitated for only a moment, but then—God help him—she nodded. That was all the permission he needed.

“Let's get this off you,” he muttered. “Wanna see you.”

He eased the night dress up and over her head, watching the fabric pool around her before slipping off completely. Her thick braid slapped softly against her back, and then—there she was.

All herself. Just Leela.

She sat before him in nothing but those little white linen panties, tied into thick knots at her hips—ruffled edges, sweet, soft, so goddamn cute—and his. Yeah, his. All mine.

And then his hands were on her again, slow, reverent, like he had the luxury of time. Because he did. Because this was about her, about her knowing she was safe, knowing she was loved, knowing he'd go wherever she liked him to.

His longest finger wandered closer and closer from her hips, and brushed beneath the edge of her panties, a featherlight bump against that warm, soft groove. Just to let her know.

His jaw clenched, muscles locking as he willed himself to go slow, to savour every second of this, to feel her breathe against his cheek as he did it.

Her eyes flickered up to his, eyes locking. Wide. Waiting. Knowing this wasn't over.

He held her gaze as he pushed further in between her folds, just enough to feel the heat of her, the damp silk of her against his fingertips—aching, perfect, warm.

Her lips parted. A little gasp, barely a sound.

And then her eyes fluttered shut.

He felt it the second she let go, the second she allowed herself to slip into it, to trust what he was doing to her.

His coarse fingers carefully traced, explored, and learned. A decade out of practice, but instincts were instincts. And he knew how to listen—how to really listen. The way her breaths stuttered when he circled just right with the pad of his thumb at the little bud of nerves, the way her body clenched when he curled deeper inside where he needed to. When his fingers worked her low and slow, in loving accuracy, how she completely arched into him, warm walls pressuring around his fingers.

Then, a tiny sound. Soft. Desperate. “Joel, please.”

Fuck. Every person needs to hear that once in their lifetime. Their whole other half just falling apart while clinging to your name.

His stomach tensed, heat surging through him so sudden and hard he had to close his eyes, had to bite down hard on his own restraint before he did something stupid—like buck against her like a goddamn teen and blow a load into his jeans.

Because of the way she moved into his palm, the way her hips found the rhythm like instinct, like something she’d always known but never had the chance to learn—Jesus Christ, his frail heart was going to fail him.

“I know,” he breathed, voice gruff. “I know. Goddamn it, you’re so beautiful. So perfect f'me.”

How unoriginal. Cliché as a bitch. But what the hell else was he supposed to say? Write haikus? Sing praises? He would, if he had any sanity left. She was carved from silent fire and untouchable grace, delicate and untamed, something that had no damn business ending up here, in his ruined hands.

Her fingers dug into his back, ravaged by sensation, nails sinking in, breaking the skin, drawing blood—maybe. Didn’t fucking matter. Even that was sexy. That pain was welcome, something he'd carry with him like a brand, a scar he’d look at in the mirror tomorrow with a lazy smirk and think, yeah, my girl did that.

And then—he felt it. That old familiar twitch against his fingers, the way her body tensed, breath shuddering, forehead dropping against his.

She was close.

And if she was going to come, it wasn’t going to be on his marred hands. No way in hell. He needed to feel her come on him everywhere. Needed it to hit him so deep he felt pinpricks behind his goddamn eyes.

“Baby, hang on. Fuck, honey, gimme a second,” he rasped, voice wrecked, dragging his fingers out from her, savouring the heat, the slick. He popped them into his mouth, groaning low at the taste, the perfection of her. Wasn’t about to waste a single drop.

Leela only watched him, unusual, confused. “So strange.”

He wiped his mouth. “Unreal, baby. Taste so good.”

Then, shifting back against the headboard, he pulled her closer onto his lap. His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles, coaxing, calming.

He nodded at his pants. “Wanna help me out of this?”

She nodded, still flushed, and reached down. Soft, slender, long hands worked the button loose, nudged the zipper down, knuckles grazing his stomach, fingers tracing down the happy trail, lower, lower—

She sucked in a breath when she laid eyes on the good stuff that sprang free.

He saw the flicker in her eyes, and he prayed to whatever was looking over him that he was in all right proportions, that he was to her liking, that he was good enough for her. But the way she seemed to assess, hesitating... Curiosity? Oh, good—anything other than disgust.

Then she glanced up at him, brow pinched. “You’re not wearing...”

He blinked, momentarily lost in his own haze, until he realized. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. God bless America.”

The laugh that burst out of her was sudden, real, pure, like she hadn't expected it. She did a double-take, covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

“Omigod, Joel. You’ve been walking around without underwear this whole time?”

He smirked, gathering her back into his arms, hands already working at the ties of her little knotted panties. “Alright, get your judgy ass over here.”

Two tugs, and they were gone, joining the mess of discarded clothes on the floor. He gave her tight behind a nice squeeze. “Y'know, you've got the perkiest butt I've ever seen. All that lifting and stretching—you drive me crazy with those teeny little shorts.”

She twisted his ear playfully. “So that's why you're always messing up with the tools.”

“Oh, yeah. Prettiest pussy, too,” he whispered, winking.

“Joel!” she hissed.

And then—finally—she was straddling his lap, stripped, all soft thighs and tough calves, muscles flexing as she adjusted, aligned over him, and found her balance, fingers curled into the headboard for support.

A little smile tugged at her lips. And it killed him. “Hi.”

“Hi, honey,” he murmured.

She was stunning—lean, strong, effortless. A goddamn supermodel. That hair, those muscles, those striking eyes, she had him by the balls and he wasn't complaining.

He held her hips, warm, smooth skin beneath his rough palms, a thumb tracing the soft, wet seam at her legs. He pushed a testing finger in, and she shivered.

“You ready for me?” he murmured.

She exhaled softly, before her hand came down, sliding into his hair, down his ear, his cheek—thumb brushing over his lips like she was memorizing him like he was something sacred.

And then, so quiet, so sure—“I want to feel all of you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Not fair. Not fucking fair. That should’ve given him a second, a moment to react, to curse, to do something—

But then she moved. And finally, finally, she took him inside her. Right where he’d been aching for her.

Heat. Tight. Unreal.

“Fuuuck.” A deep groan ripped out of his chest as she plunged down onto him, enveloping him in pressure so impossibly hot, impossibly incredible, that his head kicked back against the headboard.

Strain. Resistance. So much love.

Her body rebelled, not used to this stretch, this fullness, and when a sharp, quiet cry slipped from her, she buried it against his cheek. “Please.”

His breath stilled. Instinct flared hot in his veins—not desire, but protection, care, a tethered restraint that warred with the desperate need to move, to feel her completely.

His arms circled around her, strong. His lips found the edge of her eye, feeling the trail of tears, murmuring against her skin, “I'm right here, baby. You're doin’ so good. Take me so well.”

“It hurts,” she cried out sharply.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. You want to take a breath for me?”

And she did. A nice, long, deep one into his neck. The hot air ghosted around his nape. Then two more, until it felt like her breaths were finally stuttering back into her.

He kissed her eye. “That's a good girl. You got this. Eyes on me.”

She nodded shakily, holding his gaze.

“Only me, alright?”

He tightened his hold on her hips, not to force, not to move—just to be there, to keep her close as he raised up, his back protesting with a pricking ache, meeting her halfway, easing her down inch by inch, a motion as old as time, gentle, ready, his.

“Feel like a dream, darlin’,” he whispered against her skin, voice barely holding together.

A shiver. A squeeze around him, tight and sweet, like a pulse, a welcome. This was his home.

And he felt it—this wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just something done to her, wasn’t something she was just letting happen.

She wanted every inch of him. And Joel was going to move fucking mountains to give it to her.

Joel moved with her, for her, matching the slow, hesitant rhythm she set. Each slide into her was deep, measured—he wasn’t chasing anything except her, wasn’t losing himself in the feeling of her wrapped around him, not yet. No, this was about letting her take what she needed. About making sure she knew, in her bones, that this was hers. He was hers.

“Joel, is this okay?” she panted.

He looked up at her and sighed from numb lips, “Baby, how the hell are you real?”

Because Jesus, if she wasn’t the sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever seen—the way her brows pinched, the way her pretty mouth parted, the way her breath hitched when he hit that spot.

The way her body crashed above him, her hands clung to the headboard, his shoulders, nails gripping, grounding—she was giving him everything without even realizing it. A little gasp left her lips each time he lifted his hips, rocking against hers, pushing her just a little bit further, testing the limits of what she could take.

His fingers smoothed down her spine, following the curve of her back, his lips finding her throat, the little hollow just beneath her ear.

“That's my good girl,” he encouraged, voice rough, rasping into her ear. “Feels nice, don’t it? Feels real nice.”

She shuddered, a little whimper catching at the back of her throat. Her thighs tensed around him, gripping tight around his neck, but her movements faltered. A stutter. A hesitation.

Joel slowed. Just enough to feel her, to see her, to be sure.

And that’s when he knew. That she wasn’t quite there. No matter how wet she was, how ready and tight she was around him, something in her body held back.

But it wasn’t fear or pain or shyness or any of that bullshit. It was just unfamiliar. A wariness just under her skin, something holding her back, keeping her from letting go.

And Joel understood.

His gut tightened, hurt pulling at his chest, but this—this wasn’t just about fucking. It wasn’t just about getting her to some peak, some finish line, some goal he had to chase.

It was about unlearning. It was being with her. It was about replacing whatever fucked-up pain in her, whatever taking had come before, with something soft, small and theirs.

And if she didn’t come or if she didn’t even know what that felt like—hell, that didn’t change a goddamn thing. Didn’t change the way he was making love to her, how much he loved her, loved feeling her move on top of him, for him.

It also didn’t change the fact that he was already hanging by a thread, already wound too tight, already gritting his teeth to keep himself from losing it, because she felt too good, too right, like she was made to be wrapped around him, to take him this deep.

