#when will be the last time I use that tag? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

isaysexualthingsaboutrobinavitch · 3 days ago

Text

As Above, So Below I Chapter 2- Phantom

Synopsis: Two attendings, one new psychologist working both the day and night shifts on a rotation. You could have sworn you heard both of them call “dibs,” and you’re more than willing to entertain the both of them. Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Fem!Reader and Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader Word count: 5.7k Warnings: Talk of mental illness and other psychological things, violence, dark humor, and some smut :) 18+, MDNI A/N: I couldn’t decide between Robby and Abbot, so I present you with BOTH. Chapter 1 I Chapter 3

Tag list is open! @loud-mouph @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @thebumbqueen @emilia-the-artist @boldlyherdream @felicisimor @eugene-emt-roe @i-mushi @andabuttonnose @moonlightmvrvel @miss-me-jack @dantemorenatalie @qardasngan @agreeewrites @aloudplace @painment @artsymaddie @d1n3e @damnitsthings

Chapter 2 – Phantom

"All of me is dark blue Picture you just dancing Dancing in your old room Damn it's such a bad view Cause it's hard to attract you Got me so dark blue"

Your back story is not one for the ages. But there were times, while you were still naïve to the world, when it certainly felt that way.

Times where it felt infinite, like the first time you read “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” and rode through the Fort Pitt Tunnel in the back of a pickup truck feeling hopeful and yet so, suffocatingly sad that the world was so big and beautiful, and you had barely even touched a small part of it.

Times that it felt messy, and cold, and plagued with the sentimental pain and wonder of the human existence, knowing that death comes for us all, but that it wasn’t something to be feared, only welcomed when the time was right.

Times when it felt like life wasn’t just passing you by like a train you hoped to be on, like you were wanted, and needed by people who made you believe that they loved you; that they held their breath for you and your success.

Most of the time, it just felt raw and somehow shameful, like you were constantly asking for forgiveness instead of permission, and like you were destined for all of it, as some sort of punishment. And yet, you loved it all the same.

Your history taught you how to be honest with yourself, that this is the only universe you will ever get to exist in and to look for the light even in the darkest hour. Taught you perseverance to seek and demand the truth even when it’s difficult and hidden. Taught you how to miss people more than you will ever love them and to find comfort in solace--that objects and people are not memories and that you don’t need one to have the other.

When you left home for graduate school, you left with the optimism that you could make it right, and honest, and good. And it was, until you discovered that monsters are real, and they look just like people.

The assault barely lasted minutes. The pain—white, hot, lightning striking behind your ribs. The voice at the base of your spine, quiet and relentless, telling you not to fight back, that it would only make things worse. His face—familiar and contorted in determination, eyes absent of compassion. His body—on top of yours, pinning you down, trying to send you through the floor. The blood--warm and wet, pooling under you, staining everything it touched. The sound left your throat was one you didn’t recognize—guttural and desperate—a sound resulting in vocal fold hemorrhages and the taste of blood. When you tried to recall the events later, you could have sworn it was the body alarm that alerted staff. But when you watched back the footage, it was your piercing screams.

It's that sound that drives you out of a nightmare and back to reality—chest heaving, throat tight, heart racing. Light peers into your bedroom through the leaves of the trees outside, extending itself over your restless body. You roll over onto your stomach, grimacing at your phone, 5:00 glowing bright green, the same color as the Nyquil you gladly swallowed last night to submerge yourself into liquid unconscious – best sleep you ever had, without a cold. The nightmares and the chronic pain have been largely manageable, but on some nights, they leave you nauseous and begging for dreamless sleep.

You get up early enough to walk to work, and every day is the same lesson in futility. You’re supposed to keep moving, keep exercising, keep regaining strength. But your hips ache and the muscles in your mid back on the same side as your injury lock up, and you take the same 15-minute break on the same park bench along the way—pretending to take a call so you can focus on something other than the tears burning your eyes and the room spinning. Work was the perfect distraction, and regardless of the physical pain you gladly welcomed the long shifts.

For the first week or two, it felt like most of the ED staff were avoiding you- out of habit. If you work in a place long enough where you’re expected to take on the role of several departments, you forget it’s not the norm. And when help finally arrives, it’s hard to relinquish control. It wasn’t intentional, and it wasn’t that there wasn’t a need for mental health services, but it still felt quite foreign to you—you were used to being busy and needed. No one knew how to approach you, or what cases required psychology over psychiatry. Nurses and medical students avoided coming to you before consulting with an attending, and residents continued to page for consults over the phone to psychiatry, forgetting that you existed. You didn't blame them, as the look on their faces when you showed up to a patient room were usually looks of relief that they no longer had to talk to them about their feelings.

But when the rushes died down, or there was a minute or two to breathe, staff were at your door, asking you to join them for lunch, a cigarette break, the after-shift dive bar escapade, and you welcomed the feeling of being invited. There’s something exciting about a room of people who hasn’t heard your screams on the news.

Robby and Abbot were different— spent a lot of time alone, or with each other on the roof; the consequence of experiencing years of secondary trauma without ever talking about it. It had to haunt them, the lives lost in this building, the burden of the guilt and shame not theirs to carry. And for some reason, the ebb and flow with these two had you in a fucking chokehold. You craved their attention with every glance and every quick-witted remark. You wanted them to like you, to need you, to want you. And in return, you wanted to know everything about them—if they smoked cigarettes after a long day, what books they read, what their homes smelled like, the music they liked, what they sounded like in private-- if they thought about you for a single solitary second.

“Those two have a soft spot for you, Robby and Abbot,” Dana had pointed out to you, while the two of you were alone at the nurses’ desk, “It’s been a minute since they weren't the most interesting thing about this place. And it doesn't hurt that you’re cute.”

“Yeah, they tell you that?” You raise an eyebrow at her. She doesn’t answer, just shrugs her shoulders while picking up another chart to pretend to look at, “Dana, do they ask about me?”

“You’re a mystery--a dark horse, and you’re playing hard to get.” She smiles, “Of course they ask about you. Why? You interested?”

“That obvious?" There's no point in lying to a woman who practically raised you. You spent more nights at her house with your best friend than your own growing up. But the last thing you need is for her to play matchmaker or give them any hints that you’re vying for their attention.

"Not at all." She shook her head, "Just be careful. They have quite the habit of getting whatever they want."

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the gravitational pull from the two men who gave you the time of day, made you feel seen, and referred endearingly to the three of you as “the adults,”—a nod to not needing supervised, and not needing to speak about medical bullshit around them. Abbot had said it in jest, “the adults are talking” when a medical student had tried to interrupt a completely off-topic conversation between the three of you, and it stuck. They took every opportunity to match your sense of humor and push the boundaries during shift change-- the only time the three of you fully crossed paths – like two supportive, incredibly attractive work husbands, who you also wanted to see naked.

"Did it ever occur to the two of you" Abbot makes a comment as he and Robby approach the nurse’s desk, finally finished rounding with each other, both leaning on the desk on their forearms in front of you, "That we're more fucked up than the patients?”

“It’s the years of compounded trauma that I’m guessing the two of you refuse to process or talk about” you nod, smiling sweetly at them “Or did you expect me to believe that you both love working in the ER because it makes you feel hip and young”

"Ageism isn't tolerated here, baby" Abbot shakes his head, "and I’ll go straight to Gloria.”

Baby. Say it again, and this time like you mean it.

“Last time I checked, we’re not that much older than you," Robby adds, turning to Abbot for a confirmatory nod, before turning his attention back to you, "and before you let that go to your head, we asked Dana."

"You two, asking about little old me? I'm both amused and flattered to take up occupancy in your heads." A hand to your chest, sarcastically clutching your proverbial pearls, watching the two of them roll their eyes, “What else did you ask her about?”

“Seems like you like occupying that space,” Robby barely misses a beat, wearing an expression of vague amusement, "Only the important stuff. Age, blood type, deep dark secrets,"

“Are you flirting with me Dr. Robinavitch?” his eyes meet yours when you ask, winking at you, “You asked about the tattoos too, didn’t you?

"Yeah, I’ve got 20 dollars on you having a tramp stamp, and Robby’s got 20 dollars on a back piece” Abbot retorts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “and a tongue piercing in college.”

“Boys, you have no imagination whatsoever” you walk behind the two of them, placing your hand on each of their shoulders, and lower your voice just loud enough for the two of them to hear, “it was my nipples in college.”

You squeeze their shoulders, hearing the air leave their lungs like a punch to the gut, Abbot stifling a giggle.

“You really are trouble” Abbot retorts, both grinning like schoolboys, “how’d we get so lucky?”

"I could ask myself the same thing" you turn on your heels, headed to the elevator, their eyes following you the entire way, “I’ve got a meeting, but I’ll be back by noon for any consults. Try to keep your minds off the piercings.”

“Come get a beer with us after work,” Abbot calls out to you, “It’s my day off, and you can’t leave us hanging like that, it’s just rude.”

“If you're buying. But I'll need more than one beer if you want to see them,” you smile sweetly at the two of them as the door to the elevator closes. You lean your head against the elevator wall –please, please, let me get what I want.

By the time you make it back to down to your office, it’s after noon and the only thing standing in your way of a long-awaited lunch break, is a smug looking Robby waiting outside your door, those warm, brown puppy-dog eyes lighting up when notices you walking towards him, coffee in hand.

“I come bearing gifts” Robby holds up the coffee, extending it to you, waiting for a proverbial pat on the back and a thank you, “I promise the order is right. I also asked Dana about that.”

“You really did ask about the important stuff,” you take it from his hand, eyes narrowing towards him, “sounds like a bribe though. A much needed and greatly appreciated bribe. What do you want? A consult? A back massage? Come in, have a seat, close the door.”

You open the door to your office, and he slides his arm between you and the door to hold it open for you, towering over you as he follows you into your office, door closing behind him. For the first time all morning, you're met with silence. Must be a first for him too, as he leans against the door, eyes closed, appreciating the lack of noise, "I fucking love that sound. And a massage, huh? you offer that to all your patients?"

When you turn back to him, he's got this look on his face of pure amusement, like this is new for him, and like he's proud of himself for the quick comeback, and subsequently your reaction. He didn't have to bring you coffee and he sure as shit didn't have to ask Dana for your order

"My brother in Christ, this really is the nicest thing anyone has done for me all day,” the first taste of coffee hits, "And no, I only offer it to tall, dark and handsome trauma-ridden attendings who know my coffee order. Turn around.”

You motion for him to spin around, and you watch him hesitate.

"You don't...I didn't. Fuck you’re hard to read.” He tries to backtrack, eyes searching your face to see where your head is at. The last thing he needs is to take this too far, or the wrong way. It’s endearing.

"Jesus Michael, relax.” His face softens when you say his name, like he likes the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, “I’m not offering to blow you in my office, or explore your prison wallet, just turn around, and take off your hoodie,”

You put your hands on his shoulders, ushering him to turn around to face the door, “Permission to touch you in a non-sexual way.”

“Granted,” he confirms, apprehensive. He takes off his hoodie, still unsure of your next move, and tosses it on the couch. You return one hand to his shoulder, thumb of your opposite moving just below his shoulder blade. His body is warm, muscles tight and rigid and you take a moment of silence to appreciate the man in front of you—the goosebumps on the back of his neck, the tattoo ink on his bicep, hidden by his shirt sleeve. You'll remember to ask him about that later. You trace your thumb along his shoulder blade and press firmly into the muscle just underneath. And like everyone else, in the history of the world who has experienced this exact pressure for the first time, you feel his entire body relax against your hands.

"Fuckkkk,” It’s low and drawn out, shoulders slumped, his head falling to rest against the door, and your breath catches in your throat at the sound of him. So that’s what he sounds like when he’s into it. Noted.

“See? Just carrying around years of trauma,” you chuckle, bringing your mouth close to his ear, pressing even harder, “And Michael, if you can teach me how to run the psych department as smoothly as you run this ED, I’ll do whatever you want.”

The moment it leaves your mouth, you briefly panic, your hands leaving his shoulder, and you instinctively take a step back, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I made it weird.”

He turns towards you and leans his back against the door, arms folded across his chest, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He likes watching you panic, “That felt fucking amazing. And no, not at all. You had me practically begging for it.”

He doesn’t notice the flush of your cheeks, or if he does, he doesn’t take the bait to embarrass you any further.

“I did, however, come to see if you had time to sign off on an involuntary hospitalization” He adds, back to the professional bullshit like it never even happened. Then again, he didn't need to bring you coffee for you to do your job. “Meet me outside of two in five minutes?”

“Absolutely,” you nod, downing the rest of your drink, “I’ll be right there.”

"And Wheeler,” He opens the door, turning back to you momentarily, lowering his voice, “Whatever I want? My kind of girl.”

He doesn’t let you respond, nor does he stick around for your reaction. The blood rushes to your face as the door shuts and you're left standing in the middle of your office, skin burning, cheeks red, the air sucked out of your lungs. Who’s fucking hard to read now?

The end of the shift comes quickly, after back-to-back consults, an inpatient hospitalization, and several therapy contacts. You get the chance to be needed, albeit during a crisis. And you're really fucking good at it.

The thing about crisis work is that it makes you soft—allows you to meet someone where they’re at on the worst day of their life and show them empathy. When you tell them it’s okay to feel this way, it’s almost like you’re reminding yourself. Pain, Like John Green wrote so eloquently, demands to be felt. And you'd argue that it also deserves to be shared—the weight of it distributed.

By the time you’re done documenting, Robby isn’t anywhere to be found, and you feel a familiar sense of defeat in the pit of your stomach. Maybe the extended invitation for a beer wasn’t an actual invitation, just a knee jerk reaction to your earlier comments. You make your way out to the ambulance bay, searching your bag for your air pods. Nothing some elder emo bullshit won’t fix.

“There you are,” Robby’s voice calls out to you, relieved, like he’d been waiting the whole time, and you turn to find him leaning against the wall, sunglasses on, bag slung across his shoulder, “thought maybe you bolted.”

“And miss the opportunity for a free drink? Never.” You play it off as if you weren’t about to go home and drink yourself into a coma for being so naïve. He motions you to follow him off hospital grounds, and the two of you walk mostly in silence, taking in the last bit of daylight that you rarely get to see. The day is all noise—beeping machines, staff asking questions, patients yelling. This silence is welcomed. He looks over at you a few times during the walk, and by the looks of it, he’s working up your limp in his head—a real doctor thing to do. You’ll tell him about it eventually, in all its glory.

Abbot’s waiting outside of the bar, in jeans and a leather jacket. He looks good, a smug look on his face when he sees the two of you approaching, “The adults are here”

“And ready to drink, brother” Robby slaps his hand against Abbot’s back as you follow the two of them inside.

It’s a shitty dive bar—one you’ve been too, and puked in, plenty of times in college. It’s loud, full of undergrad kids practically buzzing with energy and undamaged livers. Abbot leads the way to the bar and orders the three of you Yuengling- a Pennsylvania staple. It feels foreign being back here, but familiar—the air humid, someone playing Hot Line Bling on TouchTunes, the faint smell of vomit. Someone touches the small of your back to pass you, and the room tilts briefly, a cold sweat washing over you. You grip the beer bottle tightly between your fingers, and down the liquid inside, an old habit mixed with a trauma response. When you set the empty bottle on the bar, your hands shaking, you’re met with looks of shock and awe from Abbot and Robby.

“Can we get the fuck out of here?” You mean to ask like it’s not a big deal, like you're not on the verge of panic attack from a stranger brushing up against your scars, but it comes out as more of a plea to the two of them.

"Absolutely," Abbot picks up on the tone of your voice and the fact that your hands are clenched into fists at your sides, and nods to Robby, "Beer and pizza at your place?"

"Read my mind," He replies, "Although, let the record reflect I'm still young and hip enough for this place."

It's a two-block walk to his fancy upper-level condo, with a fire escape perfect for late night cigarettes and contemplating the universe. The interior is beautiful. Dark exposed brick but full of natural light and just far enough away from the city to be quiet. He definitely hired someone to design this place, judging by the leather furniture, hanging art, and antique lighting. It smells like sandalwood and tobacco, like an expensive candle you burn only on your worst days. You put the beers in his fridge, like you've been doing it your entire life, and take stock of the take out containers lining the shelves, a mental note to bring him some of your own leftovers. Men love a woman who can heat up frozen food. Abbot turns on the TV and puts on hockey; something non-threatening to ease the awkwardness of a first encounter.

“We really fucking suck” He chuckles, as he and Robby take a seat on the couch. But you can't stop looking around. His refrigerator is crushed with magnets of places that he's presumably been, probably with an ex who probably bought these magnets. He's got all-clad pans he's probably never used, and a gallery wall full of hand drawn Pittsburgh landmarks. He's so put together, a real adult right in front of you. You realize you've been invading the privacy of his home for probably more minutes than you were cognizant of, and grab three beers from the fridge, walking towards them.

You hand them both a beer and take a seat on the arm of the couch, hesitant to encroach on their best fucking friendship. They talk about sports, patients, residents, the weather, the scrubs they wear, the bars they go to, the shit they’ve seen.

“Come on, you” Robby pats the cushion between the two of them, and you oblige, taking a seat between the two of them, their knees touching yours.

It feels comfortable, being with them, like you’ve done it a thousand times before. Something about the absence of expectations reminds you of home—a feeling you’ve searched for since you left.

“Okay I have to know” Abbot starts, setting his beer down, “Are you always as full of shit as you are at work? It’s fucking criminal how funny you are.”

“You know how you guys are all silent and broody because of trauma? I’m funny because of trauma.” You admit, “less dangerous than diving off the roof.”

“And the questionable boundaries?” He continues, raising an eyebrow at you

“Prison” you exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. “It’s a different world in prison. You see more dicks by 8am than most people see in a week, and the fucking insults. Someone told me I had a quarterback’s ass one time and I’m still trying to decide if it’s a compliment. You just get used to the inappropriate jokes and comments. I’m sorry if I made it weird.”

“I fucking love it” Robby laughs, he leans back against the couch, “and believe me, as long as you don’t call me fruitcake or cocksucker while handcuffed to a wheelchair, we’re good.”

The three of you drink beer and eat pizza and watch hockey. They’re impressed at your knowledge and affinity for yelling at the refs, and you can’t stop giggling at the two of them bickering back and forth like best friends about their favorite teams. You stand up to head to the bathroom but the alcohol rushes to your head, and the room sways.

“Careful” Robby’s hands reach out to steady you, his hands unintentionally sliding under your shirt, hands warm against your skin, “a bit of a lightweight?”

The feeling reminds you of why you’re here. The unspoken chemistry, the push and pull of two men who look at you like you’re interesting and worth something.

“Guilty” the room rights itself and you thank him for the assistance, “haven’t had a drink in 12 weeks.”

When you come back, the game is still on, but their eyes are on you. Abbot’s still on the couch but Robby’s leaning against the kitchen counter. You make your way past Robby to his record collection. They don’t say a word, just watch you trace your fingers along his record collection, finding the record with the saddest energy; you’re a beacon for darkness and they don’t even know it. You pull out Bon Iver’s self-titled record, and turn on the record player, the sound of “Perth” filling the room.

“So” you turn around, both still looking at you, trying to gauge your next move. They’re used to being in control and you’re used to causing chaos wherever you go, “Is this thing platonic?”

The confidence is 10% you, 90% alcohol, and it surprises you how smoothly the words come out of your mouth. Neither of them speak, but they look at each other, exchanging some silent words in looks that you hope to one day come to recognize.

“Or have I been reading the room wrong?” You speak up, trying to squash the silence, “because it feels weird for me to be here, a little bit drunk, putting on your sad boy records, if we’re not going to address it”

“Definitely not platonic” Abbot speaks first, a smile on his face, “We’re absolutely smitten with you.”

“And what about you?” your eyes move to Robby, waiting patiently at the kitchen counter. He bites the side of his thumb and narrows his eyes at you.

“Already told you that you’re my kind of girl” he references the conversation from earlier, rubbing a hand behind his neck, a blush spreading across his cheeks, “but we know nothing about you.”

He’s not wrong. You haven’t given them anything to work with other than inappropriate jokes and some implied sexual advances. You’re good at keeping others at arms’ length, only pulling back the curtain far enough to know you superficially—to avoid scaring them away. But this feels different, safer, honest.

“What do you want to know?” You reclaim your seat on the couch, patting the spot next to you for Robby to sit, “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“How old are you?” Abbot starts

“Thirty-five.”

“What’s your story? How’d you get here?” Robby asks

“I grew up here, in Shadyside actually. Got into psychology after I couldn’t pass organic chemistry. Thought I’d never leave this place, actually” you share, “I love it with my whole heart, and I’ve always missed it, but the relationship I have with my family is difficult, and it began to feel suffocating, so I moved away for a job in a maximum-security prison. Grew to love a different place, with different people.”

“That job must have been really hard,” Abbot counters, “I can’t imagine the shit you’ve seen.”

“I’ve always felt empathy and understanding and compassion and thought that maybe it would be a good challenge,” You sighed, “but I learned very quickly that the only thing separating us from inmates were the bars on the door. And it’s fucking hard to be part of that system that sets people up for failure”

“I’ll fucking drink to that” Robby adds, “You never settled down there?”

“Unfortunately, I’m still painfully single. Never married. No kids, one cat,” you concede, “The tattoos and piercings probably didn’t help.”

These fucking tattoos,” Abbot groans, frustrated that you still haven’t put your money where your mouth is, “You ever going to show us or should we just talk about it some more?”

“Remind me, which one of you has back piece?” You stand up between the two of them, pulling your t-shirt up over your head, exposing an entire black and white floral back piece connecting to the floral sleeve running down your arm, “got it in grad school. I believe one of you owes the other 20 dollars.”

Before you can pull the shirt back down, your surprised by the feeling of both of their hands on your back, fingers tracing the scars on your skin. You haven’t had the confidence to look at it, but the way you hear the breath catch in their throats, as doctors, solidifies the fact that it probably looks as bad as it feels. “Barely missed your spinal cord,” Robby’s fingers trace down your spine, and you shiver against his hands. They take stock of what’s in front of them, the way your skin twists and scars and warps the design of the ink, “Jesus, Y/N what the fuck happened?”

“One of my patients stabbed me with a sharpened toothbrush, at nine in the morning, on an uneventful Tuesday.” You pull your shirt down, their hands breaking contact with your skin, and turn to face them, “But that’s a story for a different day, boys. And I don’t want to ruin the mood.”

“The mood, she says,” Robby shakes his head in disbelief, picking up his beer to take another sip.

“Listen, I’m happy to share my deep dark secrets with the two of you” You take the beer out of his hand before he can set it back down, finishing what’s left, “but if this is not platonic, and both of your dicks get hard when you think about me, and you want to fuck, then let’s talk logistics.”

This will be the turning point in your relationship.

“Logistics, huh?” Abbot raises an eyebrow, both trying to wrap their heads around the words coming out of your mouth, “I’ve never been one to say no to having fun.”

You take a step so that you’re in front of him, legs on either side of his knees. You lean forward, your hands finding the muscles between his neck and shoulder, squeezing. He welcomes the action, a smile on his face like he’s settling in for what’s about to happen, his expression changing as your put your knee on either side of his hips, straddling him on the couch, hands moving to his chest,

“Oh, okay,” He breathes.

You’re careful to rest your weight on your knees, only touching him with your hands. “Yeah, Jack, Logistics,” your mouth to his ear. His hands grip the sides of the cushion underneath him, and you hear him exhale slowly, “How do you feel about fucking the same girl as your best friend?”

“I mean I prefer to fuck alone, with him not in the same room” he chuckles, an effort at distraction, “But I don’t mind sharing.” You briefly look to Robby, who’s watching your movements, hands clenched into fists beside him as he tries to ground himself. His eyes meet yours, dark, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. This is definitely turning him on.

You lean back to look at Jack, your weight shifting, fully sitting on his lap “Any other ground rules?”

Your fingers trace his jaw, down his neck, to his arm, wrapping your fingers around his biceps, and you can feel his skin shiver underneath your fingertips.

“I don’t want to know what the two of you are doing, and the same goes for him.” He looks you in the eye, his hands sliding up your thighs to your hips, “and we make a schedule. You’re mine on nights, his on days.”

Mine. His.

“Fair enough, Jack.” his eyes move to your lips, watching the way his name comes out of your mouth. You feel him tilt his hips underneath you, your breath catching in your throat, and his fingers grip your hips tightly, holding you against him. You press your lips to the pulse point beneath his jaw, his heart racing beneath his skin, and as you stand up, he lets out a frustrated groan at the loss of contact.

You turn to Robby, climbing over him so that you’re standing in between his legs. He looks up at you, waiting to see if he’s about to get the Jack Abbot treatment.

“Michael,” you say sweetly, kneeling down between his legs, reaching out to slide your hands under his shirt. His skin is warm, as your hands slide over his stomach and up to his chest, “What about you?” He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth open, sharply inhaling, “Look at me, Michael”

He opens his eyes and sees you kneeling in front of him, cheeks flushed.

“I want this to be fun,” he says as you slide your hands up his thighs, swallowing hard, “And I want to know everything about you. What you like, what you don’t. And we don’t tell anyone at work. ”

“Deal,” You tilt your head, fingers tracing the waist of his jeans, “and we definitely don’t tell anyone at work.”

“Good girl” his voice is low, and it makes your entire body vibrate. He leans forward and reaches out, his hand wrapping itself around your throat gently, before running his thumb along your bottom lip. You open your mouth wide enough for his thumb to slip between your lips, your tongue swirling around the tip of his thumb, eliciting a groan from his mouth, hips instinctively lifting off the couch, “Jesus Christ.”

You stand up and take a seat between the two of them, both still breathing heavily, and you pat both of their knees with your hands.

“This is strictly for fun, we don’t share stories, and we don’t tell anyone at work. If this stops being fun, or if either of you don’t want to do this, we stop. No questions asked, no hard feelings.” You confirm, “got it?”

They both nod, swallowing hard.

“Good. And we start now. I’m on days for three more shifts,” You look over at Abbot, “and Robby’s got the day off tomorrow. So, unfortunately, Jack, you gotta go.”

“You’re a lucky man, brother” He takes a moment to compose himself before standing up, “I’m just going to go home and take a cold shower. Looking forward to the night shift, Wheeler.”

“Goodnight, Jack.” You blow a kiss towards him as he exits the apartment, turning your attention back to Robby as the door closes.

“I’m all yours.”

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x reader #michael robinavitch #dr robby #doctor robby #jack abbot #dr robinavitch #dr abbot #doctor abbot #writing #fanfic #the pitt x you

334 notes · View notes

heechwe · 3 days ago

Text

RUBY RED RETALIATION | 이희승

⟢ PAIRING: lee heeseung x fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 2.5K ⟢ GENRE: smut ⟢ TAGS: vampire!hee, dhampir!reader, pwp, brat!reader, pet names (sweetheart, love, darling, etc), dom + sub dynamics (dom!hee + sub!reader), free use + dub-con in certain moments, sensory play, marking, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, creampie ⟢ SYNOPSIS: The Lee clan, specifically Lee Heeseung, has been in power for centuries. Any low-born dhampir like yourself would be lucky to be in the company of him for a mere moment. But he has you all the time, to do with as he pleases whenever he wants. Especially when you act out. -ˋˏ✄┈┈ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Inspired to write this for my Beebee's birthday @bambiihee!! I love you so much lovebug and I hope you enjoy this as my gift to you! I tried to make it freaky and sweet at the same time cause I know you love both lol enjoy and scream with me later, and again I love you very much ♥︎ Thank you to my ride or dies beta-ing this for me (@prkhaven @faeyun @lovetaroandtaemin), you're all gems and ILY.

The second you engaged in conversation with Park Jongseong, you knew in some part of your soul Heeseung would be watching.

Heeseung looked on at you conversing with the fellow vampire like you two were the only people in the room. He noted the electricity of your smile, how wide it was, and the gleam of your fangs under the many chandeliers. Even from across the ballroom floor, he could tell. But what made him want to break his wineglass between his fingers was the subtle squeeze of your hand on Jongseong's bicep, you giggling the entire time as his friend remained curiously pleased.

He wasn't supposed to feel this way about a charge. A year ago, you were simply a meager dhampir living on the streets with no money or titles to your name. Now, you live in luxury no other woman, mortal or immortal, could imagine for herself, and you loved every moment, or so he believed. All you were asked to do was take care of Heeseung's more personal affairs before and after he came home from handling council or clan business.

Why did you, along with one of his council members, have to stir up these feelings inside of him? Why did the heart that stopped beating so long ago inside his chest feel like it was aching?

He knows the cadence of your laugh, the touch of your warm skin against his icy fingertips. He can make you beg and plead like you're doing so with your very last breath, only to turn it into the most decadent of whispers and moans that he's ever heard. You belong to him and with him, under all pretenses. So, what was your goal?

Heesung searches for the answer as the party guests take their leave, walking out and into the night on wobbly feet with promises on their lips to see him at the next meeting. He tries to find it before he walks into the hallway that leads to your quarters, but he comes up empty. And when he stands there at your door, his fury overpowering his composure, he doesn't know if there's a true answer to be found.

Heesung pushes your door open with both hands, the wood splintering against the inside wall of your room from the impact. He'll have to order a new one later, but that's not of consequence. He'll order a dozen if it sets you right.

You flinch at your vanity, baring your teeth at the intruder without a second to waste. They retract in the next moment when you realize who it is, your eyes crinkling at the edges. "Oh, good evening." You hold your hairbrush in your hand awkwardly, unsure why he's made such a show of coming into your private quarters. Your fear and subsequent relief almost twinges at Heeseung's dead heartstrings. Almost.

Before another word can slip out, Heeseung lifts you up and onto the vanity table to kiss you senseless. Your brush clanks to the floor, but you barely hear it over the sound of your moans and Heeseung's wet mouth claiming yours. Your makeup runs from how hard he touches you, red lipstick gathering away from your mouth and other areas of your face. He's always ravenous, even in the beginning moments where your lips touch and your hands are frenzied. But this feels different.

Your body melts in his grip as he yanks at the ties and buttons still keeping your dress in place. "Fucking insolent things," he mutters as he gets to the last ribbon, pleased when your breasts spill free and into his hands. He kneads them like dough that needs softening, but there's nothing soft about him tonight. He's rough, mechanical, on a mission.

Abruptly, Heeseung pulls away from your swollen lips to gaze down at you. His red eyes blaze like the grand fireplace downstairs, and you gulp down a hefty breath of air as you wait for his next words. "I want you in my room in the next five minutes. Bring your bindings," he commands before stepping out of your room altogether. The wind whispers as he stomps away without another word, heavy and thick like the wax candles illuminating the path to your closet's chest of accessories and other materials.

Materials like your black silk cloths, the very bindings you're expected to bring with you staring up at you in anticipation.

You tiptoe barefoot to the opposite side of the manor, still half-naked but knowing you have only two minutes left before you're expected in Heeseung's room. When you push the iron door open, he's already discarded his clothes at his bedside. His cock stands tall in the center of his body's lower half, the tip red and leaking down his veiny shaft. His breathing heavies when he sees you. Your chest is still exposed for him, and you had no time to clean the smudged lipstick across your chin and cheek. His jaw ticks, and you know he's trying to fight the eagerness to take you right then and there.

"Knees. Now."

You place the strips of fabric at your feet before kneeling in front of him, your mouth gathering spit at its corners from both uncertainty and excitement.

You knew you would be reprimanded for talking to another man out of turn and without Heeseung by your side, especially one as powerful as his associate, but that didn't stop you.

You wanted this, and you still want it.

Heeseung strides over to you and places two fingers under your chin. "Are you aware of the reasons why I must bind you?"

You whisper, "Because I've been bad, sir."

"Bad is not the right word for this situation." He chuckles with no cover of humor. It's all steam, on the verge of being volcanic. "You deliberately made a scene talking to my colleague without my permission. Did you expect me to take that level of disrespect lightly, darling?"

"No, sir. I'm sorry," you mumble, eyes down-turned to the floor. Heeseung clicks his tongue and you immediately raise your stare again.

"It's clear that you're not, my love, but you will be. Trust me." Heeseung makes quick work of knotting your hands in front of you, the black silk gleaming in the candelabra lights. What you do not expect is for him to take another piece of fabric to wrap around your head, concealing your eyes.

"Sir, wait—"

"You don't command me." His voice almost sounds sad he has to do this, that he must teach you a lesson about crossing his preset boundaries. He relieves you of your dress, the garment a pile of fabric at your feet he kicks away without a care. He slides your underwear to the side, amused to see your gathered wetness between your thighs. "That's not how this works, sweetheart."

Heeseung traces your face with his other hand, cold fingertips passing along your skin like ice. You jerk your head just slightly, your loss of vision heightening your other senses, especially your sensitivity to touch.

"You belong to me. You'll always be mine, mine to do with as I see fit," he whispers into your neck. He sucks at your neck, the pulse point pounding in his ears. You moan as his fangs shoot out, the tips of them piercing the skin. He sucks for a long few minutes, eager to taste your iron on his tongue. Your writhe against him in euphoric bliss, the feeling akin to its own pleasurable release, and he must be feeling the same way. He licks at the droplets of blood running down your neck, trailing back to the hickey he's created and kissing you there too. "And you know you'll take it, every ounce of pain or pleasure, because it satisfies me."

You whimper, leaning into him more and grinding your body towards his hand. It's so close yet so far, and it makes you whine more. "Yes, sir, all I want is to satisfy you."

Heeseung chuckles darkly. "Then why do you drive me so crazy?"

The question hangs in the air, a pregnant pause punctuating your quest for an answer. "Because you like it when I make you crazy, sir," is the answer that leaves your lips. That, in tandem with your moan from Heeseung's fingers dipping into your core, makes every good and bad feeling stirring inside of him explode.

He shouldn't want you so badly, but he can't seem to help it. Your blood fills him up in a way no other human or dhampir's ever has. Maybe it's because you make him chase you, even when he's the one in charge. Every time he's forced to quell you into submission, he feels weaker than when he started, and something about that fact makes life more vibrant, less dull in comparison to when you weren't around.

Is this what love feels like? After so many years outrunning it, living his life as a vampire in solitude, has it finally caught up to him?

He sharply removes his hand from your center and thrusts his cock into your mouth, a gasp escaping his lips as he inches it all the way to the back of your throat. You gag immediately around him from the pressure. Your eyes gather with tears, the droplets staining the black silk. Heeseung grunts, the feeling of your warm mouth soothing his irritation with every movement.

"You have such a perfect mouth, my love, especially when you use it like this." He thrusts harder, the warmness of your lips too incredible to slow down or stop.

Your words are muffled around his cock, but he knows you're begging for a minute to catch up, for some relief from the burning in your esophagus. Heeseung doesn't care; he's too far gone now, and you deserve no mercy. Not when he was given the same treatment a few hours ago. "You're going to keep sucking my cock until that mouth is filled with nothing but my cum. Understood?"

The slight nod is the confirmation he needs to move his hips harder. He knots the hair at the back of your head in his fist as he fucks your face. A few more thrusts happen before he falls apart, a minute's worth of semen sliding down your warm throat. It's heavenly having all of you to take for his own pleasure, especially when he's reprimanding you for your petty and superficial acts of defiance.

He walks you over to the four-poster king bed, positioning you on your bound hands and weakened knees. Your ass sits up in the air for him, and he almost growls at the sight of your dripping cunt. "You don't deserve it, but I want to make sure you're prepared for me before I fuck you."

He trails one finger from your perineum to the sticky walls of your pussy. You try arching your back to slide closer, and he spanks you hard on the center of your left ass cheek. "Did I say you could do that, love? Or do I have to tie you to the bed to stay still?"

You shake your head immediately, tears running down your face from the lack of stimulation. "N-No sir, I just want you so bad. Please, I'll never do anything like this again."

Heeseung's heart clenches as his laughter bubbles up once again. "Don't say words you don't mean, my love." He smacks the opposite cheek, this mark stinging harder than the last one, and you cry out.

He goes back to toying with your hole, your walls spasming around the merest inch of his one finger. "You're so eager tonight. Is this for me, or for my fucking friend you were flirting with earlier?"

You swing your head in both directions so hard, it makes you dizzy. "No, sir, I only ever get this wet for you. You're the only one, have always been." You swallow a heavy breath, unsure how to say the next words on your tongue. "I-I love you."

All the anger he's carried with him for hours disappears at those three words. In place of fear, he only feels happiness. He undoes the binds behind your head and at your wrists, turning you over to see your beautiful wide eyes staring up at him.

His red ones burn now not with ire or fury, but an all-consuming passion he did not know existed before until this moment. Maybe it's always been there, but his pride has been too adamant on keeping the truth of his emotions concealed.

Heeseung presses both hands to either side of your face before he kisses you gently. The tender man behind the powerful vampire appears once again, and you soften in his hold. "I do love you, so much Heeseung," you say to him.

You notice his fangs amidst his bright smile, the teeth still stained red from his earlier feeding. "I love you too, sweetheart."

Heeseung captures your lips again as he lines his cockhead up with your entrance, sliding in easily from the wetness that's gathered around your sex.

"Such a tight cunt, every time," he grunts. "I love you so much," he repeats, filling you up.

Each inch is ecstasy, more enticing than every feeding he's ever had. He swallows your moans as he thrusts. The two of you fall down and into the precipice of your respective orgasms.

You dig your heels into his lower back as his hips meet your own, and you call out his name the longer and faster he goes. "I want to come, Hee. Please let me come."

"You will, my love. Let's fall together."

He knows this release will be more intense than the last. Your walls welcome him in and suck him tighter, his sanity shredding with each touch, every thrust. It's bliss, and when you orgasm with his name on your tongue, he ceases to exist.

All that remains of him is you.

Ropes of his cum warm your insides, coating you with his newly professed love and insatiable need to make you his in every way.

Heeseung throws the silk bindings off of the bed once he pulls out of you, the fabric flapping in the inconspicuous wind until it falls to the floor. He covers the two of you in his warm sheets and wraps you in his arms when he regains his composure.

"I apologize if I went too far before," he says into the crook of your neck. His lips murmur more apologies into your skin, but you shake them off.

"I wanted to. I know what to say and do if I didn't want to. Besides, it's cute when you get mad. Like you have something to prove," you confess with a smile.

He scoffs. "Oh, really? And what exactly do I have to prove?"

"Nothing, sir." You quirk an eyebrow at him in jest, and he smirks playfully. "You already have me in every way."

"As do you. You own me in a way no one else ever has." He kisses down your collarbones and to your breast, leaving petal-like pecks on each nipple before his mouth reaches your stomach. Your giggles become moans as he crawls lower, right to where he taps the hood of your clit with his tongue. "Let me show you."

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @frenchkisstheabyss @prkhaven @tinycatharsis @fangel @aaa-sia @yvnempire @addictedtohobi @innocygnet @filmnings @lovetaroandtaemin @xylatox @dawngyu

𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 ── .✦ @kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators @cosyhomenet @sweetvenomnet

𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑴𝒀 𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑺 𝒐𝒓 𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑺 © 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖧𝖤𝖤𝖢𝖧𝖶𝖤; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

#lee heeseung smut #heeseung smut #heeseung x reader #lee heeseung x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #enha smut #enha x reader #enha fic #enha fics #enhypen fics #lee heeseung fic #lee heeseung fics #heeseung fic #heeseung fics #[ lexi's works ]#[ lw - enhypen ]

248 notes · View notes

spoonyglitteraunt · 15 hours ago

Text

Ok another case of my tags grew out of control so putting them in a reblog instead (sigh, this is happening a lot lately it seems)

I think one could say that the original virtue, the original intent of fairytales isn't just humility, but often it is being social and kind is good actually. It's showing kindness to someone you had no reason to show kindness to and getting rewarded for it. It's banding together against greater evils, because there is power in working as a team. It's about caring for others instead of your own more selfish desires. Yes there is a lot of saving of others (in all directions), but it's often to show that we are not an island. That we need others, just as they may need us. And that last one is so important. Because this rejection and mischaracterisation of fairytales and "save the princess" narratives (whether that is the actual narrative or not) has a side effect I think many don't realise. It's not the intention, but it's very much real and damaging. See, I know that much of the backlash towards damsels in distress is because it got overused. Especially in ways that were less fairytale and more, women can't be competent and do things, they are just there to be a prop. I get that, but instead of recognising that what we need is more variety, more diversity in stories and female characters. Instead of realising that any trope can be good or bad depending on its usage. It seems like society just flipped the switch to only girlbosses, nothing else. Now I don't begrudge people their empowerment fantasies. Mini me was fully on board with the saving yourself idea, even before this fully started to be a thing. But then I got sick. Chronically ill and severely disabled to the point where I'm now housebound. And suddenly people mocking and ridiculing any story where a princess needs saving hurts. The constant bashing and picking apart of fairytales, of any narrative that dares to have a woman need saving. Every call out post. Every bad cynical hot take. Every cutting joke and "satire". Even when people call for more diversity in female characters —sick of how the girlboss trope is just as limiting as before — damsels and princesses are still constantly treated as a no go. Considered wrong, bad writing, weak characterisation, un-feminist. All the marks of a no good, very bad, horrible writer story. You know what that says to people like me? That we have no right to exist. That stories should never include us. That we are wrong. A trope born only from misogyny and bad writing. That we are bad women, bad allies, bad people to even want stories like these. And while I know that's likely never the intention, it's still the result. It hurts every. Single. Time. Because to me and many like me — the sick, the hurt, the suffering* — there is comfort and value in seeing stories where someone matters enough to be saved. Even if they are weak, or passive, or scared. They have value. Princes come to rescue them. Huntsmen and dwarves give them aid and shelter. Fairy godmothers help them escape their horrible abusive situations. Magical creatures reward simple acts of kindness and show up in their hours of needs. No trope is inherently bad. No story format is evil. It's all in how you use it. And you never know how much one of those may mean to someone needing some comfort, and to see even just a hint of themselves in a story. So please stop. *Do not come for me with the bad take that "'Actually disabled people can save themselves!" Some can, some are entirely dependant on others for aid. Neither of those is wrong. And sometimes, even if you can save yourself, you just would like to not have to be the strong one for five minutes. To just have the fantasy of someone else doing the fighting for you. For being valued enough to matter. Because you're tired and you need a fricking break.