He wasn't going to last very long, he was pushing his limit here, his prime of life was to blame for that. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold onto the moment, hold onto her—but it was too much, too perfect, too fucking good.

His hands flexed at her hips, gripping, steadying her, his own control unravelling fast.

“Jesus—Leela, I'm—!”

“Joel?” she called, concerned almost.

He wanted to wait as long as he could. Wanted to hold off, wanted to take her there with him, to let her feel all of it, but this old fucking desperate body—

But then she moved, sinking down, rolling her hips against him in just the right way, and he broke.

“Oh, shit!”

A deep, guttural sound tore from his throat, his arms snapping tight around her waist, pulling her flush against him as he spilled deep inside her, every muscle in his body seizing up. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, breath ragged, fingers flexing against her slick skin.

He stayed like that for a moment, ears ringing, buried in her, completely wrung out, slumping into her, breathing her in, feeling her heartbeat pound against his own. Oh, but he was currently in orbit, in fucking space.

And then—when his thoughts returned back to planet Earth, back to Jackson, back to this home, when the haze started to clear—he pulled back, just enough to see her.

She looked… confused. Like she'd gone wrong somewhere. Lips parted, eyes hazy, looking between them, like she was waiting for something, like she wasn’t sure if this was it.

She blinked. “I...”

Joel watched her, studied the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way her body still trembled around him, the way her fingers curled gently against his throat.

She didn’t know, of course. Didn’t realize. That she hadn’t come.

And he didn’t feel bad about it—not in the way a man might, not in the way that turned it into some failure, something to gnaw on, to carry like a weight. Shit, she'd gone as far as to relive this for him.

But still—he wanted to give that to her. Wanted her to feel it, to know what it meant to be shattered and held together all at once.

“One more try, okay?” he rasped, barely breathing it into her skin. He kissed her shoulder, collar and throat. “Gimme one more. You can do it. Just hold onto me.”

A small smile came alive on her lips. “Okay.”

Joel bore down again, gripping her hips tighter, pulling her closer, pushing deeper—trying this time, rather than feeling.

His breath came wild, strained, body shaking with the force of it, sweat splashing lazily onto her breasts, in the effort of making her feel it. His heart was hammering, his arms flexing, his thighs burning as he surged up into her, chasing that high for her, something he needed to give her.

And still—still—Leela just watched him. Soft, quiet, moving with him, letting him take her, feeling his strength beneath her, stroking his cheek, his hair, her fingertips whisper-light against his damp skin.

No gasping desperation, no frantic, uncontrolled unravelling. Just… this.

And Joel—fuck—he didn’t know what to do with that. She wasn’t pretending. Would be nice if she did. She wouldn’t know how to fake it, would she? Wouldn’t know the right way to move, the right way to sound, the right way to let a man know he was making her come undone and get this over with.

And the realization punched him in the gut. Blindsided him completely.

It wasn't about to happen. He'd just have to let go.

But Joel couldn’t stop. Not now, not when he was this close. When he was teetering on the fucking edge. When his body was demanding release with an intensity he hadn’t felt in years.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Sorry, I can't. I can't.”

“Joel, it's okay, it's okay,” she coaxed.

So he held her down, his grip firm, desperate. Feeling so fucking selfish as he pushed and pushed harder. Broke a sweat. Gave it everything he had left in him, one last time—until his muscles locked, until heat ripped through him once more, until he spilled deep inside her again with another ragged, shuddering groan.

And Leela—sweet, accepting Leela—just cradled him through it. Breathed against his cheek, kissed his ear, smoothed her hands over his hair, and ran her fingers along the tense lines of his back, comforting him.

Because Joel had never felt more fucking helpless in his life. He buried his face in her neck, his arms locking tight around her, his body wracked with aftershocks, his chest rising and falling hard against hers.

“Joel,” she said, a softness behind his name.

His throat was tight. He swallowed. “You have to—you haven't—”

“I feel really good,” she whispered. “Really good.”

Joel breathed in deep, exhaled slow. She meant it. She felt good. It wasn’t some half-truth, some lie to spare his feelings. Leela didn’t lie to him—she didn’t know how to, not in a way that mattered.

So he let it go. Let himself believe her. However difficult and excruciating it was.

“Do you wanna lie down?” he murmured, brushing the backs of his fingers over her jaw. “Lemme clean up and hurry back to you, alright?”

“Okay.”

She nodded, watching as he rolled out of bed, buckled up his pants, and stretched his sore back with a quiet grunt. That pleasant ache in his muscles, he could get used to this. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, then disappeared into the bathroom.

The second he flicked on the light, he set both hands over the sink, bracing himself. His reflection stared back at him, every line on his face a little deeper, slick with sweat, his greying scruff a little rougher, hair a Leela-made mess. His body was still running hot, his ears still rung, still a little shaky in the aftermath.

But under all that? Confusion. Loathing. Every i had been dotted, every t crossed. So what the hell went wrong?

His fingers turned the tap on, ran cool water over his palms. He splashed some onto his face and neck and chest, let it dribble down to his throat, rinsed his mouth and took another breath.

“You goddamn dud,” he muttered to himself.

Maybe it was him. All those years of nothing. Years of his body belonging to no one but himself. Years of only touching for a release. A ferocious protector, sure, but it made him an incapable lover. He never knew a damn thing about the female body, how to work it, how to please her. Should've let her come on his hand when he had the chance. Stupid, greedy asshole.

With a final splash of water to his face, he scrubbed a wet hand through his hair and stepped back into the bedroom. Time to face the music.

Leela had already slipped her nightdress back on, the straps falling just slightly off her shoulder, her hair combed back a little neater. She was curled up against the pillows, drowsy, waiting for him.

Joel didn’t hesitate to slide into bed beside her, sinking into the warmth of her body like he belonged there. Like they’d been doing this forever.

She nestled in closer automatically, her breath soft against his cheek. His fingers trailed down her face with a slow, lazy kind of affection, committing the shape of her in this light to memory..

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

She smiled sleepily, amusement tugging at the corner of her lips. “You said that a lot.”

“Mean it every time,” he said, voice rough. “You’re my dreamgirl.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, low and teasing, but her fingers curled into his chest, holding onto him like she didn’t quite believe it.

“So I’m supposed to come, is that it?” she mused, drawing out the words.

Joel had spent most of his life keeping things simple. Straightforward. No fuss, no questions, no goddamn talking about it.

He let out a long, suffering sigh, pressing his forehead to hers. Jesus, he could just roll over and fix this. He would—happily. But for once, he didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to miss the quiet, golden stretch of time between basking in the afterglow and sleep.

“It amazes me that you don’t know that,” he muttered.

She shrugged, unbothered. “I did feel nice.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I couldn't give it to you.”

Her eyes softened. She turned her face into his hand, pressing a deep, lingering kiss into his palm. He swallowed around it, around the way it made him feel—too big, too much, too good.

“Don't be. I had a lot of fun,” she admitted.

Fun. Sex had never been fun. Not for him, Not in his whole goddamn lifetime. It had been a release, a need, a way to forget or feel an ounce of freedom. But fun? Especially from someone who'd been through hell on this?

He looked at her like she’d just rewritten the entire world in front of him.

“I could get used to this with you. Just... slowly.”

His brain short-circuited. “Used to this with me?”

She nodded, pushing half her face shyly into the pillow, a single, shining brown eye peering up at him.

Jesus Christ. He really was about a pop a vein in his forehead. “Right back at you,” he managed.

Then she lifted onto her elbow, hovering over him, her fingers trailing slow, aimless patterns over the fuzz on his chest. Her touch wasn’t meant to start something—to tease or demand. It was just her, touching him because she wanted to. Because she could.

“Don’t look at me like that, darlin’,” he grumbled, already feeling the heat creep back into his body. “I can barely see straight anymore. There’s three of you in front of me.”

She grinned, leaning in so close her lips almost brushed his. “It’s usually the one in the middle.”

He let out a hoarse laugh, shaking his head. “I ain’t one of your damn machines either. If I am, well—I need big repairs. Gotta oil my gears, tighten some screws.”

She kissed his cheek with a soft giggle, once, twice—then a third time to his lips, slow and sweet. A silent promise. A quiet goodnight.

“I’ll take twenty years off you in no time,” she murmured, nuzzling her nose against his. “You’ll be living till you’re a hundred. Goodnight, Joel.”

She nestled back into the cold pillows, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, guiding him close until his face was tucked between her neck and the soft swell of her chest.

Joel breathed out, letting himself sink into her. His arms slung over her waist, pulling her close until there was nothing between them, his leg tangling with hers.

“Till I’m a hundred, my ass,” he muttered, already halfway asleep. “You keep ridin’ me like that, I’m kickin’ rocks at sixty.”

She gasped, appalled. “Joel!”

He grinned against her skin, pressing a kiss to her throat. “G'night.”

X

Joel felt that night in his bones for three days straight.

The delicious ache, the lingering burn, the way his body still hummed like it was catching up to itself—he felt every damn bit of it. Like walking about with a brand on his chest, her name in big, fat capitals, burned into his skin that wasn't ever going to fade. If he let his mind wander, he swore he could still feel the imprint of her nails on his shoulders, the scratch of her breathy moans against his throat.

It had been a long, long time since he'd felt this kind of soreness, since he'd let himself have anything that good. And now that he had—Christ, it was all he could think about.

Sure, his stamina wasn’t what it used to be. He wasn’t some young buck anymore, wasn’t out here trying to prove anything. That kind of energy belonged to a different lifetime. A life where survival meant running, fighting, bleeding, and losing.

But now?

Now, his life was slow. Lazy. Boring. And fuck, if it wasn’t the best goddamn thing in the world.