Those "modern fairy tales where the princess saves herself" types of books not only misrepresent the gender roles in fairy tales (there are tons of stories where girls get to save the day), but they fundamentally misunderstand the entire genre.

Fairy tales aren't about saving yourself.

These aren't epic myths or heroic legends about the great warriors who slay every monster in their path because they're so awesome. Fairy tales are almost always about ordinary, even incompetent, people who get thrown into strange situations where they only succeed because of the help of others.

It's not a gendered thing. The boy who goes off to seek his fortune is usually the dim-witted third son whose older brothers are the strong, smart ones. The third son succeeds because he is kind to the magical helpers who then complete the tasks for him--and the exact same thing happens when a girl is the main character.

The characters in a fairy tale rarely succeed because they embrace their own strength and take their own path. Much more often, they are told step-by-step what to do, and they succeed because they obey--respecting the wisdom of others.

The core virtue of a fairy tale is not pride, but humility. It's not a story about the strong, but those who are weak, small, helpless. The people who can't do it all on their own, but can recognize the worth and wisdom of others.

Turning this story into a "girl power" (or even a "boy power") story warps it into something that is fundamentally the opposite of a fairy tale, and it has nothing to do with the gender of the main character.

#sorry OP for taking this topic and wrenching it sideway into another direction but apparently my brain had ThoughtsTM #fairy tales #damsels in distress #chronically ill #actually disabled

4K notes · View notes

solifloris · 3 days ago

Text

≡;-꒰ 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒂 𝒔𝒌𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒔…

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | 18+ only

tags : kinda pwp (without plot) but like uhhh a poetic version i guess?, like actually don't expect anything super explicit for this askjhgs, more introspective and prose-y (aka less dialogue involved), loosely inspired by "inflorescence imprints" but no direct card spoilers, xavier glows when he's happy (bc this is my new personality and i'm including this in all the xavier fics ever /hj), slow dancing in a field, kisses and making out, wandering hands, heavy petting, oral (f. receiving), semi-public setting (open (empty) field), let's ignore the technicalities of open field shenanigans yes? yes.

wc : ~2k

an : i lied when i said i would get a fic done before april ended, so HAPPY MAY !!! THAT WAS MY LIE IN APRIL hehe <3 bc the title is from 'hikaru nara' aka the first opening song of 'your lie in april' <3 (since i was supposed to post this yesterday when it was Still April…) (but you're with me on the xavmc your lie in april parallels right…)

taglist : under the cut! (SIGN UP HERE)

ko-fi jar / commissions

In this meadow full of flowers, the two of you are the only ones who exist.

Did you need music to dance?

Your feet touched the grass, light steps gliding to the gentle crunching beneath every little movement. A rhythm, in the silence. Soft, whispered melodies of the night, flown delicately into the passing breeze.

One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.

It was easier, this time. You knew this dance. You knew these steps. Three counts in a measure, feet on the ground with every count… practiced movements, now freer, now easier. After all that time you'd spent with him in his living room under the dim lights of his apartment, you'd gotten used to it. One step forward, two steps back—one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.

And, yet, this time… you didn't need to count, not really.

This was a waltz, yes; this was a dance, yes.

But an open field lay no constraints.

All you'd needed was one phrase of invitation—

Dance with me.

It was your lead, after all.

With a warm hand in yours, the other placed on your waist, expert ease allowed him to keep to the rhythm. He was used to it, far more than you were. The grass didn't deter him, nor the soil beneath your feet. Your arms felt lighter, steps more nimble; a more relaxed atmosphere surrounded the both of you as barefooted steps whirled around in the meadow belonging only to both of you.

And Xavier was always gentle.

Xavier was always patient.

Even now when he smiled at you, even now when he'd adjusted his footing ever so slightly to guide you into the right direction, he would still skillfully guide you to follow him. You'd made a misstep—the first one of the night. An achievement, on your part, for lasting so long without making one. It was enough so to earn a chuckle from him as he drew you in.

"Good," he murmured, quiet like the evening, firm like the stars in the sky that night. "You've gotten better."

Xavier was always gentle. Even in your error, he still quietly nudged you along.

And as moonlight spilled across the open meadow, filtering through his hair, painting silver over the flora surrounding… You didn't need music. You knew that well enough. Your hold on him relaxed, your head dipped down to rest on his shoulder… It was less of a waltz, now, and more of a simple slow dance, but he adjusted. Careful, unhurried. Easy. And, now, it was as if the night itself had paused to watch the two of you.

This was all you could have ever needed.

Every step and every twirl, every movement floating above the field—his hands held you close, securely nestling you into him. He smelled like cinnamon, like warm vanilla. He felt like spring afternoons, like this field of flowers now attuned so specifically to him that you were sure you wouldn't look at another lily without drawing in thoughts of him.

It didn't take you too long to realize that this rhythm you'd been dancing to was entirely his—

You didn't need music; his heart was enough. He was enough.

The clouds, the sky, the grass, the flowers, the dew drops of silvery light from the moon above… all orchestrated like twinkling stars in the night sky, rendered solely to match the beatings of your heart.

That was music enough.

A melody so free-flowing, so smooth, so—

So everything.

So you waited with baited breath, trust in his every move, a melody to the will of its conductor. And your body fell pliant to his hands as he dipped you low against the grass.

Rise, fall; rise, fall.

The dance had ended—

The music had not.

"Xavier," you murmured. You liked the sound of his name—liked the way his lips twitched when you said it, the way the tips of his ears turned the slightest bit of red when your gaze lingered a little longer. "Xavier."

Again.

Cradled gently in his arms, the next measure of the piece had begun anew.

"Xavier."

It was his turn to settle into you, draw you close enough for his forehead to meet your shoulder. His breath proved unsteady, fingers trembling slightly with a single caress down the curve of your spine. Silence gave way to apprehension—yet, sometimes, music would speak for itself.

You let him wander.

Eyes raised to meet yours, blue and bright. This man in your arms, you knew, was yet another star—but one that could have settled in the sky yet chose, instead, to stay here with you.

"Xavier."

Every whisper of his name made him bolder.

Gentlemanly touches turned coy, trails and caresses added a subtle knead against every expanse of skin he could find. And then his hand dipped beneath your skirt—

"Xavier…"

His touch stuttered.

More.

Again you felt him nuzzle into your shoulder, shifting slightly to rest in the crook of your neck. Lips met your skin—a warm welcome against the chill of the evening, soft kisses trailing your nape before he let out a quiet groan.

"You make me so impatient," he whispered. "A star doesn't forget to shine, but, I… think this one… shines even brighter when it's with you…"

Teeth grazed at the base of your neck.

Slowly, you felt yourself falling. Light as a feather, down to a bed of flowers, he caged you between his arms and nudged at your jaw.

"And, you make me feel… free," he groaned. "So much, I… can't…"

Your eyes closed.

You didn't stop him.

It had long since been a symphony of his own making; kisses littered all over your skin like notes on a page as the sleeves of your dress pushed aside and you wouldn't dare keep the music from playing.

"You are my freedom."

He said it in a hushed whisper.

You'd have missed it, almost; drowned in the way he would nip at your skin and then soothe with a lick. But a moment passed as he raised his head to look at you, then. Your skin felt ablaze, eyes easily beginning to fog with a cloud of lust you were familiar with, and…

Closer.

There was no need to reply to that.

Unsteady vision focused only on him as he moved in, thumb grazing your lower lip before finally—finally—

He kissed you.

Feather-light, soft. Slow; warm. His hand reached to gently cup your chin and tilt you towards him, and there was no rush. Only the quiet hum of devotion seemed to flow through the way he pressed his lips to yours, over, and over, and over, and over—

You're unreal. You thought it, yet you couldn't speak it.

You're like starlight. He thought it, yet he couldn't speak it.

But you could see it in your peripheral—the glow of the moonlight did nothing to hide the specks of light mixing in with the tufts of his hair; daresay these shined even brighter.

And you knew what that meant.

Xavier glows when he's happy.

And the scent of crushed petals filled the space between the two of you, evening wrapping around you like silk as you fell. Deeper, deeper—kisses gave way to a desire blooming parallel to the blooms that carried you, fingers tangling in each other's hair as you turned and rolled in that little bed of flowers. Down then trailed his kisses, a resumption of his earlier exploration; every kiss and every touch carried with it a whispered promise of devotion.

…Devotion.

You felt your legs part pliantly to the nudging of his hands, and then you felt it again.

Devotion.

How was it that?

He'd find so much freedom in you, and yet worship you with such tender aching that you gasped.

He held you with such love.

Ever slow, and rhythmic, and deliberate—still the symphony moved onwards, with every caress, every trace of his tongue mirroring constellations twinkling above. Your back arched, allowed him to dive into you. You gripped his hair tightly while the other curled into the earth below, and you knew what it was that he truly felt.

He'd been telling the truth.

In the end, never before had you seen him so unbridled in his desire.

Yet, there was something different now—gentle, as always, but… more certain. More sure. As if truly, in loving you, something inside him had unchained. His movements stayed reverent, hands gliding over your skin as if they belonged, kisses deep and intimate and so determined to bring you to your high—

You had been wrong.

This was not a melody that had been orchestrated by him.

Your breath caught in your throat, because it was him. He who gave himself to the rhythm of your very being; he who danced to the tune of what you had commanded.

He would follow you.

He would adjust for you.

Each flick of his tongue against your sex was more than just a vow—it was surrender.

He could speak—I am yours.

And a quiet moan filled the air between you as you writhed beneath his touch, writhed beneath the intensity of his love, the weight with which he had resigned himself to carry for your sake.

"Am I not… your undoing?"

You swallowed thickly as your words spoke out of your moans, and you threaded your fingers through his hair.

"Am I not… selfish?"

No reply.

Stars clouded your eyes—he wouldn't stop.

His mouth latched onto you as his hands roamed your body once more, and he didn't dare to look up to meet your eyes, yet he continued. His tongue thrust inside you, thumb reaching down to circle where you needed him most.

Perhaps the answer to those questions was yes. Perhaps the answer had been one he'd come to accept so long ago. Something so sacred as love, so precious as freedom… so terrifying as sacrifice…

His eyes raised to look at you as you cried out his name, a sputtering chant as you arched into his mouth and the sky above became clearer.

Your thighs trembled. Your breath fell in uneven staccato pants; the music had now begun its diminuendo.

And all of this; all of these feelings, all these values… They'd been given to you by the very man that you loved. You were his freedom, he would say—yet in these words unspoken, you understood. Understood that in giving himself to you completely, then he'd chosen to be bound—Because he wished to be.

You had never meant to own him.

But there was that look on his face.

Xavier's eyes were half-lidded; satisfied— He had poured out everything and anything, all for your sake, and, that look, you—

"I…"

Another swallow, and swift movements pushed him back against the flowers.

"I want… to choose, too," you whispered. "I choose you, too."

Legs drawn on either side of him, you straddled his hips, reaching between you, taking ahold of him.

As the swollen tip brushed against your entrance, your legs quivered.

A smile tugged on your lips as you took note of that little telltale sign of his relief.

Xavier glows when he's happy.

Tentatively, you reached out to sift your hand through the glowing particles of light floating around you.

Ah, Xavier… You'll let me be a little selfish for wanting this… won't you?

You leaned in to kiss him as his hands found your hips, and slowly, slowly, he sank you down onto him. Moans muffled into your kiss, hands cradling his cheeks as you wished, wished, wished that you could mirror the way he had loved you, even as you let him guide your hips to your own undoing both.

If the night doesn't end, then the stars won't leave, will they? you thought.

In that case, then… From a sky filled with wishes, I wish, that… I…

taglist : @hunters-association @pixelcafe-network @darling-dummy-cassandra @daturasflower @valyvinny @jellyroom2 @theanbitchless @chemiru @ywnzn @pepprrmint @angel-jupiter @xai-mery @raiyuxa @~air_heart~ @keymeadoww @rowazuhime15 @nezuswritingdesk @cordidy @spotted-salamander @rafayelsheart @love-and-deepstrays @keioxo @oharasmommymilkers00 @rafayelsgf @pikachuzhc @fackeraccount @iloveboysinred @venussakura @evilgojo @strwbrychffoncke

© solifloris. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

185 notes · View notes

leftpoetrymoon · 3 days ago

Text

Threads of Love.

Pairings:- Xavier x you( non-mc)

Genre:- angst, we'll get to happy ending soon! 💐💐

Tag list:- @corvid007 @lunia-likes-pomegranet @brailsthesmolgurl @sharieb25 @mcdepressed290 @umiwu @nezuswritingdesk @silverianni @koojunweh @sylusgirlie7 @jihae222

Anyone who want to get tagged for the next part please comment!

How long has it been? How long have you been suffering watching the boy you love is looking at her with the same gaze that was reserved for you once?....

What's even worse is he seems to think that the star tassel was gifted by her not you. This isn't what you expected when you died at his arms while watching the meteor shower with him.

This isn't what you expected when you became the queen of Philos. Sure you became the queen because you are the feeding source for the planet which was full of selfish people who sacrificed you for their own survival.

He is the only one who travelled through thousands of planets to find a cure instead of using you for survival. So, that man once you knew, who looked at you like you were his entire cosmos is giving the same look to her?

You should've eloped with him when he asked you 200 years ago. Like a fool you insisted on saving the planet and sacrificing your love knowing both of you will get hurt. You remember how he looked at you at the starfall forest when he offered you to elope with him.

"Y/n, during my exploration I found a beautiful planet full of flowers... It looked so ethereal, you'll definitely love it. I named it Uluru it will be our little planet, Maybe after your coronation shall we visit it together?"

He held your hands and squeezed it gently and waited for your answer. It pained his heart to see how tired you look sacrificing yourself for others. For once.. just for once he wanted you to look at him and smile at him forgetting all of your problems.

"Xavier, of course... I'll go wherever with you, I'll definitely come with you to visit the planet you've found.."

As much as you want to sound cheerful your soul and your body is both physically and mentally damaged because of the energy that was draining out of you by the planet. You caressed his cheek and smiled at him knowing that he will worry about your health.

Sighing to himself, xavier took both of your hands and placed it on his cheeks. "I... I don't want you to suffer anymore y/n.. let's run away to Uluru, the planet that I've been talking. You don't need to become the queen! You don't need to sacrifice yourself! Please... Just listen to me once.."

It pained your heart to see tears wells up in his eyes. You gently wiped his tears and placed your forehead on his and closed your eyes. "I can't Xavier.. you know they won't allow us to, after all my life is not in my hands.."

That was your last conversation before he left for another exploration. This time you knew your star won't come back. This time you knew you won't see him again. You looked at the sky watching the space shuttle which now looked so far from you.

You always read his messages which were recorded by him during his travels. You know something has happened to him when you can't reach his messages anymore.. something terrible must have happened to him that your heart told you.

Strolling through the starfall forest, you sat by a nearby lake watching the swans swimming around beautifully. Oh, how you wish Xavier is sitting beside you, how much it will calm your heart to hold him again?

That's when you noticed another presence behind you. It was eerie. Standing up you look around anything suspicious but nothing catches your eye. You constantly felt like someone was watching you. Telling yourself that it was just a imagination you continue to walk through the forest. The starfall forest, which is the symbol of serene is now giving you a presence of danger.

That's when you heard the sound of footsteps which was coming towards you. Glancing around to see if anyone has been following you but there was none. Not a single soul. Suddenly you feel that presence right behind you. But before you can react that figure grabbed both of your hands pinned you on the tree.

It was someone you never saw in your life. He was taller than you, his eyes looked so cold and his smile looked sinister. "My, my never thought the sacrifice is this beautiful.." You tried to hit his leg but he dodged that and looked at you. It was enough to give you chills throughout your body.

"w-who are you!? You don't look like someone who lives at Philos! Tell me who are you at this instant!" The man scoffed and let go of your hands, he raised his in a surrender way and spoke to you in a mocking voice. "Me? I'm surprised the queen of Philos don't recognise their diety."

Diety? Ah.... this sly bastard is Astra. How can you forget that? Pale face, eyes that never see forgive anyone if someone betrays him, heart that is not suitable for love. You can say a devil in disguise. He is the forgotten diety of Philos. Back when earth existed Astra was the diety of time. But after earth's been destroyed he became forgotten.

He took a step back and looked at you with a sinister smile. "I'm sad.. you're too good to be a sacrifice. But you do realise that Philos will die soon right? That means everyone, every single being created in Philos will eventually die. Even if they travelled through different universe or time travelled. Ah! You understood who I'm talking about right?"

That's when your brain strikes. You do know that even if you fed the planet all of your life it eventually die because it needs so much energy that you can't give. But those foolish people don't know that. They thought that once the queen became the sacrifice they are safe. But no. Philos will die soon and everyone within it perish too. It includes Xavier too....

"Since your love looks too pure, I'll give you a chance to save him." At that moment you knew you're going to make a choice that'll make you regret. But, love makes us blind. Doesn't it?. Mustering up your courage you looked at Astra. "I'll do anything to save what's mine."

"bravo! I knew you'll agree! I'll save him by not erasing his existence when Philos gets perish. Currently he is at earth because his spaceship was destroyed. But the price is, he'll forget you. He'll forget your love, your existence, your voice, the love you two shared up until now."

Ah... he'll forget you? That's the crulest thing that could happen. Can you live knowing that he'll forget you? Your entire existence? No you can't. You definitely can't. But inorder to save him, you'll sacrifice anything. Even you.

"I agree."

He looked at you trying to read your expression. "Fine. Let's see how it will go."

During Philos's end you happily died that you'll see your beloved again. Your star. You hugged youself tightly and died within Philos. What a tragedy...

How can you be happy?

You don't deserve to be happy..

You need to suffer.

Suffer. Suffer. Suffer!!!.

It pained your heart to see him with her...

Who is she? She is someone who don't deserve your hate? You thought she's a innocent soul? Poor you.. how naive you are...

Let me tell you Y/n, everyone have two sides. The girl who stole what's yours is your biggest fear. Who is she?

Even if he looks at you, she somehow makes him forget you with her innocent smile. She's a trouble in paradise isn't she? More like.. devil in disguise? Feels similar to Astra?

Astra's sister. The one who destroys love.

But what is it this red thread on your hand? It looks like.. soulmate thread.. oh! That jerk, Astra knew you two are soulmates! That's why he played this game!!

Now you got reborn at linkon. Watching your love slowly forgetting you...

"I love you y/n.. please don't leave me.."

195 notes · View notes

wordsofwhimsy · 22 hours ago

Text

𝙂𝙡𝙞𝙙𝙚, 𝙎𝙥𝙞𝙣, 𝙆𝙞𝙨𝙨, 𝙍𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙩

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader x Eve Wilkins

Warnings: None

Tags: Platonic kisses, flirty chaos, soft girl solidarity, poor Mark is doing his best

Word Count: 1,660

Synopsis: Mark Grayson thought he could handle a little casual skating night with friends. He was wrong. Very, very wrong. Because you and Eve showed up in matching earmuffs, holding hands—and more. Are you dating? Are you messing with him? Is he dying? Probably. But at least the hot chocolate’s good.

Mark Grayson had seen some things.

Aliens. Interdimensional monsters. His dad using his face to punch through a train and all its passengers.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for seeing you and Eve hold hands at a skating rink while wearing matching earmuffs.

“What the hell,” he muttered to himself, gripping the rink wall like he was clinging to the last shred of sanity.

It had started innocently enough. Eve invited him out for “a casual little skate night. Us, William, and [y/n], no pressure.” Which might as well have been code for a trap designed by God to test his emotional fortitude.

Because there you were. Laughing with Eve. Sipping hot chocolate with two hands, like you were trying to keep them warm after all that intense hand-holding.

And then Eve helped you tie your skates.

You were sitting on a bench, one leg stretched out, the other bent, and Eve crouched down in front of you like she did this all the time—like she was your dedicated skate assistant or something.

Mark stood a few feet away, awkwardly holding his own skates like he didn’t just realize he might not be the main character in this scene.

“You good?” William muttered beside him.

“I—yeah,” Mark said, voice cracking. “Totally. Just… watching.”

He immediately regretted saying that, but William was too busy adjusting his hat to notice.

Eve tugged the laces tight, knotted them, and patted your knee like she’d just fixed a masterpiece. “There. Try not to fall and die.”

You beamed at her. “You always take such good care of me.”

Mark raised his eyebrows. That felt... loaded.

Then you leaned in, resting your head on Eve’s shoulder, smiling so sweetly it could’ve been pulled straight out of a perfume ad.

Mark’s heartbeat stuttered.

Eve turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing your hair. “You’ve got lip balm on your nose again.”

“I like it shiny,” you said with a little grin, not moving.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eve mumbled, and then—without missing a beat—she kissed you.

Right on the mouth.

Soft, casual, no fanfare.

Mark died. Quietly. Internally. With grace.

His soul left his body and ascended into the rafters of the skating rink, where it hovered, stunned, trying to process what it had just witnessed.

They kissed. Like it was normal.

You didn’t even react like it was a big deal. You just smiled against her lips, murmured something Mark couldn’t hear, and then started adjusting your scarf.

Meanwhile, Mark stood frozen, eyes wide, throat dry. Had time slowed down? Were his skates melting? Was this a stroke?

He looked around—surely someone else had seen that. But William was digging through his pockets for his phone, and the rest of the world just kept spinning.

He looked back at you two.

You were chatting again. Laughing.

Laughing.

Mark blinked. “Did they—did you—did that just happen?”

William glanced up. “What?”

“They kissed.”

William squinted. “Eve and [y/n]? Yeah. They do that sometimes.”

“They what?!”

“They’re just like that, man.”

Mark felt like the entire foundation of his reality had shifted two inches to the left. “Since when is that a thing?!”

“I don’t know,” William said, shrugging. “Since always? You need to calm down. You're looking at them like you're in a telenovela.”

Mark turned back just in time to see you poke Eve in the ribs and burst out laughing as she tried to trip you with her skate.

They were fine. Everything was fine.

Except Mark, who was now very seriously reconsidering every platonic interaction he’d ever witnessed.

He did not scream. He absolutely did not Google “how to tell if your two crushes are dating each other and not you.”

He just skated. Poorly.

Later, Mark cornered Eve at the cocoa stand. “I just—so, you and [y/n], huh?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Me and [y/n]. What about it?”

“I didn’t know you guys were… you know.” He made a vague, flappy hand gesture that somehow communicated both romance and meltdown.

Eve blinked. “We’re not.”

Mark paused. “You’re not…?”

“We’re just friends.”

Mark stared at her like she’d said you were both celestial beings sent to test him personally. “You kissed her!”

Eve shrugged. “Yeah? She looked cute. And she got hot chocolate on her lip. You would’ve done it too.”

“No!” Mark squawked. “No, I would not have just casually—that’s not a normal friend thing!”

Eve gave him a baffled look. “Mark. You fly around in spandex and yell about justice. Don’t talk to me about normal.”

He tried asking you directly. Big mistake.

“So like, you and Eve?” he asked, trying to sound chill and definitely not like he was about to scream into a snowbank.

You looked up from your churro. “Yeah?”

“You’re dating?”

You snorted. “What? No. We just kiss sometimes. It’s fun.”

Mark short-circuited. “...For fun?”

“Yeah, like—mutual admiration and pretty girl solidarity, you know?”

He absolutely did not know. His brain was now smoke and static.

“Oh,” you added, “and she’s been helping me get over my ex.”

Mark’s heart fluttered. Hope? A chance?

You smiled. “But don’t worry—Eve promised she wouldn’t let me date another emotionally stunted guy with secret feelings. She’s so supportive.”

Ah.

There it was.

Mark nodded slowly. “Cool. Cool cool cool. I love that for you.”

You patted his arm. “You’re such a good friend, Mark.”

And just like that, he died again.

—

The three of you were standing near the edge of the rink, the chill in the air mixing with the warmth of the cocoa in your hands. Mark was trying to stay casual, but his eyes kept darting between you and Eve, who were just so comfortable with each other. Like it didn’t matter that you’d just shared a kiss on the rink. Like it was as casual as breathing.

And maybe that’s what did it.

Maybe that’s why he noticed how your lips lingered on Eve’s. How you gently traced her jaw, eyes closed, completely unbothered by how intensely affectionate you were being.

Then—oh God—you kissed her again.

Mark didn’t even know where his thoughts went anymore. His brain had just short-circuited. He stared at you both, wide-eyed, his heart rate kicking into overdrive.

“Uh,” he muttered, then cleared his throat, trying to act like everything was perfectly fine. “You two… uh, you two are just really affectionate, huh?”

“Yeah, we’re friends,” Eve said, her grin way too knowing. She nudged you playfully, but her gaze flicked over to Mark and lingered there for a second too long. Then, she went back to you, trying to suppress a laugh.

“Oh my God,” Mark mumbled. “It’s like I can’t—what even is—”

You turned to Mark, totally unfazed. “You okay, Mark?” Your voice was sweet and unbothered, like you hadn’t just caused absolute chaos in his brain. “You’re kind of… pink?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, brushing it off, but his hands were suddenly clammy. His fingers tightened around his cocoa cup like it was his lifeline.

You just grinned at him. “Well, you’re looking a little… frazzled. Here, have some of mine.” You thrust your cup at him, clearly way too calm about the situation.

“Uh, thanks,” Mark said, trying to play it cool. He took a tentative sip, but it was as if the universe was out to make him implode. He felt something drip onto his bottom lip.

“Whoops,” you said with a little shrug, stepping closer, eyes glinting mischievously. “You’ve got a little something there.”

Before he could respond—before his brain could even register what was happening—you kissed him.

It wasn’t the casual, quick peck he was mentally prepared for. No, this was lingering.

Soft. Slow. Your lips brushing over his, gently nudging his mouth open as if you were trying to get every last drop of hot chocolate from his lip. Mark’s whole body froze, his eyes wide, heart thudding in his chest as his mind tried to catch up with what was happening. Was this a joke? Was he imagining it?

And then, just when he thought he might combust from the sheer shock, you pulled back just enough to lick your bottom lip. As if you were making absolutely sure that not one drop of cocoa had been left behind.

Mark’s breath hitched in his throat, his brain screaming WHAT and WHY, but his body was already way too lost in the moment to argue. He barely even registered the quiet laugh that escaped Eve behind him.

“Better?” you asked, still smiling sweetly at him, like you didn’t just knock his world sideways. Mark couldn’t speak. He was completely dumbstruck. His mouth was too dry, his tongue too thick to form words.

“Mark?” Eve teased, stepping forward now. “You okay?”

He blinked a few times, trying to piece himself back together, but all he could do was shake his head, which only made you laugh.

“I think I broke him,” you said, and the look in your eyes was one of pure mischief. Mark couldn’t decide if he wanted to die or kiss you back.

He cleared his throat again. “I—uh—okay. Okay. Well, I gotta… I gotta go. Yeah, I’m, uh, gonna… Yeah.” He looked around, like there was an escape route. “I’m just gonna—”

“Wait,” Eve called after him. “You don’t want some more cocoa?”

Mark turned around so fast he almost tripped on his own feet. “NO,” he yelped. “I’m good. Thanks. I—uh—no more hot chocolate.”

And as Mark sprinted away, both you and Eve just watched him go, arms still casually linked.

“Well, that went well,” Eve said with a satisfied grin.

You smirked, taking another sip of your cocoa. “I think he likes it when we kiss. Don’t you?”

Eve chuckled. “I think he’s still trying to figure out if we’re doing this for real, or if his brain just broke.”

#invincible #mark grayson #invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson fanfic #mark x reader x eve #eve wilkins #eve wilkins x reader

263 notes · View notes

bemorch · 3 hours ago

Text

Tags by @vaguely-concerned

I’ve had a lot of people point out the easter eggs in these (the andraste’s grace, the portraits, the books, etc.), but this is the first time someone actually gets the more abstract messaging 100% right wow

I’ll take this chance to elaborate on the ideas in this a bit because I think the differences between their politics, the ways they view the chant, and their relationships, shape the way (I think) they would choose to depict themselves in a portrait.

Long text under the cut:

Starting with Cassandra, she's a character driven by duty and purpose, which extends to her interpretation of the chant. She views the Chantry as a means to a righteous, just and devoted society (although her interpretation of “justice” might not align with everyone else's). She is more than willing to go against the tide if she sees a violation of what she deems a fair system, even if that turns the world against her.

These traits are self-evident in the letter Leliana “Nightingale” sends her after the death of Divine Beatrix III:

«“I know that the Most Holy has spoken to you, Cassandra” the letter stated. “She wishes you to be her Right Hand, to serve her as you did the Divine before. What she considers is necessary, yet dangerous. (...) My own agents have watched as you perform your duties. You pursue your own missions for the Seekers with less vigor than you once did. You question more often, show compassion that would get you in trouble if they knew of it, and you rage at injustice that has become more and more obvious to those of us with eyes. I welcome the opportunity for us to work together in what shall surely be our most trying hours”». (The World of Thedas II, p. 223)

This, though, also reveals the differences between the way she and Leliana served as Divine Justinia V’s right and left hand respectively, and most importantly, their relationships to her (which I’ll get to later).

Cassandra is, above all, a soldier. This does not diminish her faithfulness, on the contrary, her belief in the chant is what fuels her morals and principles, and what she sees as her duty as a warrior. This is what made her rise to the position of Right Hand of Divine Beatrix III, it wasn’t only her feats -overthrowing the assassination plot against the Divine, slaying the magically controlled dragons (a feat that she herself insists doesn’t belong exclusively to her) - but her resolve to do so. As she herself puts it in a report to her Seeker superiors: “Yes, I was indeed there when the Grand Cathedral was attacked, and I fought with every ounce of my strength to protect the Divine. (...) I was willing to die to protect Most Holy, it’s true, and I almost did die. But fighting against such evil is my sworn duty.” (World of Thedas II, p. 221) .

This, I believe, would all be reflected in her Official Divine portrait:

Full armor, of course, not only as an expression of her history as a soldier (which, although lessened, doesn’t end with her appointment as Divine), but also as an extension of her metaphorical armor. Cassandra, although incredibly genuine and honest, is a woman who’s surrounded herself with emotional walls.

A powerful pose, as a way to show authority, strength and discipline, but within eye-level as to not show an arrogant sense of superiority.

Little to no personal decoration. She’s a blunt, no-nonsense person, she doesn’t see the point in displaying her own life in an official portrait where everyone can see it. With the exception of a small portrait of divine Justinia, of course, and “The tale of the Champion” (whether the last one was left "in-frame" on purpose or not, I’ll leave to your interpretation).

Strong Chantry imagery: the drapes, the banner… She does not play the Game or care much for it, so subtle messaging through objects, composition, colors, etc. would not be much of a concern for her (she would probably see the need of a portrait at all as vain). When asked how she’d like to be painted, she’d probably give an exasperated “I do not care, just get this over with” kind of response. By relegating the task to her advisors though, subtle class imagery would sneak in the painting: the orlesian, purple cloth, representing a superior wealth/social status. This would also symbolize how one of her best attributes can be one of her worst: her straightforwardness, and lack of tolerance for nonsense (in this case, noble’s machinations), would make her vulnerable to camouflaged manipulation/influence.

Her portrait heavily contrasts with both Leliana’s and Vivienne’s, because, although each does so from the other side of the political spectrum, both of them skillfully play the Game, even through their portraits. Cassandra’s, on the other hand, has an either boring or refreshing (depending on who you ask) sincerity in her plain depiction of herself.

Continuing with the Left Hand of the Divine; Leliana, despite fulfilling her role next to Cassandra for many years, plays her cards in a completely different way. Shamelessly quoting the Thedas Revolutions wiki: “If the Right Hand of the Divine is her blade in hand, then the Divine’s Left Hand is the one concealed in her sleeve”.

(I’ll be talking exclusively about a softened Leliana here, so as not to overextend this analysis).

Where Cassandra is blunt and inflexible, Leliana is sly and open-minded. While Cassandra does not give nobles the time of day, Leliana, as a former bard, revels in playing their game. Cassandra will rush to the direct and short path, even if more dangerous, while Leliana will take her time finding a roundabout (literally).

Leliana’s devotion to the Maker is, in my opinion, no greater or lesser than Cassandra’s, but it is more unconventional. Even ignoring her “vision” during the events of Origins, her interpretation of the chant of light is not one shared by many. As she explains in Inquisition, when asked about her plans if she were to become Divine: «The Chantry dictated where it should have inspired. It spoke of judgement instead of acceptance. It should encourage the good in everyone, rather than rebuke us for our sins. No one should be turned away from our doors. No one is without worth. Whoever you are, whatever your mistakes, you are loved. Unconditionally. “In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame.”». She is, to some degree, something of a heretic. And yet, her devotion to her faith is undeniable.

Her portrait shows these same characteristics:

An approachable look: as @/vaguely-concerned eloquently put it, “I am here with you in this private space, you can tell me everything, I will understand”. From her pose, sitting down in a comfortable chair, looking at the viewer in the eyes, to the space she’s in: a simple, homey room.

Personal decorations: the lute, the portraits, the flower, and the amulet. All to portray vulnerability and connect to the viewer. Even the nug, Schmooples II, is an attempt to seem friendly. I mean, a Divine with such a “dirty” and common animal as a pet? Wow, she's just like me! This, although no less genuine, is a very calculated way to depict herself. She won’t reveal any real secrets or weaknesses of course. If Cassandra’s straightforwardness is both a strength and a fault, Leliana’s scheming can be as well. A person like her, so in love with playing the Game, can get lost in her own machinations even in front of a clear-cut solution.

Even though her priority here is to connect with the viewer -the world-, she is still very much a servant of the Maker -of the Chantry- shown through the Grand Cathedral visible through the window. She serves the people through the Chantry, and the Chantry through the people.

This is a new era for the Chantry, one where everyone’s welcome (“elves, dwarves, even qunari.”), one rid of archaic conventions of what means to be faithful. What better way to show this than with a portrait of the Divine’s elven lover displayed on her official portrait? (I am aware this only applies to a very specific worldstate).

A robe made of beautiful materials and textiles. Elegant and ornamental, but not a vulgar display of wealth. A nod to her love for shoes, fashion, and orlesian customs.

And, of course, a portrait of Divine Justina as well. The position, size and context is different from Cassandra’s as a way to highlight the aforementioned differences between their relationships with Dorothea. In Leliana’s case, the portrait is big, hanged in a high, visible place, just above her, as if watching over her. She was, as she herself says, the one who “saved her”, and who motivated her to dedicate herself to the Chantry. Cassandra, on the other hand, even though devoted to Justinia, had a far more superficial connection with her, more by duty than by affection. She even admits it in a series of banters with Sera:

“Sera: You better yet, Cassandra? Can you tell me what she was like? Cassandra: Who? Oh, the Divine? Yes, I'm sorry. I'm not used to such... unorthodox displays of faith. Most Holy was a visionary. I served as her Right Hand, and would have done so as long as she needed me. Sera: But you didn't know her. Cassandra: I just said, I served as her Right Hand. Sera: Fine, whatever. I'll ask Leliana. You can tell there was something with those two. Family pain, there.” “Cassandra: I... You were right, Sera. I find I did not know Justinia at all. Sera: Shame, right? She was pretty.”

This is why, even though she was an equally influential figure in Cassandra’s life, her portrait is smaller, less visible, looking in the opposite direction as her. They worked together, she would’ve sacrificed herself to save her life, but they didn’t really know each other.

And lastly we have Vivienne, equally subversive as she is conservative. The first mage Divine, but also the most traditional out of the three candidates. A deeply complicated woman.

I find that Vivienne is often misrepresented in fandom spaces, oversimplified as just "the conservative mage". She's not afforded the same complexities as her mage peers, for whatever reason (I think we both know the reason). The thing is, Vivienne loves control, loves power plays, but her politics on mage freedom don't come from that, but from a genuine wish to protect her fellow mages. She is, in my opinion, one of the characters most empathetic to mages, even if her ideas of what's best for them are widely different from most. Even if subtle, her reaction to finding the rebel mages left the tranquil behind (and were subsequently used by the venatori to make the ocularum) is one of absolute outrage. Her worry for mages doesn’t end with the “useful” ones, so it’s not about controlling a potential asset, it extends to those most overlooked by the Templars, the Chantry and the rebels.

I’d divide Vivienne's opinionated dialogue in 3 layers:

Her opinion is backed by rational arguments, she’s sincere about what she's saying.

Despite her arguments being factually true, her opinion is motivated by emotional ones. As in, her real reasoning would be indefensible, so she disguises it with a factual argument. The tried and true method used by real life conservatives. (She *is* nicknamed the iron lady, an alias for a real-life certain someone…)

Although at first glance, it might appear that she's using the strategy from the previous point, she genuinely believes what she's saying. So like layer 1, but with the cadence & condescending language she would use for nº2.

The fun part of her portrait is figuring which parts of it belong to which layer:

The mirror: either a representation or her arrogance/narcissism, or a symbol of watching one's back. She is in fact in a very delicate position. Not to repeat myself too much, but Vivienne's greater strength, her ability to take the bourgeois’ wants and desires and twist them into power for herself, is a double-edged sword; her loyalties are fragile, she has to align herself with their interests lest she lose influence. She has (almost) no truly loyal allies.

Reading the chants of light, a so on the nose depiction of her faithfulness, you wouldn't be wrong to think she's making fun of you. I also wonder to what extent she is religious, this could be a facade just to gain power in a world where religion is at the top of the pyramid. (I strongly doubt that is the case, but I do think she’s not as religious as she would make herself seem). Again, she's in a very very difficult situation as the first mage divine, so she has to do everything perfectly. Any slip, no matter how small, could be fatal.

Three colors: blue, red and green. The blue is a symbol of class, and her life among the orlesian nobility (she does love their decor). The red, a symbol of the chantry, this one's pretty straightforward. And then, almost hidden, the green circle tomes. Both a throwback to her first personal quest, and her dedication to the circle.

Gold everywhere. Fully undisguised ostentatiousness. From the purple stool (class symbol), to the mirror, her wand and her clothes. This one is a vulgar display of wealth, but a very intentional one. If Leliana appeals to the farmer, Vivienne does to the noble.

Anyways, that's about it, I don't really have a big conclusion here beyond the fact that all three Divines are different enough to be interesting on their own, and similar enough to complement each other. This is even further driven home by their canon portraits clothes colors: Cassandra has red and black, Leliana has white and red, and Vivienne has white and black. All of them share one color with each of the other two candidates, with gold as the unifying color.

Thanks for reading if you got this far, and thanks to everyone's tags on this post (and every post I make), I rarely reply, but I read them all :)

The three Divines

Prints available here

#been rereading this for the past two weeks and debating whether to post it but fuck it #disclaimer everything here is just my interpretation of the characters yada yada #I am aware my writing style is discombobulated at best and straight up incoherent at worst #if some expressions or words sound weird or not used correctly it's because I tried translating them from my mother tongue. and failed #long post #me talk

1K notes · View notes

sh4nksslvt · 2 days ago

Text

When Love Grows Quiet

Four different loves — each unraveling in its own way, where silence cuts deeper than swords and love isn't always enough to stay.

shanks x reader | zoro x reader | law x reader | mihawk x reader | ONE SHOT tags: angst, sfw, heartbreak, emotional neglect, falling out of love, hurt/no comfort, isolation, miscommunication a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing word count: 2.5k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

SHANKS

The bar was loud, filled with the buzz of half-drunken laughter, tankards slamming against tables, and music that you once loved but now loathed. You sat in the farthest corner, away from the warmth of the crowd, clutching a half-empty glass of something you didn’t order. The ice was melting fast — like the slow disintegration of what used to be your heart.