Every morning, he woke up in what he could only rightfully call the bed to end all beds—wrapped up in a too-soft duvet, which made it near impossible to leave. Sheets tangled around his legs, pillows propped just right. But the best part?

Leela. His girl. Partner. Whatever the fuck. Just call her his.

Sleeping right beside him, fingers still loosely twisted around his from sometime in the night.

He wasn’t a man prone to sentiment. But every single morning, without fail, he’d lie there for a minute, blinking slowly at the ceiling, feeling her warmth beside him, and he’d think: what the hell evil did I destroy to deserve this?

Because he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to wake up slow, wrapped in her warmth. Didn’t deserve the way she just let him have this—her body, her trust, her time. But she gave it anyway.

And if he was weak, if he was pathetic, well—he wasn’t strong enough to just lie there and not touch her.

So he’d roll onto his side, push his face into her shoulder, into her hair, breathe her in, feel the strength of her long legs beneath his palms. Because, deep down, some stupid, aching part of him needed to make sure she was still real. That she hadn’t just vanished into steam.

“Mornin’,” he’d murmur, voice gravelly with sleep, lips brushing over the soft skin of her neck.

And she’d hum, still mostly asleep, shifting closer without thinking, tucking herself against him like she knew. Like she knew she was his, and he was hers, and they had time—all the time in the world to wake up slow and warm in each other’s arms.

Joel didn’t know how to handle that. Didn’t know what the hell to do with the way it made him feel, all thick and too much in his chest.

So he did what he did know how to do. He kissed her. Once. Twice. Again. And again.

Unhurried and soft, against her shoulder, her arm, her cheek, wherever he could. Until she grumbled, barely audible, something along the lines of Joel, let me sleep, swatting at him half-heartedly.

He never listened. Not when he had her like this. Not when she was somewhat awake, turning over onto her back, peeking up at him with those bleary, half-lidded eyes.

“Last one before I get your coffee,” he’d lie, pressing a slow, lingering kiss behind her ear.

And it was never just one. Soon enough, Joel would drag himself up, forcing himself to leave the warmth of their bed, of her, if only for one thing.

His next favourite part of the morning.

His little girl. Maya.

The second Joel stepped into the nursery, flicking on the dim light, the world felt right. Scented in warm linens and baby powder, as the soft morning glow bled through the curtains, it painted everything in muted greens and pink.

And there she was. His baby girl curled in her little nest of blankets, fists rubbing at her groggy eyes, her dark curls sticking out every which way like she’d been fighting sleep all night.

Then she saw him. And the second she did—

“Da-da-da-da-da!”

Joel barely had time to brace before she shot straight up, balancing on the tips of her toes against the crib bars, hands clapping, a little bouncing bean of excitement.

And that damn sweetheart grin. All toothy and wide, like she’d been waiting her whole life to see him again. It got him every time, that overwhelming sense of sweet defeat. He'd take a knife in the heart for her.

He let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head at her, at the way her tiny face was all lit up with him simply showing up.

“There’s my baby girl,” he rumbled, stepping forward, and scooping her up into his arms in one smooth motion, raining kisses on her cheeks.

Maya let out a squealing little giggle, tiny hands immediately going for his face, his beard, her favourite thing to grab early in the morning. She clutched two greedy handfuls, tugging at the scruff like it was hers.

He brushed a hand down her curls. “Did you sleep well?”

“Sleeeepy,” she said around her fist.

She babbled against his shoulder—nonsense, tiny sounds he swore had some kind of meaning only she knew—her chubby little arms tightening around his neck in a hug that damn near melted him.

Then—of course—she went right back to attacking his beard, tugging with all her tiny might.

Joel winced, letting out a mock grumble, “Yeah, alright. You just want Daddy for the whiskers, huh?”

Maya let out a high-pitched giggle, and he felt her breath, warm against his neck, little fingers wandering up to pat his cheeks.

Joel, of course, pretended to eat her fingers instead, lips smacking, making exaggerated chomping sounds. Maya screeched, all wiggly and squirming, kicking in his arms with laughter so wild and free, it made his whole day before it even started.

He sighed, pressing his nose against her cheek, breathing her in. Baby powder. Warmth. His baby girl.

“Alright, trouble. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He carried her over to the little bathroom by the nursery, got her washed up, and changed into one of the tiny little sweaters that had once belonged to her mama. Maya, of course, made it an ordeal—wiggling, talking to him, playing with her own toes.

Joel took his time. Didn’t rush a damn thing.

A normal, mundane morning—waking up next to the woman he loved, starting the day with his baby girl. That was his whole rhythm now.

Some days their mornings went quick—too quick for his liking. Early in the morning, shovelling down his breakfast alone, yelling goodbye to his girls, and heading out for patrol, only to spend every second waiting until he could get back to them. Waiting for that first breath of home, that happy squeal he would hear from Maya ten yards out, that first kiss again.

The house was still half-asleep when Joel clattered his plate into the sink. Maya let out a soft whimper from her mother's arms, travelling across the kitchen, getting his attention first, and Leela—half-awake, hair mussed, sweater slipping off one shoulder—murmured, “You’re being loud.”

Joel grabbed his jacket off the chair, shoving an arm through one sleeve. “Ain’t got time to be quiet. Tommy's gonna blow a fuse.”

Leela huffed, rubbing a hand over her face. “You ever think about waking up ten minutes earlier?”

Joel snorted, already at the door. “You ever think about wakin’ up with me?”

That earned him a half-hearted glare over her shoulder. “I'm a night owl. I need the dark to think.”

Maya stirred, a tiny, bleary-eyed thing, her hands stretching toward him. Joel hesitated, foot already over the threshold.

Leela, catching the way his shoulders pulled tight, sighed. “Go, Joel.”

“Don't work yourself too hard while I'm gone,” he warned.

Leela just hummed in accord, adjusting Maya against her shoulder.

Joel hesitated. Then, before he could think twice, he ducked back in, pressing a long, deep kiss to her lips, holding her chin tight between his palm, just until he fought for breath.

She startled when he pulled away, blinking up at him. Then playfully shoved at his chest to get him out the door. “Go already.”

But some days—the best days—mornings were slow. Breakfast on the island or out on the porch, the intense scent of coffee thick in the cold air, his hand curled around the mug that curled out steaming ribbons into his face, while Leela sat beside him, legs tucked up under herself, grinning at him over the rim of her cup.

Joel tipped his mug toward his lips, letting the heat of the coffee melt into him. Watching her.

She tilted her head, nudging his thigh with her knee. “Are you always this quiet in the mornings? I never noticed.”

Joel glanced at her. “Ain’t got much to say with you around.”

She raised a brow, taking a small sip of her own coffee. “That so?”

Joel smirked, sipping slowly. “Just like listenin’ to you talk.”

Leela scoffed. “That’s funny. ‘Cause last time I checked, you like cutting me off halfway.”

Joel pursed his lips, considering. “Only when you’re talkin’ nonsense. Y'know, your little nerdspeak thing you do.”

Her mouth parted in excessive offence. “Oh, so my technicalities are nonsense?”

Joel blew into his coffee cup. “Mm.”

She gave him a slow, evaluating look, then nudged him hard enough that coffee nearly sloshed over the rim of his cup.

“Goddammit, girl.” He shot her a glare, but it was ruined by the way his lips were twitching.

The mornings when snow blanketed the whole town, and he’d bundle Maya up like a little marshmallow, watching her waddle out into the white, her excitement vibrating through every inch of her tiny body. He’d stand there on the porch, arms crossed, watching her vigilantly as she threw herself into the snow, chubby hands slapping the ground, kicking her little legs while Leela laughed beside him.

Sometimes, mornings like this used to feel like a chore. Errands. Town. A list scrawled on his palm, running through daily tasks that he used to do alone—back when it had just been him and Sarah, back when Saturday mornings meant grocery runs, when her tiny hands would have been in his, tugging him toward whatever caught her eye.

Now, it was Maya, and she was a whole different kind of trouble.

Leela had gone off to meet Maria at the dam—something about some loose wiring, an issue that she was insisting she could fix, even though Joel had very strong feelings about her doing anything that required standing near running water with electrical tools. But that left him here, alone with Maya, tackling grocery shopping.

Joel let her wander, let her explore at her own level, tiny squeaky boots padding against the wooden floorboards of the trading post, soft little oohs and ahs slipping from her lips whenever she spotted something that intrigued her. He kept one eye on the list, the other on her, reaching out every so often to keep her from knocking into someone’s knees or tugging on a coat that didn’t belong to her.

But the second she drifted too far—too quick, too small, lost too easy in the crowd—he was on her.

A sigh deep in his chest, scooping her up, tucking her under his arm while she squealed and huffed, little hands batting at him in protest. Little gremlin.

“Don't gimme that, baby girl,” he muttered, setting her down just long enough to grab the last thing on his list.

Potatoes. Should’ve been easy. Joel let go of her hand for two damn seconds to grab the bag from the shelf—and when he turned back, she was gone.

His stomach dropped.

“Christ, not again,” he muttered under his breath, shifting his basket to his hip. “Maya?”

No answer. Just the quiet squeak of her boots, quick little steps padding away.

“Maya!”

Joel pushed past people, scanning, breath already working too hard through his nose. It wasn’t panic—not exactly—but it was something close. He had to remind himself that she wasn't made of glass and this was Jackson, yet that was still his baby.

His eyes locked on her in an instant. “Fast fuckin' menace,” he muttered.

She was standing a few feet away, tiny and oblivious, playing with the tab of a can of beans, flicking it up and down with rapt fascination. Didn't even bother looking at him.

Someone was crouched in front of her, blocking her from view. “Where’s your mother, sweetheart?”

Joel already knew who it was before he even reached them.

“Eugene,” he called.