Shanks was at the center of it all.

Again.

He always was.

“Another round!” he bellowed, raising his cup high in the air as the Red-Haired Pirates cheered. The crew adored him. They should — he was charismatic, fierce, warm, and generous with his attention.

Just not with you. Not anymore.

Your gaze lingered on him. His hair, a fiery halo in the dim light, his grin — that same one that once made you feel like the most important person in the world — now belonged to everyone else.

He didn’t even notice you when you walked in.

“Y/N, there you are!” Lucky Roux called from across the bar, waving at you with his usual cheer. “C’mon, join us!”

Shanks looked over his shoulder, eyes falling on you for a split second. There was recognition — maybe even guilt — but it was gone too fast. He raised his cup in your direction. No words. No movement. Just a lazy toast.

You forced a smile, then looked away.

You’d been with him for two years. It had started with stolen moments under stars, whispered promises between waves. “When this is all over, I’ll settle down. With you,” he’d say, voice dipped in warmth, hand on your cheek. You believed him.

But it never ended. And you stopped asking.

There were always more islands to visit, more allies to meet, more enemies to fight, and more nights he stumbled back to the ship reeking of rum and adrenaline, too tired to remember your name.

You stayed because you loved him.

Or maybe you stayed because you were afraid of what your life would look like without him in it.

But tonight felt different.

You pushed your glass aside and stood, your legs numb from sitting too long. You crossed the room, weaving through sailors and crewmates until you reached him.

“Shanks.”

He looked at you, surprised. Like he hadn’t expected you to speak first.

“Can we talk?”

His smile faltered. “Now? Can it wait? We’re just—”

“No,” you said, quieter, firmer. “It really can’t.”

He followed you outside without protest. The night air was cool, the moonlight bathing the ship in pale light.

You turned to him. “Do you remember what you promised me?”

He blinked. “Which one?”

You almost laughed. “That says everything, doesn’t it?”

“Y/N…”

“You told me we’d settle. That you’d come back for me. That I wasn’t just another stop along your journey. Do you even realize how long I’ve been waiting?”

“I know,” he muttered. “But it’s complicated.”

“No. It’s not. Not really. You just never made space for me.” Your voice trembled. “I don’t need riches or islands. I don’t even need peace. I just needed to know I mattered.”

He took a step forward. “You do matter.”

“Do I?” You looked up at him. “When was the last time you asked how I felt? When was the last time you chose me over adventure? Over your crew? Over another drink?”

He opened his mouth, but no answer came.

You continued, softer now, each word heavy. “I used to believe I was lucky to be loved by you. But now I realize… maybe I was just convenient. Someone to come back to when the world wasn’t enough.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, jaw clenched.

“Neither is loving someone who only loves you when it suits them.”

A silence settled. Heavy. Final.

He looked away. “What are you saying?”

You took a shaky breath. “I’m leaving.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I have to. Because if I don’t now, I never will.” You paused. “I loved you so much, Shanks. But I’m tired of waiting for you to love me back in the way I deserve.”

You turned before he could say more, before the tears spilled.

The crew watched you go. No one stopped you. Maybe they knew too.

Shanks didn’t follow.

Maybe he couldn’t.

Maybe deep down, he knew you were already gone.

And this time, no promise would bring you back.

ZORO

The clatter of blades in the training room echoed through the ship like thunder.

Again.

You stood outside the door, hand hovering just above the wood, listening. Zoro had been in there since sunrise. The sun was beginning to set.

You pressed your palm flat against the door. It was warm.

He didn’t hear you. He never did when he was training.

You opened the door anyway.

He stood in the center, shirtless, sweat clinging to his skin, his chest rising and falling with exertion. His swords were laid neatly on the rack nearby, save for the one still in his hand — his favorite. Wado Ichimonji. His first love.

You didn’t speak right away.

He noticed you after a few seconds, green hair clinging to his face. “Oh. Hey.”

“That all you’ve got for me?” you asked, arms crossed.

He shrugged. “Been training.”

“You were supposed to meet me. Two hours ago.”

Zoro blinked. “Shit. Was that today?”

A beat passed. You tried not to let the disappointment crack through your voice. “Yeah. It was today.”

It wasn’t the first time.

Zoro wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t dismissive in the way that most would notice. He was just… focused. Sharpened, like his blades, honed only for one goal: to become the strongest swordsman in the world.

And you had once admired that. Loved it, even.

But lately, it felt like you were always chasing his shadow, always making room for his dreams, even if it meant shrinking your own.

You walked into the room, picking up the cloth he used to wipe his sweat, tossing it to him. “You forgot again.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, running it over his forehead.

“I know,” you whispered.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The days blurred.

Dinner conversations turned into one-sided stories from you. Nights became silent, save for the occasional grunt as Zoro collapsed into bed, already half asleep. You missed the way he used to fall asleep beside you — not just near you — like you were a harbor in his storm. Now, he drifted in and out like a ghost, always just beyond reach.

You finally snapped one quiet night.

“Zoro, do you even love me?”

He looked up from cleaning his blade, brow furrowed. “What kind of question is that?”

You sat on the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. “One I keep asking myself.”

He stood up, face unreadable. “Of course I love you.”

“Then why don’t I feel it?”

The silence that followed was thick. Not awkward — just empty. Like a room without furniture.

“I’m doing this for us,” he finally said. “Everything. My training. My dream.”

“No, you’re doing it for you. And that’s okay, Zoro.” Your voice broke. “But stop pretending I’m part of that dream when I’m just an afterthought.”

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“I used to think that too,” you whispered. “But you keep showing me otherwise.”

The next morning, you packed.

Not everything — just what you needed. You didn’t want to make a scene.

When you turned to leave, he was there. Leaning against the doorframe, arms folded.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, voice rough with sleep and disbelief.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He stared for a long time. “Why now?”

“Because if I stay, I’ll start hating you. And I don’t want to hate you.”

Zoro opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.”

He took a step forward. “Don’t I get a chance to fix it?”

“You’ve had a hundred chances,” you said, gently. “I gave you all of them.”

He looked down, the tension in his body visible.

You moved past him. He didn’t stop you.

Not physically.

But god, you wished he would.

You heard the sound of blades again as you walked down the corridor, echoing from the training room.

Zoro was already back at it.

Maybe it was easier for him to fight with steel than with words.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stay — because you needed someone who could choose you the way you kept choosing him.

Even if it broke your heart.

LAW

The Polar Tang was quiet at night.

Most of the crew had gone to sleep, their laughter faded into distant echoes through the metal halls. You sat alone in the infirmary, the light above flickering in tired pulses, casting shadows across the empty bed beside you.

It used to be your place. Your shared space.

Now it was just another cold room.

The door slid open with a mechanical hiss. Law stepped inside, coat trailing, his presence commanding — but not unkind. His face was the same as always. Calm. Collected. Impenetrable.

You didn’t turn to greet him.

“You’re still awake,” he said, voice low.

“So are you.”

He paused. “Long day.”

“Every day is a long day with you.”

That made him pause longer than usual. You saw it — the subtle twitch of his hand, the way his gaze lingered on you before shifting to the medical charts on the wall, as if reading them gave him a reason not to face you.

You finally stood, arms crossed. “You didn’t even ask how I’m doing.”

“You’re not injured,” he replied, like that explained everything.

You laughed bitterly. “You think that’s all that matters?”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“You’re not bleeding,” he said, “so I assumed you were fine.”

“And that’s the problem, Law,” you snapped, “you only know how to fix things you can see. But what about everything else?”

He was always distant. He didn’t mean to be — it was just how he survived. You knew that going in. Law was brilliant, brave, and wounded in ways most couldn’t see. He didn’t wear his pain on his sleeve; he buried it deep, under layers of strategy and silence.

You once thought love could bring him peace.

Instead, it made you feel invisible.

He sat on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves with surgical precision. “If you’re upset, just say it.”

“I’m always saying it,” you said. “I say it in every look you don’t return, every time you walk out without a word. I’m screaming it, Law, and you don’t hear me.”

His brow furrowed. “I’m trying.”

“No, you’re managing. There’s a difference.”

You took a step forward, throat tight. “Do you even want me here?”

He didn’t answer.

Not for a long time.

When he did, it was quiet. “I don’t know what I’d be without you.”

“That’s not the same as wanting me.”

You turned away, swallowing the burn behind your eyes. “I need more than this. I need to be seen. Heard. Held.”

“I’m not good at that.”

“I know,” you whispered. “And I’ve been patient. God, I’ve been so patient.”

He stood. “Then what do you want from me?”

You turned back to him, tears finally slipping down your cheek.

“I want to stop being the person waiting for you to feel something.”

There were so many things he could have said. So many things he didn’t.

No promises. No pleas. Just silence.

You left the room, footsteps echoing down the corridor. He didn’t follow. You didn’t expect him to.

Law wasn’t cruel. He was just… unreachable.

And you couldn’t keep drowning in his silence.

Later that night, he stood in the infirmary, alone, looking at the chair where you always sat.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t break.

But he whispered your name once — as if it would echo back.

It didn’t.

MIHAWK

Perched on the windowsill of Kuraigana Island's cold, stone castle, you watched the sun slip beneath the horizon. Even the sunset here felt distant — as if the colors were afraid to bloom fully, like the love you once thought lived within these walls.

Behind you, the quiet hum of Mihawk’s sword being cleaned was the only sound.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

You’d once thought the silence between you was peaceful — now it felt suffocating.

When you first arrived, you mistook his quiet for serenity. Mihawk was a man of discipline, of stillness, and you found comfort in his control. He didn’t make empty promises, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t falter. It made you feel safe.

Until the days stretched long and the silence became unbearable.

You would speak to him at dinner, only to be met with the clink of cutlery. You would try to initiate conversation, only to find him more engrossed in wine than words.

You once thought you were an oasis for his loneliness.

Now you realized you were just another presence he tolerated.

“You haven’t looked at me once today,” you said finally, staring out at the orange light dying over the sea.

Mihawk paused, the cloth in his hand stilling on Yoru’s blade. “I saw you this morning.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

No response.

You stood slowly, turning to face him. He was sitting in that grand, throne-like chair by the fireplace. His posture was perfect. Controlled. Remote.

“Do you even care that I’m unhappy?”

“I care,” he replied after a beat. “But unhappiness is inevitable.”

You blinked. “That’s your answer?”

“I do not pretend to be something I’m not,” he said, voice even. “You knew who I was when you came here.”

“I knew who you seemed to be,” you said sharply. “But I thought — I hoped — that underneath all of this control, you might want to be known. That you might let me in.”

“I have let you in.”

“To your house. Not your heart.”

The air crackled.

Mihawk stood, moving with quiet authority. “I do not offer affection like others. I offer stability. Loyalty.”

“I never wanted gifts. Or flattery. I just wanted to feel chosen.” You laughed, bitter. “But all I’ve felt is... tolerated. Like I’m just another item in your collection of things that don’t rust or change.”

He said nothing.

You stepped closer. “You haven’t said you love me. Not once.”

“I do not speak lightly,” he said, almost offended.

“I’m not asking for flowery words. I’m asking for anything that tells me you feel something when you look at me.”

He stared at you — intense, golden eyes sharp as any blade.

“I would not have allowed you to stay if I did not value you.”

A pause. And then your voice, quiet, almost broken:

“That’s not love, Mihawk. That’s possession.”

The silence that followed was vast.

And it said everything.

You turned away, heading for the door.

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes.”

“You may find no comfort in the world beyond this place.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered. “But at least I’ll feel something.”

He did not follow. He did not stop you.

And that hurt worse than any goodbye.

Later, long after you’d gone, Mihawk stood alone in the great hall, Yoru resting silently on the stone altar. A storm gathered beyond the window, wind rushing over the sea like a howl.

He did not weep.

But he looked at the spot where your chair had been pulled out, slightly askew — and he didn’t move it back.

187 notes · View notes

ohlawdthevoices · 2 days ago

Text

the things they do that makes u fall for them a lil harder

tags : todoroki , denki , deku x reader, use of “pretty girl”, fluff, awkward shoto, attention whore denki , deku is trying his best tho trust

shoto doesn’t want to bother you when you’re speaking with the girls or on the phone, he’d never dare to interrupt a woman’s conversation (we all know how that ended last time he did it) so he waits…usually behind you, quiet as ever like a damn puppy, waiting for you to notice him and his deadpan expression. obviously he just ends up startling most the time.

“jeez sho you scared me !” you pocketed your phone after hanging up and finally realized he had been standing there behind you.

“oh…sorry but, it’s 11” you looked at him puzzled “you told me to remind you your TV show start at 11” 20 minutes, he had been standing there for 20 minutes.

denki is over dramatic with you, he is what you call a drama queen, a paper cut ? yea that fine- oh you’re here? oh god ! what a painful wound ! i sure hope a pretty girl helps him clean it !

it is a bit cheeky but seeing him get so worked up over the smallest things you do is really endearing , for example if you’re talking to a guy, there he goes choking in the corner. or when you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the lord has blessed him with such a beautiful sight. however if you smile in his direction or worse laugh at his joke ? an ambulance will be called because he just had a heart attack

just give this man the smallest amount of attention and he’ll be over the moon, he totally makes a clown of himself infront of you and you find that adorable cus who wouldn’t

deku is a smart guy obviously, but he just doesn’t get a damn hint, he’s kind of oblivious to any kind of flirting, because the man is just too nice for his own good, like when you gave him chocolates on valentines, he just thought you really appreciated the friendship !

you really tried to put yourself in a situation romantic enough that one of you will finally assume how they felt like “accidentally” forgetting your umbrella on a rainy day but of course he decided to forget his too,

for him, you’re just so out of his league that considering you might like him too would be a disgrace, so he sticks to being your kind and loving friend !

a/n : this is how i imagined shoto waiting -> 🧍

207 notes · View notes

damneddamsy · 1 day ago

Text

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

THEOREM OF BECOMING—Transformation is not a moment, but a process.

summary: The journey back to Jackson is full of make-believe of a life that almost feels like it's coming true.

a/n: woohoo, happy AAPI month! I'm sorry this update took so long, I was so indecisive on how I wanted this chapter to end, and what I wanted to depict, especially at the end when it was hard for me to decide where I wanted to place all of them... I just hope it turned out okay! one more chapter left before the epilogue :)

word count: 12,800+ words (dare I say, a short one?)

Joel tried to imagine himself at university. Outlandish things like, what would’ve happened if the world had given him a second door to open?

Because being here—goddamn. It was hard not to wonder what it might’ve felt like, walking into a place like this with a backpack and purpose instead of a rifle and regret.

What kind of kid would Joel have been, sitting in one of those chairs? Twenty years old, maybe. Hell—eighteen if he'd played it straight. No Sarah. No mortgage. No busted-up drywall jobs. No worry about gas bills or whether the AC would hold another summer.

Fuck no, he wouldn't do whatever it was Leela was doing in that lab, with data and diagrams that looked like chicken scratch to him. He would want a degree in something that lets the brain wander. A major in liberal arts, maybe. History. Music theory sounded nice. All that “not real work” crapola folks in his neighbourhood used to scoff at.

He’d always had a good head on him—just never the time or the cash to spend chasing someone else’s definition of smart. See, college wasn’t for men like him. Places like this weren’t made for people like him.

It was a gate you needed a key for, and that key used to cost fuck-ton loans and inevitable debt. More than he ever had or would have.

But that never meant he wasn’t curious. Never meant he didn’t know things.

Truth was, Joel used to like ideas. He liked stories. He read when he could. Listened. Paid attention. Watched old movies with Sarah, sometimes caught the way dialogue turned into meaning. Took in books secondhand, borrowed from neighbours, dog-eared and scribbled in. Kept his head and hands busy. When he worked construction, he could out-measure, out-calculate, and out-plan any of those stiff-collared pricks with their clean hands and degrees nailed to their office walls.

Tommy used to joke that Joel could memorize a script better than a foreman could read a blueprint.

“Man, you ain’t dumb,” his baby brother said once, picking dried cement off his hands. “We’re just poor.”

And he'd agreed. Their whole academic system was a racket, just a way of putting a price tag on knowledge.

Places like Caltech were always for them—it was for the bright ones, the born-lucky, the rich kids with trust funds and internships lined up like bowling pins. Kids like Leela, in fact. He'd never set foot in a real university, let alone one like this. All that prestige and legacy. Hell, even the labs looked like spaceships.

Joel had never even been on a real campus before the world went belly-up, and now here he was, boots echoing in a dead lecture hall, listening to Leela piece together the last remnants of science like she was born for it.

He stood halfway down the sloped aisle, one hand dragging along the edge of a long desk. The laminate was peeling at the corners. He could picture a thousand students slouched here over the decades, bent over laptops or spiral notebooks, yawning, scrawling notes they’d forget the second finals ended.

Behind him, Ellie climbed onto the stage at the bottom of the hall, testing the strength of the lectern like a kid playing teacher. Her voice carried, all grin and gravel.

“Bet you’d sit in the back row. Right, Joel?”

Joel smirked. “Only place I could get away with nappin’.”

“Or so you think. I’d definitely be front row. Raising my hand. Asking annoying questions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”

“Pft, whatever.”

Beyond the doors, down the corridor, he could just make out the faint click-clack of keys—Leela, working in the lab with that same eerie calm she always had when the world dropped away and it was just her and the numbers. Her silhouette had barely shifted in an hour. Her hair was loose, falling over one shoulder, half in the light. She looked like she belonged in there.

“Y’know,” he drawled out to Ellie from somewhere inside his head, “I think she and I… if we’d met like that back then… we’d’ve found each other.”

Ellie didn't tease him about it. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d be the guy just tryin’ to keep up. Probably complainin’ about the campus coffee and the goddamn parking passes.”

She grinned. “She’d dodge you for two whole weeks.”

“Hm. Sounds ‘bout right.”

“Then one day you’d say something too smart that’d make her stop and think. And boom. Now you’re study partners.”

He sighed. “I ain’t smart, kiddo.”

“Nah, you’re smart.”

“Not that kinda smart.”

“Bullshit. You literally remember everything. Details. Faces. The way you describe a guy’s boots, I feel like I was there.”

Joel clucked his tongue. “You learn to read people when your life depends on it.”

She shrugged. “Still counts.”

He didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched—somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Hey, know what else? She’d’ve helped me cheat on a math exam.”

“Ha, no way. Leela would smack you across the face.”

He rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a smile ghosting across his mouth. “But she’d tutor me. Make me memorise some dumb equation by makin’ it a song or somethin’. She hums that stuff sometimes, y'know? 'Spretty cute.”

Ellie gave him a look—half fond, half exasperated. “Jesus. Jesse was right. You're cuntstruck.”

“Ellie,” he muttered, more warning than scolding, but it didn’t carry much heat.

“Aw, c’mon, Joel. Can you just imagine a life where,” she sighed, “you just live that time-honoured, grey area of life? Be a normal dude with a college sweetheart or some shit?”

“How the hell do you know all that?”

“I'm just that baller.”

“Jesus.”

Now, Joel meant to leave it there, but the thought had already taken root.

He let his eyes drift toward the broken chalkboard at the front of the room, and the lecture hall around them seemed to grow in his mind—less ruin, more memory of something he never had.

He imagined Leela sitting at a desk beside him, in a school that let smart kids like her and dumbasses like him sit together—just one of those big halls with sticky floors and ceiling fans that clicked when they turned, where the smart ones always found the front row and the tired ones sat wherever the sun didn’t hit their eyes. She’d be chewing a pen cap, probably, maybe twirling a strand of hair around her finger, nodding all serious while some professor went off about Gödel or Fermat or one of those names that felt more like hexes than people. Joel wouldn’t understand a lick of it—not even on his best, most caffeinated day.

But maybe—she’d lean in, whisper it in Layman's for him. Not to make him feel dumb, but because she wanted him to know. All sweet, patient, gracious Leela.

He’d pretend to follow along, nodding at the right times, but mostly he’d be watching the way her mouth moved around the words, the way her brows bunched up when she really got into it. Watching the gears turn in her beautiful, brilliant head. Joel still did that, when she went off on a tangent in their living room between her blackboards, he'd just want her to kiss her until she was blue in the face.

He nevertheless would've fallen so damn hard for her. Right on his ass. No question about it.

Wouldn’t have taken him long to ask her out, either—not if they’d met like that. Not if she didn’t already know all the things the world had done to a man like him. He would have acted like his balls had just dropped or something—nervous as hell, but trying to play it cool. Sweaty palms, rehearsed lines in front of his mirror. Something about those big, dark eyes of hers, her fancy shoes, or her mint-condition books. Something along the lines of: I promise I’m more interesting than I look… though I realise the bar’s low since I’ve been standing here staring at you for the last thirty seconds.

And if she’d fold and giggle ‘okay’—and he liked to believe she would—he’d take her out someplace decent. Someplace with candlelight, silverware, suited waiters, cloches and folded napkins. He’d pick her up in front of her building. Show up with a fat bouquet of daisies. Pull her chair out for her at dinner. Hold the door. Call her ma’am without even thinking. He would be flat-broke in that life too, but he was raised right with Texan manners imbued upon him by Mr and Mrs Miller, after all.

Leela would probably tease him a little, maybe make fun of how stiff his shirt collar was or how he kept checking the long-ass bill like it was going to change. But she’d smile through it and offer to go Dutch instead. That rare, toothy smile of hers that made her look so young, unguarded and just a little bit shy.

He imagined them walking back across campus after—quiet, inseparable, arm around his. Maybe it was autumn. Maybe the crimson maple leaves crunched under their feet, and she kept pushing her hands into the sleeves of her coat like she always did when she was cold but didn’t want to say so. Maybe he’d offer his jacket. Maybe she’d take it. Maybe he’d blow into her hands in an attempt to kiss them.

Maybe that night, standing outside her place, she’d look up at him with that same quiet challenge in her eyes she had now—like she was daring him to be gentle.

And he would’ve been. Gentle as fuck. Their first kiss wouldn’t have been some clumsy, rushed thing. No desperation. No fear of the dark coming back. Just... time. Time you don’t know you’re wasting until it’s gone.

He imagined her fingers curled into his coat on maybe their fourth date, maybe he'd just taken her out ice-skating or bowling, and she would push the coat off him, and pull him a little closer. Stay with me tonight. A breath caught between their lips. And maybe—God help him—maybe they’d have stumbled into the fancy elevator of her expensive off-campus apartment, shoes kicked off halfway, giggling when she nearly tripped over her own purse left by the door. He’d catch her waist, steady her, and she’d glance at him with those mischievous eyes that already knew what he wanted. I want all of you.

They’d lock the door behind them, not because they had to, but because they could—because no one was chasing them, nothing was breathing down their necks. Just a night in. Quiet. Private. Theirs.

The desk lamp would still be on, casting light over her math books still open, forgotten now, pages fluttering. Her room would be warm, a little cluttered, with too many books for one person. A corkboard with pinned movie stubs and Post-it reminders. A polaroid of them, maybe, from some campus event—Joel squinting at the lens, Leela mid-laugh as always, her nose scrunched in that way he loved.

They’d peel off layers slowly. Clothes in a trail from the doorway to the bed. His shirt, her dress, his belt, her tights, his boxers. Her bra hanging from the lamp. They’d laugh a little, giggling some, fumbling with the condom in his wallet like it was a joke they’d made earlier in the week—about how just in case that had suddenly become now.

No pressure. No pain. First times. A night they got to have too late. No urgency, no hunger born from grief or fear. Just intimacy. Just plain, affectionate, stumbling, careful sex. Earned. Trusted. Wanted.

He pictured them afterwards, her curled against him beneath tangled sheets, tracing lazy shapes on his chest while the radiator clanked in protest against the cold. Nodding while they discussed their upcoming test, how she’d incentivise him with a kiss for each question he scored, fingers moving through her hair, catching on a tiny braid she must’ve done while studying.

The window would fog up by morning. They’d sleep through their alarms. Maybe skip class like dumb rebels. Maybe make breakfast instead—pancakes from a box, the batter too thick, the frying pan too hot. He’d burn the first one and she’d steal it anyway, kissing him with syrup on her lips. Good fuckin' morning to me.

They’d graduate together, in this life. He’d be in the back row on ceremony day, shoes shined for once, hair swept back neatly, watching his best girl stride across the stage to grab her scroll. Top of her class, honour roll, summa cum laude. Maybe he didn’t get a diploma of his own—maybe he took night classes, taking the slow route out—but he’d be there, standing up before anyone else, clapping like hell, hooting her name with his hands cupped around his lips.

And she’d find him later, tassel on her crooked hat flying, gown wrinkled, eyes shining, leaping into his arms, and he’d spin her about. Kiss her right there in the crowd like he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

And in that life—the life he never got—maybe they’d go on like that for years. Their families are all tight-knit, spending holidays together, all of them waiting on hand and foot for Joel to pop the question, but he promised his girl all the time in the world. No muss, no fuss.

Graduation photos in front of some ivy-covered wall. Travel photos of the two of them from roadtrips and weekend escapes—mountains in Telluride, coasts in Monterey, lighthouses in Nantucket. Maybe later they’d rent a shitty apartment together in a big city even if he hated it—New York, or London, or some big German town with a zigzag skyline and a bakery on every corner—while she chased her PhD dreams and he’d just be happy to take care of them. Joel would take on carpentry jobs to keep the lights on and fix things around the building in exchange for rent. He'd play gigs, strum his old guitar, in pubs and bars all night for a good sum of cash. Patch the leaky sink with elbow grease. Assembling furniture that they couldn’t afford to buy. Shelves full of her notes. Coffee rings on the floor. Late-night supermarket runs. Eat dinner for breakfast and fall asleep with her textbooks open between them. The laughter of a life being made from scratch.

And maybe one day, not in a church, not even in a courthouse—but under that oak tree just outside her big, white house in Jackson, they’d say their vows. Soft ones. Barely louder than the wind. Just a handful of people who mattered, a patch of wildflowers in springtime, and the gold ring he’d carried in his pocket for years. Her hand in his, sliding the band into place. Her thumb brushing his knuckles while he tried not to cry. I offer you all I have, my dumbass and beating heart.

And she’d laugh when he picked her up, white dress, veil and all, just to prove he still could, and carry her over the threshold, whilst her sandals dangled from his fingers. They'd make love like it was the first time, on a nice, month-long honeymoon in the Maldives or Bali, on a linen, canopy-frame bed that wobbled by the time they were through.

And one day, he’d come home—sawdust still in his hair, tired to the bone, aching for his long shower—only to find a positive test on the bathroom sink, and they’d smile at each other like they’d just won the lottery. Those soft, teary eyes they’d share. You think we've got room for one more around here?

And from that moment on, Joel would've been all in. No half-measures. No second-guessing. Just him, right in her pocket. He wouldn’t leave her side unless he had to—work, maybe, or some emergency—and even then, she’d be on speed dial (not that she already wasn’t). He’d check in constantly. Make sure she was drinking water, eating enough. Sitting her antsy ass down.

Late at night, he’d press his ear to her belly, grinning when their baby kicked like she already had her mama’s fire. He’d murmur promises against her skin—about giving her the world, about love, about never missing a thing again. And he’d mean every damn word.

He wouldn’t miss a single ultrasound, even if the clinic was across town and the truck was coughing smoke. He’d be there for all of it—Lamaze classes, nausea, mood swings, sleepless nights, midnight drives for god-knows-what. He’d baby-proof every damn inch of the house, stock the cabinets with baby items, triple-check the crib screws, read every parenting book he could find, even the ones with goofy cartoon covers.

Overbearing? For fucking sure. She might threaten to divorce him half a dozen times before the third trimester—but he’d take it, all of it. With a grin and a kiss and a Yes, ma’am.

And when it was time—when the world narrowed to a hospital room and the sound of her hurting wails—he’d be right there, surgical gown and all, holding her hand through every contraction, brushing damp hair from her face, whispering through the panic, through his heart tearing in two: I’m right here, baby. I ain’t going anywhere.

And Maya would come hollering into their lives. Of course, that’s what they’d name her in this life, too. Radiant, beautiful, nascent Maya, looking just like her mama and holding his heart in her tiny fist. All that imagining he’d ever done—every if, every maybe—had somehow led to this little girl he called his.

He pictured Maya clearly in that other life—the one that never got to be. Toddling around their grad-school apartment, leaping onto his stomach in PJs on a lazy Sunday morning, giggling through a mouthful of sugary cereal while Leela chased after their little thief, trying to snatch the box from her sticky hands. One sock is on, and the other is always missing. Her wild curls bouncing as she ran to him when he walked through the door—always early, maybe this time in a stable job which involved him wearing a suit and tie, lugging a briefcase—arms outstretched, shrieking Da-da! like he was some kind of superhero, and without fail, he'd rain at least a hundred kisses on her before letting her go.

She’d throw a fit in the toy aisle over exactly the faulty stuffed animal, with lopsided eyes and a ripped tag, and Joel would fold like wet paper the second she pouted.

And if the bad times did come, the only arguments he and Leela might’ve had were the soft kind, inconsequential—disagreements over something like Joel’s brief, doomed venture into stocks, or Leela being scatterbrained with the grocery runs, or whether Maya should go to that elite preschool an hour away with the long waitlist and sterling reputation. Joel would’ve wanted the best for her, the kind of start he never had. But Leela would just want to keep Maya close a little longer, probably even attempt to homeschool her if she could swing it.

They’d make up over pizza on the couch—Maya asleep between them, still clutching that faulty toy, cartoons flickering on the TV. Their fingers would find each other over the back of her blanket, apology and forgiveness exchanged without a single word spoken.

And thereafter, the mornings were ones where he'd juggle coffee cups, lunch bags and backpacks, dropping Leela off at her university, her hair still wet from a rushed shower, pencil skirt on a tight ass that waited for it's morning squeeze, a thick binder clutched to her chest, a soft lingering kisses shared over the console; and then Maya in the backseat, singing along to the radio, squealing when he pulled up to her school next. She’d barely get her backpack on before she tore across the pavement to her friends, flashing Joel a quick flying kiss and a grin that damn near knocked the wind out of him every time.

And at night—the three of them crammed around a too-small kitchen table, Leela would sit, drafting her research papers or scribbling in a notebook, Maya in her lap, doodling in the margins, asking about black holes and dinosaurs in the same breath. Leela would answer every question like it was the most important one she’d ever been asked. Joel would just listen, smiling into his beer, tuck the moment away somewhere safe inside him, like a man who knew exactly how fragile good things could be.

And Maya would believe everything her mama told her. Because why wouldn’t she?

Joel blinked, staring at the cracked chalkboard. The room was silent, save for Ellie’s soft humming and the hum of distant power from the lab down the hall.

But that life—that life—wasn’t the one they got.

But maybe... maybe it wasn’t too late for some piece of it. Not the degrees or the papers.

But the love part. The quiet part.

Maybe that kind of life still had a place in this one. Maybe that was still real. Maybe it was standing just down the hall, surrounded by equations, stubborn as ever.

He smiled to himself, soft and stupid, like a man who’d just lived a whole other life in three minutes.

A loud metallic clatter broke the spell.

Joel turned—slow, blinking like he'd just woken from a dream—and found Ellie grinning at him, holding up a dusty diploma frame like she’d just pulled a sword from a stone. The glass was cracked in one corner, the name beneath faded and half-eaten by sun and decay. But scrawled across the middle in thick, unapologetic black marker was something brand new:

Dr. Leela Miller.

“Well,” Ellie said, lifting it higher like a trophy, “I didn’t know her last name, so…”

Joel stared. His breath caught on something warm.

“Reed,” he said, slow and quiet, like the name had weight. Affection weaved through it like a thread. “But this… this is fine.”

He could almost see it—this on the wall of that little apartment they never had. Over a desk cluttered with paper and empty mugs and one tiny sock, someone still hadn’t found the match for.

Ellie held it out to him like a kid offering a crayon drawing. “It’s probably not, y’know, technically accredited,” she said with a crooked smile. “D'you think she'll feel a little better?”

He snorted, folding his arms. “That's a ten-dollar word from a dollar-sized person.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

He gave her a look, soft and knowing. “Well, Leela won’t say it right now, but yeah. She will.”

Then he glanced across the hall.

There she was—his smartass, hunched on a table littered with papers and old, curling printouts. Leela had one hand braced against the edge, the other pressed over her mouth like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her fingers moved through a page, tracing lines of ink like a woman touching scripture. Like she was holding a piece of a language she'd thought was long dead.

Joel brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, low whistle.

Across the hall, Leela jolted a little—more like a reflex than real surprise—blinking over at him with a stunned, empty look. It cracked after a second, softening into something small and sheepish, but Joel didn’t miss the way she moved, like she was dragging herself up from somewhere far away.

He tipped his head toward her, half a smirk pulling at his mouth, trying to keep it easy, light.

“Weather’s turnin’,” he called, voice carrying across the dusty floorboards. “We oughta get movin’ along before it gets any worse.”

“Um...”

Leela hesitated, staring back at the whirring, flickering monitor like it was something alive she’d been charged with keeping breathing. Her hand lifted slowly, clumsily, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist.

She gave a stiff little nod—obedient, automatic, like she wasn’t even aware of doing it.

Joel opened his mouth—half-ready to tell her it was fine if she needed more time—but Ellie piped up behind him.

“Ooh, we gotta head down to the coast first. Ay, you promised the beach, old man!”

Joel felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He turned slightly, cutting a look back at Leela for silent backup.

And Leela just shrugged. Just the barest hitch of her shoulders, like even the decision didn’t mean much anymore. Her mouth twitched at the corners, a hint of old amusement surfacing and dying again all at once.

“I've almost finished the upload,” she said, tapping the corner of the monitor, where some ancient progress bar crawled along painfully slow. “Just... eleven more minutes.”

Eleven minutes.

It used to drive Joel a little crazy, if he was honest. He’d thought it was grief or obsession. Maybe denial. He’d even thought as much, once—there wasn’t anyone left who cared about prime numbers and proof sheets. Leela's long nights hunched over scavenged paper, her fingers smudged with graphite and ash, scribbling until her wrist cramped. A fucking waste indeed.

No one needed the big hypothesis solved when there were clickers on the road and medicine running thin.

And now he saw it.

She wasn’t trying to bring the old world back. She was trying to make sure some vestige of it survived.

Not the comforts. Not its power grids or grocery stores, or monuments. But it's thinking. It's questions. The bones of the mind that had once built bridges and satellites and figured out how to split atoms. She was keeping that, preserving hope for the world that would eventually look back.

And she was sending it forward like a time capsule in the shape of code—across a patchy uplink, through battered infrastructure, to a settlement that might not even know what to do with it.

One day, someone would.

Someone with a mind like hers. Someone with less blood on their hands and more time. A student, a child, a generation down the line who’d never seen the world fall and might still wonder how it once stood.

She was sending it all to Jackson—not as salvation, maybe, but as seed.

Something to plant. Something to grow if they ever got a spring again.

And if that someone asked, if they searched—she’d be there. In the pages, in the math. In the margins, scrawled with her restless handwriting. A woman who had no lab, no colleagues, no safety, but still sat down and thought.

Joel rubbed his thumb over a dent in the metal of the desk. It was humbling, what she was doing. Quiet and unadorned, the way most real things were.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel far from her work. He didn’t feel like it belonged to a world he couldn’t touch. He was somehow a part of it, too.

He exhaled through his nose, scratching the back of his neck. Eleven minutes. Seemed like a small enough thing after everything they'd been through.

He shifted his weight, the old floor creaking under his boots, and his gaze caught on the diploma again—still cradled in Ellie’s hands, the cracked glass catching the faint grey light.

Dr. Leela Miller.

Miller.

His name. His... wife.

He hadn't expected it to hit him like that. The word sitting there plain and heavy, stitched onto her like it had always belonged. The beginning of his other life.

His name stitched there so plainly, so firmly, like it had always been meant to sit against her like that. A jolt went through him—sharp and unexpected—settling low in his gut like a stone thrown into deep water.

He could almost see it, just for a second—clearer than any dream he ever allowed himself to linger on: Leela standing beside him at some clean, sun-warmed courthouse, signing her new name across the marriage license with a little grimace, muttering about how bureaucratic nonsense would outlive them all. Joel, laughing under his breath, taking the pen after her, signing his name next to hers. The flash of a cheap camera. The clap of a judge’s hand on his back. Her grinning face turned up to his, awaiting a congratulatory kiss. And he would make it linger, pressing two, three, four kisses before he murmured against her lips: You alright there, Mrs Miller?

Yes, Joel didn’t feel the press of the world closing in.

He just stood there, hands planted firm on his hips, heart too big for his ribs, and thought, Maybe it ain’t the life I thought I'd have.

When he was young—back before the world cracked open—he thought he understood what a good life was supposed to look like. Steady work. A home. A little backyard for Sarah to tear around in. A dog, one of those loud mutts that drove the neighbours crazy. Bills paid on time. Supper on the table by six. Simple. Straightforward. A line you followed if you kept your head down and your hands busy.

He’d built toward that life once. Brick by brick. Sweat and sacrifice and stubbornness. And he’d watched it all turn to ash in a single night, leaving nothing but the brutal math of survival behind.

Wake up. Choke down rations. Shoot. Kill without a thought. Stay alive. Sleep with one eye open. Repeat.

Hope had been a dangerous thing after that, an unaffordable luxury. Like college.

But standing here now, and Leela hunkered over that blinking screen like she was fighting the universe itself to save what little good was left in it—Joel realised he’d been wrong about what makes a life and what was worth holding onto.

It wasn’t about clean houses or paid-off trucks or picture-perfect little towns.

It was about this.

It was about watching the woman he loved refuse to give up on the world, even when the world had given up on her. It was about Ellie clutching a battered diploma like it was the goddamn Declaration of Independence, blinking out the window like a daydreaming college kid who still believed she’d make it here. It was about Maya somewhere back home, waiting, safe, growing up in a place that hadn’t been paved over by fear.

It was about them.

So, why not... breathe life into that other reality?

Joel shifted slightly, his hand drifting to his pocket—more out of habit than thought. His fingers closed around the small thing he’d stashed there weeks ago, careful not to draw attention to it.

Rolled it between his fingers sometimes, in replacement for the brass button that Maya had bestowed on him—in quiet moments, when no one was looking. Like maybe if he kept turning it long enough, the edges would smooth out, the crack in the band would seal, and time would forget whatever broke it.

It wasn’t much to look at. Just a beat-up old ring he’d pocketed back in Vegas, half-buried in dust beneath a shattered display case. The stone was gone. The band was thin and cracked, barely holding together. Still, he’d kept it. Couldn’t say why at first. Just felt right in his hand—small, broken, stubborn. Reminded him of someone.

Lately, he’d been thinking about what he might do with it. How he could fix it, in his own way. Maybe shave a sliver of intricate wood into the place where the diamond used to be. Not anything fancy, maybe a flower. She liked sunflowers. Just something honest. Pine, maybe—she always smelled like pine sometimes. Or walnut, strong and durable, like him. Something alive, something that wouldn’t shine too bright, but would still catch the amalgam of Leela.

He didn’t know if he’d ever give it to her. Or when. Or if she’d even want it.

Hell, he didn’t even know what he’d say.

But he carried it with hope anyway.

That was the strange part. It wasn’t really the ring that mattered—it was the idea. That someday, there might be room for something like that between them. Not as some big gesture. Not to fix anything. Just to say: this is still yours if you want it. Just to prove he still believed in what could come next.

Maybe sometimes love looked like a broken ring in a calloused hand, waiting for a world soft enough to give it back.

The sharp things—the grief, the anger, the failure—they were still there, rooted deep under his skin like old thorns. They always would be. But for once, Joel could see something else threading through it. A quieter kind of ache. Not the pain of losing, but the ache of wanting.

He wanted the kind of life that didn’t just survive the world’s ending—but stubbornly, stupidly, beautifully outlived it.

He wanted her, and Ellie, and Maya, and every goddamn scraped-together piece of a future he never thought he'd deserve.

And in this dead place, in the flicker of failing light and old dreams burned onto curling paper, Joel believed—just a little—that maybe this had all been for something. After all, maybe they hadn't come all this way just to bury what was lost. Perhaps they were here to carry it forward.

Maybe they were the ones meant to build what came next.

His throat felt tight, but he welcomed it. A man could learn to carry that feeling. He should carry it. Get used to it. All these good things he was doing.

He slipped the ring back into his pocket, careful, like it might bruise. Gave the pocket a small, reassuring pat.

He glanced at Leela, at the way she leaned into the light like a plant aching for the sun, and felt that wild, wordless thing rise again inside him.

Ours, he thought. Not just hers. Not just his.

Ours.