The man glanced up at him, eyes narrowing for a beat before recognition settled in, mouth stretching into a knowing grin. “Miller.” He stood with a grunt, rolling out his shoulders. “Hey, help me out here. This kid’s parent—”

“Is me,” Joel muttered, already reaching for Maya, plucking her up onto his hip like she belonged nowhere else. “C'mere, trouble,” and a firm kiss to the top of her head, his fingers pressing into her tiny back.

“You?” Eugene questioned, thrown off balance.

What, had he been living under a rock? Maya had been the talk of the town since she'd been born. Who speaking off, squealed, giggling, smacking a hand against his cheek—some little game she’d apparently decided was hilarious.

“Me,” Joel confirmed, levelling Eugene with a look. “We got a problem?”

Eugene made a low sound in his throat, eyes flicking between them, like he was sizing up a damn prize mule. Then his mouth curled up once more.

“Oh yeah, I see it,” he said, nodding. “She’s got your big-ass nose.”

“Fuck off.”

“Calmeth thy tits,” Eugene grinned, “I’m tryna be polite.”

“Don’t need it.”

Eugene raised his hands in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath. “So this is why you’ve been copping out of patrol a lot lately. Got Tommy's panties in a twist.”

He nodded toward Maya, who had now taken to tugging on Joel’s beard, testing its durability like she had every right in the world to grab at her old man’s face.

Joel sighed, prying her fingers free one by one. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Guess it is.”

“Yeah, by the looks of it, she's a handful. Cute as shit, though.”

And Eugene—he just stood there a second. Looking at Joel, smelling strongly of weed, basket in his grip, a box of food from the canteen and a bottle of whiskey sitting inside.

Joel saw it then. The difference between them. An old ghost of himself.

Eugene—the kind of man he might’ve been had it not been his instinct to quiet a baby's cries from next door. A year ago, maybe even less, he would’ve been the one with the bottle of whiskey in his cart, the one picking up meals from the canteen instead of making them. The one going home alone.

Eugene exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Huh,” he muttered. Then, a nod, a flash of grudging pride behind his eyes. “You came through. Good for you, Miller.”

Joel didn’t have the words for it. Didn’t know how to put into words what this was, what it felt like to have this, to have them—after years of nothing.

So he just cleared his throat and adjusted Maya in his arms. Eugene just chuckled, slapping a hand on his shoulder before stepping past him, humming under his breath.

Eugene didn’t walk off right away.

Joel could feel him there—still standing at his side, still weighing the words on his tongue. It set his teeth on edge, the way Eugene hesitated. Like he was debating whether to say what was already burning behind his lips.

Then, finally—

“You wanna tell me why Ellie and Dina are so interested in the Fireflies all of a sudden?”

Joel went winded. The Maya's little weight in his arms was suddenly the only thing keeping him upright, keeping him tethered. He barely blinked. Barely breathed.

His voice bit out dangerously low. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

Eugene tightened the basket in his grip. Shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. But his eyes were sharp when they cut to Joel, measuring.

“She’s been askin’ these ex-Firefly folks like me and Tommy,” he told him. “Came to me couple nights back—askin’ if I knew anything. If I’d heard anything about ‘em regrouping.”

Joel swallowed, throat dry as dust.

His grip on Maya didn’t tighten—he made sure of that. Kept his hands gentle, careful, even as the rest of him braced. But inside—inside, he clenched up like a fist.

Ellie. Asking about the Fireflies.

It wasn’t panic curling up his spine. Worse.

Because she’d known. She’d gone back to that hospital. She’d walked through the bloodstains, the echoes of gunfire, the remnants of what he’d done. She’d seen the truth laid bare, stripped of all the justifications he’d tried to wrap around it. And she’d spent months—years—dragging herself through the wreckage, trying to make sense of it.

Trying to make peace with him.

He’d watched her try. Seen it in the way she forced herself to stay, even when the silence stretched too long between them. In the way she looked at him sometimes, like she was still searching for something, still waiting for an answer he could never give. He thought—he hoped—that with time, she’d let it rest. That the scars would settle, and they could leave that part of their lives buried where it belonged.

But now—now they were here again.

And Joel didn’t know if they could come back from it this time.

The walls of the room felt like they were creeping in closer, like if he stood still too long, he’d get swallowed whole, but Joel forced his breath steady. In. Out. In. Out. Kept his shoulders loose even as something behind his ribs coiled tight, wound like a spring.

“And?” He made his voice even, ironing out the edges. “You tell her anythin’?”

Eugene huffed, shaking his head. “Nothin’ worth tellin’. Just old stories, y’know? Old bases, old rumours, old movement. And about that research base over at Caltech. I don’t know what she’s lookin’ for, but maybe keep an eye out for your other little girl, too, yeah?”

Joel stared at nothing. His heart pounded heavy, like a fist banging against a locked door. Ellie had stopped asking a long time ago. Or at least, he’d thought she had. Maybe she’d just stopped asking him.

But why now? After all this time?

Not unless—

His mind snagged on the past few weeks. The time Ellie had been spending across the way. The quiet conversations, the way she lingered at their porch, shifting her weight like she was waiting on something. He hadn’t thought much of it at first. Leela kept to herself, and Ellie wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. Two closed-off people drifting toward each other, not expecting much in return.

But that wasn’t it.

Ellie was digging.

And Leela had handed her the shovel.

Of course she had.

Joel’s stomach twisted, that sourness settling deep. He should’ve seen it sooner. Should’ve recognized the signs.

Leela—the girl with something ripped from her before she ever had the chance to claim it. A name that couldn’t be rooted in history. A life that had been rewritten for her before she could write it herself.

Ellie had always been drawn to ghosts. The lost, the forgotten, the ones who didn’t get a choice. She saw herself in them. Clung to them. And Leela—she was another reflection in the glass.

Another kid who could’ve been something more.

Another wasted potential.

Another shot at redemption.

Joel clenched his teeth. He should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve stopped it before it got this far. Because this wasn’t just curiosity—not for Ellie. It never was. She was always looking for meaning in the wreckage. Always chasing the answers that would rip her open in the end.

And now she was looking again.

For the Fireflies. For Leela. For something she thought she’d lost. For something Joel had taken from her. Taken from them.

His chest tightened, breath coming sharp through his nose. He hadn’t just lied to Ellie all those years ago. He’d tried to close the door. To bury it, deep enough that she’d never claw it back to the surface. But maybe that was never the way it was going to go. Maybe it had just been a matter of time.

Eugene must’ve caught something in his expression, because he turned fully then, brows knitting together.

“You alright, Miller?”

Joel blinked. Swallowed. Got a hold of himself

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, scraped raw. “M’fine.”

Eugene didn’t look convinced. “You take care now.”

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—Joel wasn’t either.

But Eugene didn’t push. Just cleared his throat, nodded once, winked at Maya, and finally stepped away, boots heavy against the floorboards.

Joel stood there a second longer, the world shifting around him. It was a feeling he despised. The sensation of something slipping just beyond his grasp.

Then he looked down at Maya, small and soft in his arms, her tiny hand curled into the fabric of his coat, trusting. “Da-da, go. Go.”

The only part of his world that still made sense. He focused on that. On her warmth.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing her in. “Yeah, baby. Let's go.”

Then turned, stepping toward the door, already knowing—

He needed to find Ellie. Now.

X

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[flamingpudding]

Little Snippets #9

"This portal will bring you back to your time safely."

The young teen, well kid in Dick's eyes said before them, pointing towards a green vortex. Dick felt relieved but also a twist in his gut. Time travel adventures always had their pro and cons. He was sure that they hadn't messed up anything, Damian wouldn't end up with a new hair cut this time, nor any of his brother. Hell Jason was even apparently cleaned out from some bad ectoplasm.

Yet...

They had spend some time here, fixing Ra's newest dumb idea to get Damian back on his side. They had bonded with this kid from the past. A young hero at the age of 14, barely older than Damian himself.

The kid had gotten tricked by Ra at first then they ended up in his time resolving the mess and bonding with this kid. Like really bonded with this kid. Like B starting to mentor the kid like he did all of them. Tim tinkering and engineering with him. Jason bantering and joking with the kid, even Damian bonded with him, thanks to one size changing ghost dog. Not to mention Dick bonded with the kid a lot too.

And it sucked in Dick's opinion. He glanced at his family, even if they all were in gear and wearing masks, he could see the small signs in the way they where holding themselves. The small indications, movements barely noticeable to anyone else.

Hell he could even see it in Bruce, the way the man tensed just a little bit. The small twitch of the man's lip, the little minuscule tilt. It was all there and only for the Batfamily to see.

Dick put on a smile, burying that twisted feeling in his gut.

Like they all did.

Like they all were forced to do.

He watched Tim make one last souvenir selfie. Well they all had one with the kid. Made at various points during their stay in this time. Even Damian sneaked making one using the excuse of wanting a selfie with that big green ghost dog.

"We will be on our way then kid." He tried sounding cheerful and by the smile the kid gave him, he was sure he hit the right tone of voice. "Don't be a stranger when we meet again."

He smiled still, knowing his family caught on to the fact that he said 'when' not 'if'.

Because it was obvious.

In their short time here, they all but officially, had adopted the kid into the family. Dick would joke that he kid would fit right in with them while they were here. Jason lamenting how Bruce had a type with kids. Bruce had had that minuscule uplift to his lip whenever they had joked around with the kid.

But again, this wasn't their time.

And that's why time travel sucked.

You make bonds, maybe even new family.

But they wouldn't be there when you are back in the time you belong.

But Dick was determined. When they stepped through that vortex, when he looked back at the kid waving to them. He knew what he had to do the moment they were back in their time.

He just hoped the kid would remember them, remember his words of not being a stranger.