The ocean resembled a busted mirror.

Not glittering or big or blue. Just slabs of grey and darker grey, churning slow under the breadth of a sky that didn’t give a damn. The wind came off the water in lazy fits, carrying salt and rot and the memory of heat that had long since packed up and gone.

Wind tugged at what was left of the boardwalk nearby, a few slats still clinging on like they didn’t know how to fall properly. Rusted carnival lights hung in strips. Booths were gutted. A souvenir shack had collapsed into itself, hurling faded postcards and cracked plastic mugs across the ground. He saw a cracked one half-buried in the dune: I Survived Santa Monica Pier. Bit fucking ironic.

The sea had taken it all back. The joy. The noise. The crowds. It felt biblical, in a way. Like the tide was the big guy's long exhale.

Joel stood at the edge of it all—boots half-buried in wet sand, stepping over a tangled snarl of sea-bleached fishing net fibres, arms crossed against the cold that kept slipping under his jacket. The pier beyond was a half-collapsed skeleton, stripped bare, its spine curling out into the surf with broken ribs of wood jutting upward. Boats still rocked gently in the distance—untouched, paint peeling, sails long since devoured by saline winds, hulls soft with barnacles and time. No lights. No squalling. Not even of birds.

Funny. He used to think that if they ever made it to the coast, something would change. That maybe it’d feel like the end of the road—or the start of something. No, this was just another place the world forgot.

Ellie was already out near the waterline, her boots discarded in a heap beside a tide pool. She’d rolled up her jeans and waded ankle-deep into the cold muck, laughing as she scratched her name into the sand with a busted piece of driftwood. She looked so small like that. Innocent. Her shoulders loose, grin so secretive. He didn't get to see that often.

He watched her kneel, tongue poking slightly out in concentration, and for a moment—just a flicker—it wasn’t Ellie crouched in the sand.

It was Sarah.

Not imagined, not hoped. Saw. Not older, not younger—just as she was the day he lost her.

Kneeling beside her, seaweed looped over her wrist like bracelets, giggling about how it was going to get washed away but doing it anyway. He could see her—clearer than anything. Her head of sunlit curls, tossed by the wind. Making a heart out of the seaweed. Lining the letters with broken shells. Elbowing Ellie with that half-teasing grin she used to have, the one that always said, Do not mess this up for me, Dad.

He clenched his jaw. Swallowed hard. Blinked until the double image snapped apart again, rattled the thought loose from his head, and it was just Ellie again, whistling tunelessly, digging up dead coral to decorate her crude scrawl in the sand.

Goddamn, was this what it was going to be now?

Visions. Ghosts. Fantasies of another life. Wishing, wanting. His mind folding over itself. Losing the thread.

Or was it just the many extremities of grief? The accumulation of too many years? Or was this the beginning of something slower and crueller? Alzheimer’s or some shit. Some fucking cordyceps variation they didn’t have a name for yet. Maybe he’d start forgetting the way back to Jackson. Maybe he already had.

He rubbed a hand across his face, dragging grit from his cheek. The salt clung to his stubble, and the ocean made his eyes sting even when the wind didn’t hit them.

A little ways off, Leela sat cross-legged on the sand, her back to the surf, little haphazard strands from her long braid slapping at her cheeks. A neat little pile of small seashells sat beside her, most of them dull with age and wear—but one, a tiny conch, recently vacated by some poor creature that hadn’t made it. It was still freshly pink inside, gleaming, faintly iridescent.

She had a needle gripped between her fingers, her brow furrowed as she carefully worked it through the shell’s spire. Every movement was methodical, like she wasn’t thinking about what she was doing, like it was all buried muscle memory. When she threaded the bit of twine through and tied a knot, she held the shell up between two fingers, inspecting, squinting at it like it was some precious thing instead of beach trash.

“For Maya,” she said quietly, flashing him a smile—small, lopsided, but real.

Joel let out a soft grunt of recognition. Awful lot of jewellery to be taking back to Jackson.

“Cute.”

He remembered that story—the one he hadn’t meant to overhear, but things stuck. Something about her old life, before Jackson, before her parents, before a child of her own. How she used to make little shell necklaces just like that one and sell them to dumb tourists along the coast back in her hometown. Overpriced junk, she’d said. That weird, lonely kind of pride people have when they remember who they used to be.

Maybe this was her way of passing it on. A sliver of childhood she could carve off and give to Maya. A small thing that said I was here. I was whole once.

He took a step closer, boots sinking into the sand, hands in his jacket pockets. “Still remember how to rip folks off, huh?”

She glanced up at him, just barely. “Who says this one’s not priceless?”

Joel smirked. “Better be. Our baby girl’s got high standards.”

That got a laugh. A real one—small, scratchy, but it cracked the stillness in a way nothing else had all day. Leela shook her head, still smiling, eyes on the necklace, watching the shell sway from its string.

A beat passed. Wind was threading through the bare bones of the city. Maybe this place had once been paradise. Joel didn’t know. All he saw now was wreckage. Absence. A ghost town choking on salt.

Behind them, far away, Ellie whooped, triumphant. “I told you, little bastard! Joel, look, that’s a motherfucking crab!”

Joel glanced over. She was crouched in the wet sand, a long stick in one hand, something small and wriggling and furious in the other. Her sleeves were shoved to her elbows, knees soaked through, hair wild in the wind. She grinned like she was twelve again. Like the world hadn’t burned down.

Another shriek from Ellie. “Holy shit—there’s more of them! A whole Jackson community!”

“Well, don’t just play with ’em. Grab a few. Might be good eatin’.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose, poking one with the tip of her stick. “Eat this? Dude, it’s got, like—claws. And it’s hard as shit.”

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Joel called back, deadpan. “Hard shell means there’s somethin’ sweet inside.”

Ellie gave him a look. “Oh, hear, hear—Wordsworth over here.”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Just get a few, kiddo. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if it kills me, I’m haunting your lying ass.”

Then she dropped the crab anyway, watched it scuttle sideways into the surf with all the drama of a jail break, and burst out laughing—real, unguarded. Her laugh rippled across the beach like it didn’t know how rare it was. Like it didn’t think it was a goddamn miracle.

Joel turned back to Leela. His voice dropped, not meaning to get soft but unable to help it.

“So, is this what you pictured?”

He didn’t say the beach. He didn’t mean California. Didn’t mean the long road behind them—full of blood and breath and quiet, feral hope. Didn’t even mean the life they’d clawed together with broken fingernails and dogged luck.

Leela didn’t answer right away. She just looked out toward the horizon, the sharp line where grey sea met grey skies. Where the world used to open up into possibility, into summer vacations and shipping routes and postcards with skipping dolphins. Now it looked more like an ending. A sentence with no period.

Then she shook her head, just once. “Not even close.”

But she was still holding the shell in her hand. Still tying another knot in the twine. Still smiling, just barely. And somehow, that answer—quiet, and unfinished—was more honest than anything else she could’ve said.

Joel sat down beside her, his knees cracking like firewood. The cold bled through the seat of his jeans, but he didn’t flinch. Just sat. Facing the water.

Leela didn’t.

She was turned slightly away, angled toward the sand, toward the ground, like she’d taken some quiet oath never to look at the sea again. As if it had taken something and she wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of her eyes.

Joel laid his hand over hers, careful.

She stilled.

His palm was unpolished against hers, but he could still feel the tiny shape of the shell necklace beneath it. Warm from her skin. Light as a breath.

“Joel.”

Before she could ask him to get the fuck off her, he said, “Look, I just—”

“What do you think Maya’s going to be when she grows up?”

Leela’s voice was soft, half-swallowed by the sea wind. Not wistful, not dreamy. Just plain and curious, like she was asking about the tide.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His eyes slid back on the water—on the slow, thick roll of it, the lazy collapse of each wave as it dragged itself onto the sand. This landed hard—not because it was tragic, but because it was so normal.

And yet that question hung there. He rubbed his jaw in deep thought. That wasn’t a question people dared to ask anymore, not seriously.

Honey, what do you want to be when you grow up?

He'd asked Sarah that plenty of times. And her answer had been no-bullshit: a rockstar. He used to joke to her about it, how maybe she'd take her old man backstage one day and sign T-shirts with her primped face on it.

The world was too fucked-up now, no rulebook to follow. See, back in the old world, kids had answers ready. Doctor. Firefighter. Astronaut. Singer. Shit like that. You dreamed, you planned. You had options. Only now, the world didn’t want anything from its kids but survival. To grow up at all was a feat. To grow up and become something? That felt like a pipe dream.

Joel breathed out through his nose. He shifted in the sand, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “Ain’t somethin’ I let myself think about too much. We used to imagine the future. Now we’re just glad to get through the day.”

Leela said nothing. Just waited, steady, patient, the way she always did when she knew he wasn’t finished.

A bitter little smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Baby girl’d probably be a scavenger. Some real slick trader. Hustler like her mama used to be.”

Leela huffed softly.

“Maybe a sharpshooter,” Joel added. “Takes after Ellie. Bossy as hell.”

That made her laugh again—just a little. Joel felt it in his chest like the thinnest crack of sun through stormcloud.

He kept talking, quieter now. “Could be she ends up one of those quiet ones. People listen when she speaks. Not ‘cause she’s loud—but ‘cause she means her shit. Maybe that makes her a leader. Or a target.”

He hated that last part. But it was true.

The truth was—he didn’t really care what Maya became. He just wanted her to have the space to choose between gentleness and survival. To live long, safe, and full enough to even ask that question. And he hated the world for making him think all this shit.

“And maybe she’s just alive long enough for it to matter,” he finished. “It’s enough for me.”

Leela’s fingers paused at the shell’s knot.

Joel looked over at her, and she still wasn’t looking at the sea. Her face was turned away a little, but her eyes were distant—thinking hard, probably thinking too much.

“Does it scare you?” he asked.

She blinked slowly. “What does?”

“The future,” he stated. “What she might become.”

Leela was quiet for a long time. She pulled the twine taut, tied another knot. Maybe the third one in the same place.

Then she nodded, but it wasn’t sharp. As if something she’d carried for years, only just now saying out loud.

“I just can’t have Maya become like me, Joel,” she said.

Joel didn’t say anything because he knew what she meant. And she was fucking right.

Not just Leela's impossible intellect that she carried like a blade. Not Joel's desiccating anger. Not the endless spinning logic or the obsessive calculations that had driven her across the country in a haze of grief and purpose. Not the math or the memory or the way she could see ten steps ahead while the rest of them were still tripping over the first one.

No—she meant the burden. The self-blame. The detachment. The constant need to understand everything instead of just feeling it. The survival that looked like a function but was really just a retreat.

The way Joel disconnected. The guilt that never left. The way he didn’t flinch at corpses anymore because somewhere along the way, his empathy had learned to ration itself. The way he lived in his head because that was the only place he could guarantee no one would hurt him.

And because of all the ways they taught themselves to cope—none of them were life. They were pauses. Contractions. Damage control.

She sighed. “I thought I wanted that. I did. But after everything back there…”

She nodded toward the road that led back to the university. Toward where she'd left her hopes and regrets. A whole piece of her past.

“I realised that…” She tapped her temple, fingers light, like she was knocking on the side of something hollow. “She doesn’t need this.”

He didn’t press or fill the space like he normally would with some muttered acknowledgement, because this wasn’t a moment for patch jobs.

“This saved me,” she murmured. “The logic. The focus. It’s how I kept going after—after what happened. If I could just understand enough… if I could predict things, calculate the worst-case scenario, I could keep her safe.”

Her voice tightened. Just a bit. Joel heard it.

“She deserves more than that.”

Joel’s throat was dry. He swallowed hard, barely managing. “And now?”

Leela let out a long breath. Not weary. Just… stripped bare.

“Now I just want her to scream,” Leela said. “To run fast. To fall hard. To be loud, and wrong, and stupid—and free. I want her to feel so much that she doesn’t know where to put it. I want her to hit back, punch hard, when someone corners her. Not stand there frozen, plotting some clever escape like that’s gonna save her.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward her.

She wasn’t looking at him. Still had her gaze fixed on the necklace in her lap, the shell swinging gently as she tied and re-tied the same knot like it was muscle memory. Like if she stopped moving, she’d splinter.

And goddamn.

That’s when it landed. What she was really saying.

He’d seen people go quiet in the worst moments of their lives—seen them freeze, let it happen, disappear behind their own eyes. Not because they were weak, but because someone, somewhere, had taught them that silence was safer than screaming. That survival meant outthinking, not resisting. That pain was something to calculate your way around.

Leela had been that sort of survivor.

“I couldn’t even save myself,” she said, bitter, flat, after a beat.

The fuck kind of thing was that to say? Making it seem like it just made sense?

Joel’s fingers tightened gently around hers, unable to unclench his jaw. “That ain’t your fault,” he reassured to an extent, teeth gritting. “You sayin’ that like it was your choice.”

She said nothing. But the silence was answer enough. And Joel couldn’t sit with that.

“I don’t give a damn what you think you didn’t do,” he muttered, heat rising in his throat like bile. “Someone took... somethin’. They did that. You think being smart, or planning a way out—fuckin’ hell—none of that would’ve mattered.”

She shook her head once. Not in argument—just acknowledgement. “No. But it still happened. And I did nothing.”

Then, finally, she looked at him.

There was no shame in her eyes. Just a brutal clarity. The kind that only came from staring something dead in the face for years and deciding to live anyway.

“I know what I am, Joel. I know what it took to survive. I know what it turned me into. And I don’t want that for her.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. There was nothing to fix. Nothing to deny. He understood her too well for that. She wasn’t afraid Maya wouldn’t make it.

She was afraid Maya would—by becoming someone like her.

“Baby, she’s gonna carry us,” he said, a promise in his voice. “But she ain’t gonna be us.”

Then he reached out, covered her hand with his—rough skin on hers, grounding her.

“She’s got us, Leela,” he added, more quietly.

And he meant every word. He knew what it was to survive through retreat. To mistake numbness for control. To wear grief like armour and call it strength.

Leela didn’t flinch. But she didn’t smile either. Her face softened—like she wanted to believe him, that she was someone worth having.

“I hope so,” she said.

They sat there a while longer, the tide crawling up toward their boots whilst Ellie shouted at them about a jellyfish. Joel felt the sting in his joints when the winds picked up, faster, saltier, sharper.

He looked down at the shell again, their hands twined around it. Small. Pink. Still shining faintly inside. Something you’d pick up on a beach day with a little girl who didn’t know the world yet.

They couldn’t offer Maya that clean world they had lived in. But they could hand her a few pieces worth carrying. And she’d figure out what to build.

For one brief moment, he let himself believe his baby girl would have the chance to answer that question one day—for real.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Maya?

The fire had sunk lower to the forest floor, just embers now, red, pulsing like a heartbeat under ash. Shadows lean long against the trees. Night smells like salt and old leaves, smoke in cloth, and distant sea. Boots scuffed quietly on dirt. The silence that only came late, when everyone else was asleep, or pretending to be.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“No.”

“You okay?”

“Just thinking.”

“Night too loud? I've got headphones.”

A pause. Then: “Thanks... I'm missing home.”

“Oh. Me, too..”

“Hm. It's the longest I've been away from it.”

Another pause. “Yeah?”

“I keep wondering if I’d feel different if I got back. Things just magically change.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Fabric creaks. One of them tugs their sleeves down.

“Still mad at him?”

Pause.

“…He just left. You saw how bad it got.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And he didn’t tell me a word about the Fireflies. Or Caltech.”

“He thought he was protecting you. You know how he is.”

“That’s the problem.”

Another pause. “He said nothing. Just packed up and left. Like I’d only get in the way.”

“I know.”

“You think I meant it?”

“You sounded like you did.”

“I think I did, too. Then. I was just... so angry.”

“But now?”

A defeated sigh. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“Maya watches the world like he does, too. I noticed.”

“She does that because she learns from him. You can’t raise a kid halfway in, halfway out. You can’t teach them to trust and then disappear when it counts.”

“Yeah, but—” Someone exhales sharply. Tosses a pebble into the fire pit. It hisses. “He came back, didn’t he?”

“Only because we followed him.”

“He came back because he’s never gonna stop coming back. That’s the whole point of him.”

Silence. A reckoning in the dark.

“You know what he told me once?”

“What?”

“He said—he didn’t think people like us got second chances. That we ruin too much. And still, every time he looks at Maya, it’s like he believes she’s the one thing he didn’t fuck up.”

Silence.

“He loves her more than he knows how to say. But he shows it. In everything. That’s the closest someone like him gets to a promise.”

“…he still left.”

“I didn't say he's good at it. He's a goddamn dick. And he was wrong.”

The voice is calm, blunt. Not trying to win. Just telling it as it was.

“But so were you. Saying you’d take her. Like she’s a thing you can lift out of him.”

Quiet again. Then: “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“I just—she’s all I have. Everything good in me went to her. I had to follow him, and I have to keep her safe. Where do I win?”

“Jesus, she is safe.”

“No, I mean... he’ll break her heart someday, I know it.”

“Fuck no. Never Joel.”

“Hmph. You sound sure.”

“He didn’t break me. And the world gave him every reason to.”

Silence again. A longer moment, this time.

“Maya asks about you when you’re not there, right? She misses you. She asks for you. But when Joel’s gone? She watches the door. She won't leave it. That’s the difference.”

A breath.

“You take her away, and you’ll still have her. But she’ll never stop watching that door.”

Then the fire popped. A shift of posture. The brush of hair against cloth.

“He didn’t get to do all that before, you know. The whole marriage and two-parent household thing. Not with…”

Another breath.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’re still thinking about kicking his ass out.”

A creaking silence.

“I’m not good at staying.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why do you?”

A small sound. Could be a laugh or a sigh. “Because he’s good at making me think I can. I’ve seen what that man does when he loves someone.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“No.”

A beat. “It really should.”

“I guess that’s the difference. I'm not scared of him. Not like you are.”

“I'm not scared of Joel.”

“Bite me.”

“It’s more about what he’d give up. For us. For her. What it would turn him into.”

“A dead man.”

No response. But from the dark—

“You think you’re protecting him?”

“I think I’m trying to keep us all breathing.”

“Well. That’s one stupid way to live.”

A rustle. Someone folding their arms. “Do you hate me?”

“What?”

“For saying all this. For thinking it.”

“Of course not. If anything, it makes you more real to me.”

“…But?”

“But if you take her from him—really take her—it’ll kill him.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him.”

The silence after that settles deeper. One of them pokes at the embers with a stick, ash dancing up like fireflies.

Then, softer: “I know. That’s why it would.”

As if into the mouth of some ancient beast, the Jackson gates shut behind them with a final clank, steel locking steel, rusting, slow, a reluctant welcome, and for a second, it sounded like a cell door closing.

Joel walked under the shadow of it and didn’t say a word.

The sun hung low on the horizon, flooding the snow-melted streets of Jackson with a weary saffron. Familiar smells maundered through the air—woodsmoke, cattle, hay, pine needles thawing on the wind. There was boisterous laughter somewhere. Hammers. And it all felt just close enough to touch, but not quite real. Like something playing behind a looking glass.

He was back.

Somehow, again, he was still standing. Luck—or stubbornness, someone up there still not ready to let him rest—was still with him. He’d gone to California half-dead and half-stupid, and still made it out. And more than that—they had come for him. Ellie. Leela. They’d followed. Chosen to come after him.

Because he was worth saving. Because someone out there still cared if he lived or died.

That part stuck like a splinter in his chest.

He barely had time to register the weight of it before Tommy was on him, hauling him into a rib-crushing hug, laughing through a wet voice.

“Goddamn, you tough bastard. You just don’t die, huh?”

“Too much to live for, baby brother.”

Joel didn’t hug back. Not at first. Then he did—hands slow, uncooperative, gripping Tommy’s shoulders like he had to feel the bones to believe this was real.

Joel pulled back from Tommy’s grip like he’d just come up for air.

The noise of Jackson started to creep back in—the call of someone on a ladder, boots on pavement, a dog yapping in the distance. All the moving pieces of life.

He turned to his brother, voice low. “Maya?”

Tommy smiled, but it was tight around the edges.

“She’s doin’ just fine,” he said. “Caught the sniffles crying her eyes out, but she’s fine.”

Joel stiffened. “She sick?”

“I said she’s fine, Joel,” Tommy said, firmer this time. “She… she just missed her daddy, is all.”

Joel looked away.

Of course she did. And he hadn’t been there. Not for her fever. Not for the nights she cried herself hoarse. Not for the mornings when she didn’t understand why he hadn’t come back. He’d walked out with nothing but a note and the ghost of an apology, like that would hold up in a house full of silence.