[oikarma]

look me in the eye | pt.1

pairing: max verstappen x rbr!engineer!reader

summary: the rb21 seems unfixable but that might not be the only reason max verstappen wants you around.

a/n: kind of angsty? think this will be two parts. 2k-ish words!

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The paddock is full of wind and empty promises. Bahrain's desert nights hold no warmth for those who find themselves at war with machines. Under the harsh lights of the Red Bull garage, your hands are stained with grease, burnt rubber and fuel having become your signature scent. The RB21 sits before you so still, like a child being yelled at. It's internals are exposed, betraying the effort you have poured into it. Another night. Another battle against the unworkable.

You wipe your forehead and the action leaves a dark trail.

"It's not you," Max's voice is acute in comparison to the exhausted engineers around you. "It's the car."

You sigh and rub your hand across your face again, leaving a another streak of oil on your cheek. "I've been through every possible variation of the floor. I've checked the suspension settings, even the cooling package. Nothing sticks. It’s like-"

"-like trying to control a wild animal?" he offers, a small smirk at the corner of his lips.

You huff. It could be a laugh, on some other day, but right now there is no humor in the situation. "More like taming a hurricane with duct tape."

Max leans against the workbench. His arms are crossed over his chest. Even under the brutal garage lights, even with this stupid car that no one but him can drive with some semblance of control, he's certain. "Well, you're still making it work."

That earns a scoff from you. "You make it work, Max. I just throw everything at the wall and hope something sticks."

His gaze sharpens, and it seems to pierce right through you. You, not just an engineer, but as a person who's given up everything to this job, to this team, to him.

"That's not true," he says quietly. "You don't just try. You build. You fix. You see what no one else does. And I-" He catches himself here, unsure how appropriate it'll sound. "I trust you."

The words, from him of all people, settle in your chest like an anchor. Trust is not given freely in Formula One; it is earned, lap by agonizing lap, through victories and through failures. You are not his race engineer. You're just another member of his team. There, hardly noticeable.

You doubt anyone outside RBR, outside the engineering teams, knows your name. Max Verstappen does, though, and that counts for something.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Australia is supposed to be a fresh start.

A new track, a chance to see if anything has changed. But as you watch Lando Norris cross the line in first place, with Max trailing behind in P2, your stomach sinks. The celebrations begin almost immediately. Confetti, cheers, McLaren mechanics embracing as if they had won the championship itself. You want to slap someone. In it feels like they have. They have proof that their car is faster, that their work is paying off in a way yours isn't.

Still, you push it down. Max fought for this podium, and you owe it to him to be happy.

When he walks into the garage, you're already there, waiting with the rest of the team. He’s drenched in sweat, his fireproofs clinging to his skin. He should be tired, but the familiar sharp focus is in his eyes, even now. He's always noticing things.

You force a smile and clasp his shoulder.

"P2, Max. You dragged that car through hell for it."

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "It wasn't easy." Max gives you a small smile. The way it doesn't fully turn up at the ends of his mouth betrays how tired he really is, despite playing it off. "You gave me something to fight with."

You nod. Your smile doesn't reach your eyes either. The noise of celebration around you turning to static. He sees it. Of course he does.

Max opens his mouth to say something else, but he's getting pulled away again for some interviews.

Later, when the festivities have died down, he finds you outside the garage. Away from the crowd. You sit on a stack of worn-out Pirelli tire blankets, staring at the ground. The sound of approaching footsteps doesn't startle you.

"What are you doing out here? No alcohol?" he asks. He always speaks sharply, concisely, reassured. Not anymore-Max is asking you now as he would a frightened animal. Don't run, it's as if he's saying, please stay.

You let out a breath. The weight of the race, the season, all of it pressing against your ribs. And then, before you can stop yourself-

"You're right," you murmur. "The McLaren is faster. We lack the pace."

The answer doesn't come right away. He's standing there, watching you with what might be regret. Because those are his words from mere hours ago, right after the race. A loose admission in the media pen, thrown out without a second thought. Max was happy with his race, not elated but he did things and the car was in the way and he forgot momentarily about all the work. He likes to be truthful with his words but he's slipped up.

And now, you're here, breaking yourself apart over them.

Max crouches down in front of you. His elbows rest on his knees. "That doesn't mean you failed."

You shake your head. "Feels like it."

He doesn't know what to tell you. Sorry? I'm sorry I said that. I was mad at the car. It wasn't about you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, hesitantly, he reaches out and rests a hand against your forearm.

"You don't give up," he says. "I don't. We adapt. We adapt."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Shanghai is a lesson in patience.

The RB21 struggles on the mediums and the first stint is agony. You were worried about the lack of pace, the way the tires degrade faster than they should be. "We set out to do our pace, which was a fair bit slower than the cars around us," he later tells the reports, frustration just beneath the surface. "I'm trying not to destroy the tires."

Your stomach knots as you watch the sector times, the data painting a bleak picture. But when the switch to hards comes, something shifts.

There, the grip. There, a chance.

Lap by lap, the car becomes drivable. Not perfect, not dominant, but workable. And Max, as always, wrings everything out of it.

It's not a podium but after the disqualifications, it becomes P4. A bittersweet relief.

You find him outside your hotel room. The soft, golden glow of the hallway lights casts shadows across his features, sharp angles of exhaustion softened by something else.

"You know," you say as you close the door behind you. "For a man who just got handed an almost-podium, you're not looking very victorious."

His mouth twitches. "Doesn't feel like one, does it? I didn't earn it."

You tilt your head, considering. "Maybe not. Still, you can't count yourself out. Drinks?" You drum your fingers against the already-open minibar.

Max turns his head to look at you. "You always say things like that."

"I actually don't encourage you to drink that much," you defend.

"No. I mean, like you actually believe in all this." He gestures vaguely around as if the world of Formula One is something that can be captured in a single movement. "In the fight. Things turning around."

You shrug and take out a bottle. "Sure I do."

He studies you for longer than necessary, then shakes his head with a soft chuckle. "Crazy talk."

You feign offense and hold the drink close to your chest. "I am an engineer, Max. I deal in hard data and numbers. You're the intuitive one."

"Right." He eyes you, ever the skeptic. "Yet here you are, like a motivational quote board."

You grin. "Maybe I'm just trying to keep you from spiraling."

Max exhales through his nose, amused. "And here I thought I was keeping you from losing hope."

"Guess we're just stuck with each other then."

“Could be worse." His voice is lower now, the teasing edge giving way to something quieter.

The banter fades and here's a chance for you to do something. To let it sink in, to grasp the awful rawness of the moment. You don't know how.

"'least it's not Russell," you tell him. He flinches. It's small but doesn't slip your sight and you feel bad for making fun when he's trying to have a serious discussion. "Sorry. Feelings, hard. You know," you continue, "I think you actually had fun today."

His lips press together as if he's about to deny it. Instead, he relents. "Maybe a little."

"A miracle," you murmur.

"Don’t tell anyone."

You smirk. "Your secret's safe with me. Maybe we should hold off on the alcohol. Tipsy me isn't as trustworthy."

"I don't know about that." Max pretends to think. "Why don't we find out?"

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

When the sun wakes you up, Max has already managed to stumble back to his own room. Not entirely true. You just know he's no longer piss-drunk in yours.

Truth be told, you aren't as reluctant to spend time with him as you once were. His arrogant nature has softened with time. He's funny sometimes. But that isn't the only reason.

Red Bull was a hot mess the end of 2024. It is still one. You aren't out of options. You are friends with a friend who is friends with a head at McLaren and the offer sounds pretty good right now.

It's just a question of Max or Lando or Oscar. Or maybe there isn't a question at all.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Suzuka's next on your bucket list.

Red Bull's struggles have been the focal point of every media outlet, every discussion framed around whether the once-dominant team can claw its way back to the top.

You're in the motorhome, scrolling through your laptop, catching up on the latest coverage. A celsius-sorry, RB, but they just taste better- is by your side, half-finished. Then you see it. An interview, Max's face filling the screen, his expression as sharp and serious as ever. The reporter has just finished asking a question, pushing for insight into the difficulties he's been facing.

"It’s not easy," Max admits with his arms crossed. His Red Bull cap is pulled low over his eyes. "The car is… not where we want it to be. It's difficult to drive, unpredictable in certain corners, and sometimes it feels like I'm fighting it more than driving it."

You frown slightly, fingers tightening around the device. You've heard this before. You know all about his frustration, his honesty. It's a good trait that helps you know what to work on, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

Then his tone shifts.

"But," he continues, "we're making progress. My engineer...she's putting everything into this car, finding solutions where it seems like there are none. Every race, every session, we're understanding it better. I have hope for the next races. Still very tough, but I trust her-sorry, them. We'll get there."

Oh, what a slip-up. Your breath catches. Max's face is slightly flushed. He definitely knows what he said.

You do too. Trust. He said it so simply.

You replay the clip, once, twice, and with every repeat, something warm coils in your stomach. The world hears his frustration, but you hear something else: recognition, appreciation. He sees what you do, what you give.

The corners of your lips curl into a smirk as you set the laptop down.

"Well," you say to yourself. "That was certainly something."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You don't know why you bring it up now, in the middle of the hospitality lounge, of all places. Maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it's the way Max looked at you after the interview aired-like you were the only thing holding this team together. Like you were holding him together.

So you say it.

"I think I'm leaving next year."

Max, halfway through sipping his water, freezes. His fingers tighten around the bottle, knuckles turning white.

"No."

It’s not a question. Not even a reaction. Just a flat-out refusal.

You exhale, bracing yourself. "Max-"

"No," he repeats, louder this time. He sets the bottle down with a sharp thud, standing up so fast his chair scrapes against the floor. "You’re not leaving."

You stare at him, startled by the sheer force behind his words. "It's not up to you."

His jaw clenches, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He looks like he's physically holding himself back, like if he doesn't control it, he might actually go berserk. At any other time you would be aware of the other engineers in the room, pretending not to notice whatever's going on, but he's taking up all of your attention right now. Subtlety is pushed to the back of your mind. "You can't leave," he says, voice rough. "Not after everything."

You swallow and your voice is still not steady. "Max, you know how bad this year has been. The car is-"

"I know how bad it is," he snaps. He steps closer. "I know better than anyone, because I'm the one driving it. But you-" Max exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "You're the only one who makes it better."

Your heart stutters.

He’s staring at you now, eyes burning. You can't read what's behind them. "Every time I think this car is undriveable, you fix it. Every time I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle, you find a way to make it work." Max shakes his head, almost laughing. But it's humorless, frustrated. "And now you're telling me you want to leave? What am I supposed to do with that?"

You take a shaky breath. "Max, I-"

"You can't," he says again, and this time, his voice cracks. "Not you."

Max Verstappen has never been what people call a sentimental man. Right now, he looks as if tears are no longer foreign to him.

You should tell him it's just a thought, that nothing is decided yet. But the way he's looking at you-desperate, almost pleading-makes it impossible to lie.

So you say nothing. You give him that.

And Max? Max steps even closer, until there's barely any space between you. His gaze flickers down-to your lips, to the unsteady rise and fall of your chest-before meeting your eyes again.

"Stay," he murmurs. "Please."

And God help you, you don't know if you can say no.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: going back to my true roots as a narrative writer don't let this flop please xx

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Cosmic Experimentation

Author's Note: @angelesca 's post has been living rent free in my head ever since I read it. I've wanted to write something for Anaxagoras, but I couldn't figure out what to write. And now I have the best inspiration, thanks to her HCs 😚 (I'm thinking about writing a part 2 where we finger his chest hole too–)

Pairings: Anaxagoras x male reader

Warnings: Dom male!reader, sub!Anaxa, fingering unusual holes, slight thigh humping, dacryphilia

“Are you sure about this? You really don't have to you kn–”

“No — I… I'm certain that I want to do this.” Anaxagoras takes an unsteady breath before he adds, “I trust you. I trust that you will be gentle and cautious.”

You nod, taking a deep breath as well before giving Anaxa's waist a light squeeze. Then, you raise one hand up to his face, cupping his left cheek. The warmth from your palm seeps into his skin, bringing about a bit of comfort — enough to bring a small smile to his lips.

Anaxagoras' eye flutters shut at the gentleness of your touch. The ornate eye patch covering the left side of his face keeps your attention, it's chain swaying gently whenever Anaxa's head moves. Your other hand remains on his hip, holding him steady while he sits comfortably in your lap, straddling your thigh.

It's another full minute of staying as you are, lost in this peaceful moment, before you trace the underside of Anaxa's eye patch. Gently slipping a finger underneath and lifting it slightly, only to pause when your partner shudders. “Sweetie?” you prod, afraid that this area is more sensitive than he led you to believe.

“Keep going–” he reassures, holding onto your wrist now, almost as a guiding hand. You hesitate, but ultimately give in and continue reaching upwards until your fingers reach a new sensation. Anaxagoras' breath hitches, his lips pressing together tighter as you explore this new territory. It doesn't feel like skin anymore — it's damp to the touch, and somewhat cold.

Your eyes flick to your partner's gaze; he's watching you with bated breath, predicting that you'll penetrate this spot any second now. Proving him right, you apply pressure, dipping your finger into that cool, unseen space hidden under his eye patch. Anaxagoras catches a moan before it can fully exit his throat. He gulps, digging his nails into your wrist while his other hand flies to your shoulder for stability.

“‘Sensitive’, huh? It seems you were right about that.” you tease. Anaxa can't even muster a retort as you push in a little deeper, then begin to pull your finger back out, repeating the motion idly. “Do you think you can handle two fingers?”

At this, Anaxa's eye widens, and you can instantly see the blood rush to his soft cheeks. He glares at you, but makes no argument against your question. So, you decide to find out for yourself. And the result is instantaneous: an unrestrained moan forces its way out of your pretty boyfriend. All the while, his hips jut forward, dragging his clothed cock along your thigh. The action is not missed by either one of you; while it only causes him to flush an even deeper shade of red, it brings a smirk to your lips as you understand why your partner wanted to do this in a secluded area.

Several minutes pass, filled with Anaxagoras making all sorts of reserved breathy noises. The space where your fingers reside is still a mystery to you, though one thing is for sure: future experimentation is required in order to find out the best way to bring out all of Anaxa's beautiful moans and whimpers.

The sudden realization of a wet spot on your thigh brings you out of your thoughts, and you direct your gaze to where your partner has been humping you, apparently. His hips move of their own accord, spreading a wetness that has quickly soaked through his clothing. You're sure that Anaxa doesn't even realize that he's doing it, which makes it all the more adorable.

“It must feel incredible…” you murmur. Your gaze is fixed on the growing wet spot between his legs, highlighting the very obvious bulge nestled there as well. As you thrust your fingers in a bit deeper, and more forcefully, Anaxagoras clutches your shoulder tighter, letting his mouth hang open and spill every noise without restraint now. Tears fill his right eye, beginning to run down his cheek. You grip his waist a little tighter, pulling Anaxa closer and accidentally causing his dick to grind against your thigh. An action that has shivers crawling up your partner's spine.

Anaxagoras pleads in the sweetest voice, “Please…it's– hnngh!! It's warm…haaah…and hard to breathe…” Another moan escapes as you curl your fingers deeply, making your boyfriend arch his back. “C-can't…take much mo-ore…”

“Tell me what you need, my love. What do you need me to do?” you ask in a gentle tone.

Rolling his hips against your thigh, Anaxagoras shudders once more, crying “Don't stop moving them–”

Immediately, you understand what he means. You pump your fingers in and out of Anaxa's cosmic orifice, and it makes little squelching sounds as you do. His voice wavers, going up an octave as he draws closer to his release. All of Anaxa's clothing feels too tight, as if his collar is constricting around his throat, and the back of his shirt clings to his skin as a layer of sweat forms. His chest hurts with how heavily he's been breathing for the past few minutes.

Something in Anaxagoras' core burns with searing pleasure, and the tension that has been building finally snaps as you coo at your partner to “Let it all out~”. His vision is blinded by white static, and his hips thrust forward a few times before his entire body goes lax.

“Aahh…aah~” your boyfriend heaves, exhaling harshly as the aftermath of his orgasm shakes his body and mind. You're quick to kiss Anaxa's cheek where tears had previously run down, holding him tightly since you could tell how weak he was in his current state. Soaking in every last whimper from your ruined boyfriend, you rub the small of his back while you tell him how pretty he looks. Earning yourself a halfhearted glare as a result.

You slowly remove your fingers from underneath his eye patch, eyeing them curiously as they're coated in a viscous blue substance. Before you can stare at it for too long, Anaxa weakly grasps your wrist again, putting your fingers in his mouth and sucking on them in an uncharacteristically lewd display. With his eye still glazed over, Anaxa stares at you like you're his entire universe (and, let's be honest, you are). His tongue swirls around your digits, cleaning them of that blueish fluid until they're practically sparkling, releasing your fingers with a wet pop.

“Well aren't we thoughtful?” you tease, swiping some spit from the corner of your partner's mouth. A content grin plasters itself onto Anaxagoras' face, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours, taking in more of your warmth as it radiates off of your skin.

Absentmindedly, you rest your hand on his chest, rubbing it affectionately until something clicks in your head…

“Hey, Anaxagoras?”

“Hm?” he hums, not pulling away quite yet.

“This mark, is this what the one under there looks like?” you trace the outline of the cosmic design in the center of his chest, outlined with silver.

Without opening his eye or moving a muscle, Anaxagoras responds, “It is.”

You continue running your finger along the edges of this area. “Does it function the same way too?”

Now Anaxa does pull back, squinting at you cautiously. “It does…why?” And you know very well that the smirk playing on your lips has caught his attention.

No words are needed as you glance at the pattern on his chest, then up to your partner's gaze, then back to his chest, and to his gaze once more, raising your eyebrows knowingly.

The deepest blush spreads across the scholar's face, followed by a gasp. “You…!!”

[dollsahoy]

(disclaimer: I'm not saying your approach is wrong, and I'm not saying mine is objectively correct, I'm saying everyone is different)

The thing is, I have seen so many people who don't realize that these are mistakes at all.

They cut fabric cross grain, with the pattern pieces going every direction, and when the finished garment doesn't fit or hang right, they say "I don't know what I did wrong" and then they do it again in other projects. (I saw one person cut their sleeves cross grain, end up with the sleeves being a bit too tight, then said "Well, it's a Japanese pattern, and Asian people are smaller, so that's probably what went wrong.")

They don't use facings or interfacing (or stay stitching) and just fold and stitch their neckline, and it ends up too big and doesn't lay flat, and they fix it by re-sewing the shoulder seams or adding darts along the edge, not realizing that the neckline itself stretched out because of the lack of the stabilization that comes from facings/interfacing/stay stitching. (And then that neckline frays the first time it's washed.)

They don't notch or clip the curves--which are usually the necklines they skipped the facing on--and they say "This turned out kind of lumpy, I guess I'm just not good at sewing ha ha!"

They line their sheath skirt with quilting cotton and then talk about how they have to constantly adjust that skirt because it sticks to their legs--so annoying! (end of story)

It's really hard to learn from a mistake when you don't know you're making it.

I have a vintage "How To Sew" pattern on my desk right now. Not only does it include facings, but it also includes "A tissue lesson on how to fit a princess dress or jumper." Maybe modern easy/beginner sewing patterns don't think people are capable of sewing facings or clipping seam allowances or using the right kind of lining or cutting fabric out following the grain, but they used to, and people are just as smart now as they were then.

I grew up around sewing, and then I took a sewing course in college. With all respect to my mom, that sewing course taught me things that she didn't know she didn't know. And I've only learned more in the last 30 years, especially how and when the rules can be ignored to get the result I want, and I'd say it was easier for me to figure out where I can deviate because I had that solid foundation in What To Do--I didn't have to figure all of that out for myself first.

Everyone is different! Some people rebel against being told what to do and are happiest figuring it all out themselves, some people take in being told what to do and then start figuring out how to play with the rules, and some people just want to make that cute dress they saw online but don't understand why their version fits weird and think it's just because they made the stitches wrong. And then some of them will abandon sewing completely because they don't have the kind of thought patterns that will really interrogate why things aren't working the way they expect.

My original post was not saying that anyone has to do these things, but I was saying that there are reasons to do them, and thinking that there aren't reasons can lead to predictable issues.

Also, it is very funny (genuinely) to think that I don't still make mistakes. Not only do I still make mistakes, but I share them, so people will know that mistakes are part of sewing, no matter how advanced you are. But they're mistakes I'm aware of making, which are always easier to fix than mistakes I can't even imagine were made at all (which I'm sure I still do, too. I just don't, y'know, know.)

I cannot stress enough that all those things in sewing pattern instructions that seem pointless are actually very important

Yes, how you fold your fabric before putting down the pattern pieces and cutting matters, because it influences how the fabric drapes, and ignoring that can cause fit issues in ways you wouldn't expect

Yes, cutting an entire separate piece to sew to the edge to finish it is going to be better than turning the edge and stitching it on its own, because there are geometry issues in play that make it actually harder to just fold a curve to the inside.

Yes, cutting clips or notches into the seam allowance around curves should always be done, because those geometry issues will work on the seam allowances and keep the curve from laying flat (remember, clip when the curve goes in, notch when the curve goes out)

Yes, interfacing may seem completely superfluous and frustrating and an extra step to work with, but it adds rigidity and stability to areas that need it (especially under buttons)

Yes, using a fun quilting cotton print for lining looks nice, but the point of lining isn't to make the inside pretty as much as it is to make the inside slip smoothly over the layer under it, and quilting cotton is going to instead be prone to grabbing everything under it, so you really should use those annoyingly slippery lining fabrics

Yes, in general, you should use the kind of fabric the pattern tells you to use, because there have been centuries, if not millennia, of people throughout the entire world figuring out what fabric best suits what kind of garment, for reasons beyond aesthetics

I know that a lot of people new to sewing see these things and feel like they're things that just aren't necessary, because they skip them when they sew and the item ends up just fine. And if you don't mind the idea of your clothes looking homemade, then it is fine. But...if you're consistently skipping these things and end up unhappy with how homemade your items look, please consider that that result is at least partly because you're not following the entire directions

"Sewing" involves so much more than just the stitches

[wingedhallows]

— LOOSE TONGUES —

CHAPTER THREE

— ₊˚⊹♡ PAIRING ; 3.2k words vi!basketball jockey x reader!ballerina — ₊˚⊹♡ SYNOPSIS : There was something there—something unspoken, something undeniable. But in one careless moment, it all fell apart. Words were said, pride got in the way, and now she’s left with nothing but regret. She wants to fix it. She has to. Now, Vi is determined to fix what she broke. She’ll do anything—everything—to prove she didn’t mean it. But pride is a stubborn thing, and second chances don’t come easy. Can she turn the tide before it’s too late? Or has she already lost what she never had the courage to claim?

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“—and her hair is so soft, god. I’d love to wrap it around my hand while we—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut it.”

Vi scowls into her coffee, stirring it with far more aggression than necessary as she cuts Ellie off, it annoys her how well Ellie’s flirting with Margot is going. The heat licking up her neck has nothing to do with the drink in her hands.

Ellie smirks, tilting her head just enough to make it clear—she’s enjoying this. Mocking her. Dragging it out like she knows exactly how deep this frustration runs.

“No need to be snappy, Vi. It’s your own damn fault your birdie thinks you hate her.”

The words hit their mark, sinking in like claws. Vi’s grip on the cup tightens, jaw clenching as she shoots Ellie a glare—one sharp enough to make anyone else squirm.

But not Ellie. And certainly not Abby, who only grins before taking an infuriatingly slow sip of her coffee.

“Exactly. You couldn’t just admit you’re completely gone for her, huh? Now you get to pine. And grovel.”

Vi exhales sharply through her nose. That one lands too.

Pine. And grovel.

The humiliation creeps up her spine, settling into something ugly in her chest. Her first instinct is to deny it—to lean into her usual stubbornness, let her pride save her like it always does.

But for once, she doesn’t.

Instead, she sighs, heavy and resigned, as if finally admitting defeat. Her fingers absently stir the coffee again, watching the way the liquid swirls, like it might hold the answer to this whole fucking mess.

“Pine and grovel,” she mutters, echoing Abby’s words.

Because she knows they’re right.

She knows she fucked up.

But making you see how much she actually adores you? That’s not as easy as it should be.

In your presence, all of her bravado, all of her confidence—gone. Completely fucking gone. And in its place? Awkwardness. Stammering. A heat that burns high on her cheeks, betraying every last carefully built defense she has.

But, christ—she has to have you.

Her fingers tighten around the cup as she finally, finally lets the words slip past her lips.

“I like her a lot.”

It’s quiet, almost swallowed by the café’s background noise, but Ellie hears it. She hears it and grins like the smug bastard she is.

“Oh, believe me, we know.”

Vi huffs, rolling her eyes as she finally takes a sip of her coffee, the bitterness matching the frustration twisting inside her.

“Laugh it up, will you?” Her tone is dry, but the weight in her chest is very real.

Because what the hell is she supposed to do?

You think she hates you.

And the truth?

She’s absolutely fucking besotted with you.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Vi grumbles, slumping back in her chair, arms crossed tight over her chest. She looks—god, she’s never looked like such a fucking loser before.

Abby and Ellie, the ever-supportive assholes they are, snicker in unison. The sight of Vi—confident, cocky, star player Vi—reduced to a lovesick mess is apparently the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.

“Talk to her, maybe?” Abby suggests, leaning forward with an amused grin, as if the answer is that simple.

Vi scoffs, her eyebrows knitting together in pure frustration. “Oh, sure. Sounds great. Let me just walk up like—Hey. I’m unconditionally and irrevocably in love with you. Fuck off.” Her voice drips with sarcasm, every word spat out like venom, but underneath it, her chest aches.

Ellie completely loses it, throwing her head back as laughter wracks through her. She even doubles over in her chair, shaking with amusement.

“Irrevocably?” She gasps between breaths. “Didn’t even know you knew that word.”

Vi levels her with a glare, scowling deeply.

“Cunts. The both of you.”

But even as the words leave her lips, there’s no real bite behind them. Just an exhaustion, a helpless frustration that simmers beneath her skin.

Because for all her sharp edges and bravado, when it comes to you?

She’s completely, utterly, and irrevocably screwed.

You’re sprawled out on your bed, limbs heavy, staring blankly at the ceiling as Margot sits beside you, rhythmically running her fingers through your hair.

She’s been ranting for the past ten minutes about your refusal to use the conditioner she swore would work wonders for your oh so dry hair, but you’ve barely registered a word of it.

She notices.

“What’s up with you?” Margot finally asks, her fingers pausing for a beat before resuming their soft, absentminded strokes. Usually, you’d fire something back—argue, tease, at least pretend to care about her ongoing hair care intervention.

But right now? You’re dead silent, brows furrowed, lost in the mess inside your own head.

You exhale, long and slow. Fuck it.

“It’s just… Vi.”

Even saying her name out loud makes something twist in your chest, a dull ache that refuses to go away. She’s stuck in your mind, lingering like the last traces of a dream—one you can’t quite shake, no matter how hard you try.

Margot hums knowingly, amusement threading through her voice. “Ah, Vi. She’s got your mind all twisted, huh?”

Your eyes snap to her, narrowing in irritation. Of course, she’s teasing. She always teases. But god, couldn’t she have mercy just this once?

Your heart is in shambles, Margot.

“I’m fucking confused, that’s a start.” Your voice comes out exasperated, laced with something sharp and uncertain.

“I mean, first she tells me I’m not her type—has no problem embarrassing me in front of every-fucking-body—and now she’s all sweet with me?”

Your hands fling up in frustration before falling uselessly back to your sides. Your heart pounds against your ribs, like it’s trying to claw its way out. You wish you could let this go—wish you could stop analyzing every word, every glance, every fucking thing Vi does. But you can’t.

Margot sighs, tugging lightly at your hair as if to ground you. “She’s an idiot, that’s what she is.”

You scoff, closing your eyes for a moment. She’s not wrong.

Vi is an idiot.

Because if she liked you, she could just say so. Right?

You’re sprinting across campus, your heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs. Late again.

Margot and her damn gentle hands, lulling you into sleep like some enchantress—she’s to blame for this. Laurel is going to kill you. No, worse—she’s going to make you practice in hell, barefoot, forever.

You round the corner at full speed, barely registering the presence of someone else before you collide, hard.

The impact sends you tumbling to the ground, your palms scraping against the pavement, your white tights now a canvas for green grass stains. Fucking great.

“Oh—shit, I’m so—”

The voice cuts off abruptly, and you don’t even need to look up to know who it belongs to. You’d know that voice anywhere. It lingers in your thoughts, in your bones, in the goddamn marrow of your existence.

Still, you lift your gaze, and—yeah. Of course, it’s her.

Vi stands before you, jersey clinging to her frame, hair damp, flushed from exertion. She must’ve just finished practice.

She looks good. Too good. Unfairly good. Heat blooms in your chest, rising up your throat, and you swallow—hard.

“I’m okay,” you manage, reaching for the hand she extends toward you. The moment your fingers touch, something zips through your veins, electric and dizzying.

Vi doesn’t let go immediately.

"Let me," she murmurs, voice softer than usual. It lacks the bravado she carries with others—feels gentler, like something meant only for you.

She bends down, effortlessly picking up your bag, and you pretend you’re not blatantly staring at the way her biceps flex with the motion.

(Christ.)

You take the bag from her with a quiet, “Thanks,” and step back—because god, she’s too close, and your brain is turning to static.

Her eyes drag over you, slow, lingering, and she wipes her palms on her shorts like she’s trying to rid herself of nerves. She’s staring. You know she’s staring. And you know why.

Your ballet outfit.

It’s practically indecent under her gaze, or maybe it’s just the way Vi looks at you—like it’s some kind of sin, like you’re something holy and untouchable and achingly tempting all at once.

She hesitates, just a moment, before exhaling sharply—like she’s shaking off doubt—and gathers every ounce of courage she has left.

“Are you free later today?”

The words come out low, almost too smooth, but she can’t stop the way her hands fidget at her sides. She bites her lip, heart hammering.

What if you say no? What if you tell her to fuck off? What if this is just another moment where she embarrasses herself and—

“I am, yes.”

Your voice is soft, almost nervous. She notices.

Her pulse spikes. Yes. Fuck, yes.

“We’re hanging later,” she continues, keeping her tone even (or at least trying).

“Share a blunt, maybe. Wanna come?”

She watches you closely, hoping to hell her ears aren’t turning red, but the way you look at her—like you’re considering this, like you might want this too—makes it so much harder to keep her cool.

“Umh… sure. When?”

Vi drinks in the sight of you, the slight tilt of your head, the way your lips part just slightly.

God, your eyes.

They’re going to ruin her.

“Whenever.” She blurts it out too fast, too eager. Fuck. Smooth. Real fucking smooth.

She clears her throat, desperate to save herself. “Just come over whenever you like.”

You give her a small nod, and then—

“Alright, I’ll come. See you later, Violet.”

And then you’re off, sprinting away before she can even process what just happened.

Vi stands there, rooted, a dumb, lopsided grin tugging at her lips. Because one—you said yes. A big fucking plus.

And two—

You called her Violet.

No one calls her by her full name. Usually, it’d piss her off.

But the way it sounds from your lips?

It makes her knees weak.

Later that day, after what felt like an eternity of convincing, you finally managed to drag Flint along to the "get-together" at Vi’s dorm.

You’ve been here before—many times, actually—but tonight feels different. Your pulse hammers against your ribs as you climb the stairs, each step making your nerves tighten just a little more.

“You should’ve worn the skirt,” Flint teases, nudging you with his elbow.

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

“Yeah—so I can flash the entire room when the weed hits? Genius plan.”

You nudge him back, and he just shakes his head, laughing softly before raising a fist to knock on the door.

It swings open almost immediately, and Abby greets Flint with that typical frat-boy handshake—clasped hands, a shoulder bump like they’re part of some exclusive club.

Then her gaze shifts to you, and her expression softens. Like always, you greet her with a hug, the familiarity grounding you for just a moment before she steps back to let you both in.

“Don’t bother with the shoes,” she says, shutting the door behind you and leading the way to the living room.

The space is filled with scattered laughter and the low hum of music. A few familiar faces lounge across the couch and floor—Ekko, Powder, two girls you don’t recognize.

But Ellie is missing, and it doesn’t take long for you to guess that she’s probably off somewhere with Margot.

And then—your eyes land on her.

Vi is sprawled out on the couch, cap pulled low over her pink hair, and for a split second, the entire room fades away.

Your breath catches. Your heart leaps. You swear you feel the ground shift beneath you.

The moment Vi notices you, her entire posture changes. She straightens up, stiffens like she’s been caught off guard.

Her head goes completely static, like she’s trying to figure out what the hell to do.

A handshake would be too impersonal. A hug, on the other hand—fuck it.

Before either of you can think, she’s already moving.

Her arms wrap around you, firm and secure, and suddenly you’re pressed against her. She smells like leather and something faintly floral—an intoxicating mix that seeps into your lungs, making you want to drown in it. Her body is solid, warm, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you let yourself lean into it.

“Hey.”

The word slips from her lips, quieter than you expected, as if the rest of the room no longer exists. It lingers in the space between you, charged with something unspoken.

You barely manage a breath before she pulls back, her arms reluctantly falling away from you.

“Hey,” you echo, voice softer than you intended.

And just like that, the air between you shifts—tighter, heavier. But before you can process it, the moment is gone.

You settle beside Vi on the couch, crossing your legs as casually as you can manage.

But the moment you do, doubt creeps in—are you too stiff? Too tense? Before you can spiral, Vi holds out a blunt, and you silently thank the gods for the distraction.

The conversation hums around you, a background blur of laughter and chatter. You take a slow drag, the smoke burning its way down your throat, sitting heavy in your lungs.

If your mother could see you now…

Vi, on the other hand, is losing her damn mind. The moment her fingers brush yours as you take the blunt, something electric shoots through her veins, igniting every nerve. It’s ridiculous how much a single touch affects her, but she can’t stop herself—she’s been waiting for an opening, for any excuse to keep the momentum between you going.

“How was practice?” Her voice is softer than before, meant only for you. Her stormy gray eyes lock onto yours, and she tries—tries so damn hard—to appear unfazed, like your presence doesn’t unravel her by the second.

You exhale slowly, the smoke curling between you as you hum in thought. Vi swears every tiny sound you make sets her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Horrible,” you finally admit, a quiet chuckle slipping from your lips. “Laurel made me do extra drills because I was late.”

Vi’s brow twitches at that—the ballet bitch had it out for you?

“Because of me.” Her jaw ticks, irritation flickering across her face. “I should’ve looked where I was going.”

You shake your head, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “No, I was late to begin with.”

Vi takes the blunt back from you, bringing it to her lips, and for some reason, your head spins as you watch her take a drag. The way her lips wrap around the paper, the slow pull of her inhale—it’s too much. You look away, pulse skittering in your chest.

“Vi, beer?”

Ekko’s voice cuts through the haze, and you glance up to see him standing from the floor, his head tilted in question.

Vi nods, but before she can even respond, Ekko smirks. “And your birdie?”

Everything stops.

A sudden, suffocating tension grips Vi’s chest.

No, no, no—not that.

Ekko nods toward you, and you blink at him, an eyebrow arching. “What?”

Vi stiffens beside you, her heart lurching into her throat. She panics, speaking before thinking. “Leave her alone.”

Your eyes flicker between them, mild confusion crossing your face. Meanwhile, Ekko raises his hands in mock surrender, amusement dancing in his expression. “No need to get your knickers in a twist over your crush.”

Vi freezes.

A hot wave of dread rushes up her spine, spreading like wildfire beneath her skin.

She can’t move, can’t breathe—can’t even look at you.

A few hours later, Flint announces your departure, and you silently thank the heavens.

Ever since Ekko so graciously outed Vi’s feelings for you, she’s been stuck in this awkward, jittery mess, barely able to meet your gaze.

Not that you’ve been doing much better. Your thoughts have been spiraling, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum.

Because Violet fucking Lane has a crush on you.

You barely register Flint chatting with Abby near the door when Vi shifts beside you, exhaling softly—like she’s working up the nerve to say something.

Then, finally, in a voice quieter than you’ve ever heard from her, she speaks.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Your breath hitches, eyes flickering to hers. She’s not looking at you, but you can see it—the hesitation, the nerves tight in her posture. You give a small nod, and that’s all she needs before turning on her heel, leading you down the hall.

The moment you’re away from the others, Vi leans against the wall, inhaling deeply, like the words are lodged in her throat and she needs to steady herself before prying them free.

“I’m sorry about Ekko.” Her voice is low, the weight of her words pressing between you. “He’s an idiot.”

She still won’t look at you, her eyes fixed somewhere near the floor, and you swear you can see her hands twitch—like she wants to shove them deep into her pockets but is fighting the urge.

“It’s okay, I swear.” Your voice is softer now, watching her carefully, hoping to ease the tightness in her frame.

Vi finally dares to glance up, and at the sight of your small smile, you watch the tension in her shoulders loosen, just slightly.

“Yeah?” she murmurs, almost like she doesn’t quite believe it.

You nod, hands clasped together in front of you to keep yourself from fidgeting.

God, she’s so pretty.

Vi takes a step forward—slowly, carefully—like she’s afraid she might scare you off. Her eyes search yours, drinking in every detail, every shift in your expression.

She’s looking for something—anything—to tell her this isn’t one-sided, that you might want her just as much as she wants you.

And you do.

Your lips part slightly, breath stalling in your chest as she reaches out, hesitating just for a second before her fingers brush against your cheek. Her touch is featherlight, careful, reverent.

A quiet gasp catches in your throat as warmth blooms beneath her fingertips, and she feels it—feels the way you lean into her palm, how your lashes flutter just slightly.

Vi swears her heart is going to give out.

“Can I?” she whispers, her lips now just inches from yours. You can feel the warmth of her breath, smell the faint trace of mint and something distinctly her.

It’s barely a nod—just the smallest tilt of your head—but it’s enough.

Vi doesn’t hesitate this time. A quiet, shaky exhale leaves her just before she closes the space between you, her lips pressing against yours in a rush of heat and longing.

Your hands instinctively grip her shoulders, fingers grazing firm muscle, and god, you wish you’d done this sooner.

Her other hand finds its way into your hair, tugging you impossibly closer as she angles her head, deepening the kiss.

Her lips move against yours in a slow, careful rhythm—like she’s savoring every second, like she wants to commit this moment to memory.

And for the first time all night, the world feels right.

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