They passed through the main square, Joel’s boots heavy on the stone. It all looked the same; that was what struck him most. The tedium. The cruel, gutting way the world carried on like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t nearly drowned. Like Ellie hadn’t pulled him back from the brink. Like Leela hadn’t followed him into hell and back.

Like Maya hadn’t cried herself sick.

Then, they turned the corner. And there it was.

The big, white house.

For a moment, Joel took it in. How much he missed this place.

Its porch was half-shadowed, steps dusted with snow. The gate creaked in the wind. He used to hear it from the bedroom. Used to fix it every two weeks, he could never find the right hinges. Used to—

He swallowed.

It used to be a shape in the distance. Something he’d catch through the branches of the old oak tree on mornings, sitting like a clean dream against the sky. Back then, it was just a house. Then it was her house. Then his. A home that was anchored in history and laughter, and Leela’s quiet hum as she flipped a page in her notebook. Full of Maya’s shrieks, toy horses skittering across the floor, her squeaky boots thumping against the wood.

Now, it just looked... tall. Unreachable. Like he’d have to climb back up the whole goddamn mountain to get inside again.

He had left something whole and returned to find it grown in his absence, evolved without him—carved deeper, tighter, stronger. Or maybe that was just him. His fear of losing.

Tommy called out, “Maria’s up ahead—she brought baby girl down the block to get some fresh air. Cranky all goddamn morning. She won't listen to anyone unless it's me.”

“Why's that?”

He sighed. “Guess I remind her of her old man.”

Jesus Christ, this was going to hurt like a bitch.

Joel’s head lifted.

And then he saw her.

A small figure on the porch.

Standing just like she used to, on the top step—like she always did when she waited for him after patrol. One mittened hand resting on the railing, the other clutching that old stuffed horse, ears chewed and fur matted from love.

She was watching the path. Waiting. Lips trembling like her whole world had been breaking every hour they were gone.

His feet wouldn’t move.

Her curls were a little softer now, matted, darker. Her coat was buttoned crooked, boots mismatched, nose splotchy from a recovering fever and maybe something else—like she knew something was coming. Some part of her did.

He took a half-step forward and stopped himself.

Then—

“Mama!”

The word left her like a crack splitting open. Her eyes widened. Her whole body leaned forward as if pulled. Arms out. Little hands grabbing at the air.

“Mama, mama—ha—come—Mama—”

It was the kind of sound only babies could make. Too raw to fake, too loud for their size.

And she teetered on the step, wailing.

Not to him. Not even a glance.

Just attempting to barrel forward to her mother, stubby legs churning, the toy horse flopping from her hand.

Joel felt it like a bullet.

Every effort she took—away from him, toward Leela—landed heavy in his gut. It was instinct. Pure. Unforgiving. She had learned that when someone disappears, you hold tighter to the one who doesn’t. The one who stayed.

Joel barely noticed Leela rush past him, knees bending, a ghost trying to reassemble a body—and didn’t even register the blur of movement until she was halfway to the porch, arms already outstretched. Her eyes were wet but unshed, her mouth twitching like she was keeping herself stitched shut by force.

Maya crashed into her, as if her mother made her real.

“Mama, Mama…”

No trembling. No collapse.

And the sound she made then—Joel had never heard it before. Not from her. Not from any baby. It was half-relief, half-fury, all heartbreak. Like something in her had cracked wide open from the waiting.

He staggered, stopped walking altogether.

Leela lifted her, spreading kisses on her cheeks, nose and hair, rocking her like she was trying to put every second of the last few days back inside her arms. Maya’s sobs were hiccuping now, her face buried in Leela’s neck, her whole body trembling.

She pulled Maya in like she meant to disappear with her. Pressed her face into her curls, kissed the top of her head and closed her eyes like that was where all the warmth lived now, shushed her with slow, circular bounces, murmuring nonsense in that gentle, rhythmic tone only mothers had.

“It’s okay, Maya. Shh, Mama’s here now. Mama’s here.”

While Joel stood frozen on the road.

He didn’t know when his hand had clenched into a fist or when his breath had left him.

He didn’t feel anger. Not at Leela. Not even to himself. It was something deeper. Older. Like watching a life he’d dreamed of grow old without him. A desolation.

And Maya—was still crying. Still hiccupping. Her fists balled into Leela’s coat. She hadn’t even looked at him. Or maybe she had, but didn’t know what she was looking for.

He wanted to step closer. Just one more step. Reach out. Soothe her. Say something. But his feet might as well have been nailed to the frozen earth.

He had nothing in his hands. Not even the strength to say her name.

Ellie moved up beside Leela, brushing Maya’s curls back from her sticky, tear-wet face. She said something. Leela nodded. And they all began to walk up the porch steps together.

Joel didn’t follow. Not yet.

He just watched.

Watched how tightly Leela held their daughter. Watched Ellie glance back at him once, her face unreadable, before she jogged past him and followed Maria and Tommy down the road, and away.

Watched his whole life move ahead of him, step by step, without turning around.

Leela’s arms were tight around Maya’s little body, the baby’s sobs quieter now but still hiccupping against her mother’s shoulder.

All he knew was that he’d left all of this behind with nothing but a note and a mission and the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could do something that mattered. Maybe he could fix something.

He eventually trailed behind them like a ghost.

They reached the porch. Leela didn’t pause. Just hitched Maya higher on her hip, the little girl whimpering against her shoulder, and stepped inside.

Maya twisted as they crossed the threshold, her arms flailing, her cries rising in volume. A shrill pleading screech.

“Da-da! Come, come!”

“Maya,” Leela tried to shush.

“No, no! Da-da, pease!”

Her voice punched through him, sharp and high and raw.

“Da-da-da-da—...”

The door closed with a soft, final click. Over.

Somewhere inside, the baby girl's cries still carried over in fresh pricks at his pummeled heart.

Joel stood there, one foot still planted on the step below, like a man halfway to salvation and halfway to hell. He hadn’t moved. His hand—useless at his side—twitched, searching for something it had forgotten how to reach.

The latch echoed louder than any gunshot he’d heard these past weeks.

He stared at the wood grain of the door, the same one he'd walked through a hundred times before, and now couldn’t seem to approach. A stupid part of him still thought maybe it’d open again. That she’d come back, that she’d say—something. Let him hold Maya just once.

But the house stayed still.

So Joel sat. Dropped like a felled thing onto the top step, legs spreading, elbows propped on his knees, fingers pressed to his lips. Because where else did he have to go?

He stared at the dirt packed under the railings, at the porch slats he’d helped mend last summer. He wasn’t sure he had the right to look at any of this anymore.

It hurt to breathe. Not from the bruised ribs or the deep-healing wound in his side. The knowing. The understanding that he’d done this. The rot. The shame. The guilt. The want to fight Leela, argue, and bash against the door.

And when he rubbed a hand over his face, he felt it—wet.

Tears. Real fucking ones.

He stared down at the shine on his fingertips like it was a new language he didn’t speak.

Crying. Goddamn. So he was still capable of that.

After all this time. After the blood. After the fear. After the killing.

It wasn’t the pain of the trip. Not the near-drowning, not the way his ribs still clicked when he breathed too deep. Not even the damage done to Leela’s precious math notebook, still folded at the bottom of his pack like a prayer he couldn’t read.

It was this silence that used to be his favourite harmony. This porch. This big white house across the street, standing like a lighthouse in the middle of the Wyoming snow.

His big, white house.

Or maybe it never had been his. Maybe he’d only been borrowing this life. A thief in someone else’s dream.

In this big dream, he might not be welcome anymore. He’d left thinking he could prove something. That there was still good he could do. That it mattered if he bled for it. That the sacrifice would mean some shit when he brought it back.

Only now—he was just a man sitting on the porch, hands empty, spine bent like a penitent.

He was still the loser. Always had been, hadn't he? A man who couldn't hold onto what mattered, even when it was pressed into his hands. Slipping through his callused fingers, sand in an hourglass.

“Da-da.”

A tiny voice. Raw. Exhausted from crying.

He blinked. Looked down.

Two tiny fists rested against his knee, barely covering them.

She stood there—his baby girl—in her yellow footie pyjamas, curls plastered to her forehead with sweat and tears, her cheeks flushed and snotty, a fist now halfway to her mouth. A warrior, somehow. She looked like she'd marched out here on stubbornness alone.

“Up, up, Da-da,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath, lips rounded to an 'O'.

He didn’t move. His hands stayed clenched on his knees, like he wasn’t sure if they were still allowed to touch her.

He just looked at her—like he was seeing a miracle and wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it. This small miracle with her tangled hair and her crooked little mouth, trying to be brave. Her big brown eyes stared straight through him, full of a deep, solemn thing children shouldn’t carry but sometimes did.

Maya wobbled slightly, off balance, still reaching. Her coat sleeve bunched at the elbow, her fingers finding a fold of his jacket and tugging. It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t a demand. Just a little pull. A tiny act of faith.

“Pease, da-da.”

That was it.

That was all it took.

He broke. Open like a thundercloud. A dam giving way after too many winters.

No big sound. No shudder. Just a quiet, helpless noise from the back of his throat, a beam giving out in a storm, as he leaned forward, reached for her with hands that shook, that had pulled triggers and choked men and now dared to try and lift someone so little and innocent. Someone still his.

He drew her in like she was the only warmth left in the world.

She wrapped her arms around him, little boots stomping onto his ribs, one arm locked around his neck, her fingers fisting the collar of his shirt, and burrowed in like she’d never left him. Like there’d been no time apart. Like he hadn’t abandoned her.

She just clung. The way babies always do. She didn’t care about the mess. Her dainty love hadn’t learned conditions yet.

His throat narrowed, his chest hitched once, sharp—then again, then again. He dropped his face into the crook of her neck and let it come, loosening that lock in him that had been latched since Sarah died. The kind of crying that doesn’t make sound, that just happens. Tears soaking into the fabric of her coat, into her hair, into his beard. He breathed her in like it might fix something, might make him whole.

“I got you, baby girl,” he sniffed.

She smelled like cinnamon. Like sleep. Like their kitchen in the mornings when Leela was fresh from her shower, Maya would toddle in and reach for a bite of breakfast with both hands.

She smelled like everything he’d fought for. Everything he might’ve lost.

Maya leaned back slowly, the softest untangling of her arms, her tiny body still half-draped over his chest. She blinked at him, her brows drawn close in a look far too serious for her little face. Her mouth tugged slightly downward, curious and concerned all at once.

Joel tried to smile for her. Tried to smooth his face. “I'm okay, it's okay.”

But she saw it anyway. The tears, still clinging to his lashes, streaked into his beard.

She stared, her little hand floating uncertainly in the air between them, fingers flexing like she knew there was something she was supposed to do but wasn’t quite sure how.

Then—clumsily, earnestly—she reached up and touched him, just one little hand against his cheek.

Joel looked from her eyes to her palm.

So small, it barely registered, but he felt the gentle tap, the warm pressure. He felt her try to wipe it—like she’d seen done before—dragging her palm across his stubble, awkward, too hard, leaving a streak of baby drool behind.

She sniffed. Then tried again, this time gentler. The way her mama would do it.

“Mm-mm, no,” she told him.

And then—her other hand went to his hair.

A soft, patting motion. Adorable, pure toddler comfort. No finesse, no words.

She looked at him like she was waiting for him to stop crying. Like she believed he could. That he should. Because Mama always did, when she wiped Maya’s tears. Because after the tears came warm arms. And sometimes applesauce.

Joel let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob—just breath. Cracked, quiet. “You takin' care of me?”

His hand cupped the back of her head. His forehead rested against hers, their noses nearly touching. Her fingers were still in his hair.

“Da-da, no, no,” she resonated.

Joel’s heart clenched again—but differently this time. More like remembering what it was for. Beating for her. Alive for this.

He kissed her temple, the warmth of her skin soaking through his bones.

For a moment, the world held still.

No howling wind. No boots on snow. No years of silence pressing down between now and what he’d lost. Just this: the tiny weight of her heart against his chest. Her trust, folded into his jacket like a brass button or her mama's ring in his pocket.

The floorboard behind him creaked.

Joel didn’t lift his head. He felt her before he saw her. The air changed when Leela entered a space—like some internal pressure recalibrated. Softer, but tighter. She didn’t take up more room than she needed, never had. But somehow, her presence always rearranged it.

She stepped to the railing beside him and leaned, arms resting along the wood. The porch light behind her cast a low, golden ring along her dark, frizzed-out hair on her shoulders. The fire inside flickered behind the curtains.

She said nothing at first. Just looked at him. Looked at them.

Like she was trying to map it out—this man, this child, this picture she couldn’t quite trust yet, this picture that didn’t match the one she’d carried around for too long—of absence, of damage, of a man who left too much behind.

Joel didn’t look at her straight on. His eyes stayed on the horizon past the railing, that dim stretch of pine and powder blue, mountains against the dusk that bled into dark. He could feel her gaze, though. The questions in it. The ache. The absence they were both pretending didn’t sit between them like a third body.

“Joel,” she murmured, the first ripple on still water.

He swallowed. His arms tightened almost instinctively around Maya, who shifted with a faint hum, fist tucked against her mouth once more.

“Just let me hold her for a bit,” he said. It came out low, like an apology, or a prayer through gritted teeth.

A breath passed. Then, quietly—

“You can hold her as long as you want.”

He finally looked at her. Her face was turned to the dark, but he could see the fine edge of exhaustion there. Not the kind that came from no sleep—but from too many nights spent enduring what no one saw.

Her voice was softer when she added, “Do you want to shower first?”

Joel blinked, the words hitting him sideways. What a normal fucking thing to say. So regular.

His mind fumbled with it—like she'd offered him a cup of coffee in a warzone. Like there hadn’t been a canyon gaping between them only days ago, carved out by silence and anger and too many things said too late.

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. Almost. But the sound got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled with something older and harder.

The wind stirred again, tugging at the hem of her sweater. She didn’t smooth it down. Just let it flutter around her thighs like she didn’t feel the cold.

“Leela,” he said, low, worn, like gravel under tired boots.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak right away. Just leaned a little further into the porch railing, her fingers curled loose around the wood. Shoulders rising. Falling.

Quieter this time—less like she believed it, more like she needed to—“Come inside, Joel.”

Not an invitation. Not a plea. Just something said because it had to be. Like muscle memory. Like faith said out loud.

“You don’t belong anywhere else.” A beat. Then, “And it’s cold outside.”

Joel looked down at the little girl in his arms. Maya’s cheek was pressed to his chest, her lips parted, her breath warm through his shirt. Her small hand clung to the collar of his jacket like she thought he might still disappear if she let go.

He felt it again—his daughter. His reminder. His consequence.

She came to me, he thought. She still comes to me.

Even now. After everything.

He shifted his weight and rose, careful not to jostle Maya. His knees ached. That old pain in his spine flared, but he barely felt it. She was heavier than he remembered. That, too, was a gift.

Across from him, Leela didn’t move. She didn’t offer him a hand. Didn’t clear the way. But she didn’t block it, either.

The door behind her stayed open.

Oh, here they were again.

Same porch. Same house. Same damn man, more or less.

But different. He wasn’t pounding on the door this time. Wasn’t driven half-mad by a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t walking in blind and bitter and ready to do a good thing just to silence a bad one.

Now he carried that baby in his arms. His baby. His girl.

And Leela—she was the one with the door now. Not just the one behind him. The one she kept closed for years, locked and latched and bolted from the inside, because too many people had barged through without asking.

Joel stepped forward.

Not past her. Not through her. To her.

The space between them was close. Intimate. He stopped just short of touching her, close enough to feel her breath ghosting warm in the cold.

She turned her head, finally. Just enough to see him.

Their eyes met. A half-second. A heartbeat.

There was no forgiveness in that look. Only recognition. And maybe—God help them both—want. A bit of love. Still there, under the rubble and the ruin.

He didn’t say, Thank you. Couldn’t. Didn’t think they’d be enough if he did. And she didn’t say, Welcome home.

When he stepped through the door beside her, the warmth met him like a memory.

As he crossed the threshold, this time he came to carry it all. To be part of it.

Maya stirred in his arms, murmuring something soft and wordless. Her thumb found her mouth again. Her head dropped against his shoulder like she knew this place of hers. Like her little body remembered what his mind kept trying to forget.

Joel blinked hard, the air in his lungs thick.

It was the same spot he’d once stood when he almost didn’t come back. When he’d looked at Leela in that doorway and thought about forgetting this ever happened.

Now she stood just behind him. A quiet key turning in an old, rusted lock.

And he thought: This is how it happens. Not with a grand gesture. Not with a reckoning or a flood of apologies. Not with big dreams of another life coming crashing down.

But like this.

A door not closed in anger. A man not barging in. A home not yet reclaimed, but not lost either.

Step by step. Word by word. Warmth bleeding slowly into cold skin.

Not a finish line or a full repair.

A place to start again.

One last time.

taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

“”

152 notes · View notes

atypeofherb9922 · 15 hours ago

Text

Thank u for the tag!

Favorite color: purple/rainbow

Last song: Waterfall 3 (it’s ABC Kids and it makes me fall asleep so fast lol)

Currently reading: Divergent (it’s pretty cool)

Currently watching: honestly nothing rn just waiting for The Artful Dodger season 2 to come out in like a year :( I could go for a wildlife documentary tho or I could rewatch Derry Girls

Currently craving: The pizza I didn’t finish and left in the fridge (made some and t’was awesome)

Coffee or Tea: tea, I hate coffee (the only time I had it was when it was brewed by my sixth grade teacher using a very against fire code coffee machine)

@la-gotica-fantasma @rileyh20 @cherryscvre

No presh tho (the tags I mean)

get to know your moots tag game ! ✶ answer the questions, then tag six people

favorite color ꕀ green and brown last song ꕀ tú by maye currently reading ꕀ the luminaries by susan dennard currently watching ꕀ the great british baking show currently craving ꕀ massaman curry. like always. and like. alcohol and a couple cigs HAHA. a break too :P coffee or tea ꕀ always tea! i don't like coffee

ty for the tag @saltcxrcle ! tagging: @lelapine @toadspondofwhimsy @outof-spite @h0neyst4rz @hhoneylemon @our-lady-of-venom

4K notes · View notes

lefteagleblizzard · 2 days ago

Text

𝔘𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔢𝔡 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: Joel’s wound tight when the silence Ellie left behind grows too heavy. One night, you give him the relief he won’t ask for and he takes it, rough and unrelenting.

Tags: a request that I received <3. Set in The Last of Us Part 2. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Established relationship. Age Gap. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. bottom male reader. Size difference. Blowjob (R giving). Anal sex.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 3000

He hadn’t told you what happened with Ellie, hadn’t so much as looked at you after he got back until tonight. The house creaked with the slow stretch of old timber settling in for the night, the fire crackled low in the hearth.

Everything was muffled, but not silent. The walls groaned with age beneath the distant push of the wind outside and the floorboards beneath your knees creaked like bones remembering movement. There was no low strum of his guitar, no trace of the music he played so beautifully, just the wet, rhythmic muffles of your mouth dragging over his cock.

Knees planted wide on the scuffed hardwood, thighs sore, spine bent in that perfect forward tilt to keep your throat aligned as his cock stretched your mouth open, slow but insistent, weighted heavy on your tongue and dripping thick, bitter precum across your palate.

His head was tipped back, resting against the worn cushion of the couch. The flannel shirt he had on was shoved open and barely hanging on, the sweat at the center of his chest cooling in slow rivulets, catching in the dips of scar tissue and hair that dusted the ridge of his sternum. His abdomen flexed in soft tremors beneath the planes of his stomach, tightening every time your nose kissed his pelvis. The firelight painted his throat in copper shadows, glinting off the slight stubble and the edge of his gritted teeth, where every grunt and half-muttered curse threatened to break loose.

Every few strokes he let out these groans that caught in his chest, or that stuttering Southern fuck drawn out on the exhale when you swallowed around him just right. It was low, broken, like he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of hearing him lose control.

You felt it in the twitch of his thighs under your palms, in the way his hand stayed locked in your hair, not pulling but just holding.

Your nose pressed into the coarse thatch at the base of his cock, breathing in the sharp musk of him, throat pulsing around him as you took him deeper than was smart.

You were drowning in the weight of him, tongue aching from the effort of flattening, curling and milking every inch you could manage. Your jaw ached from the fullness of him, from the effort of staying open wide enough to take the length and girth that Joel Miller carried.

Fuck, you loved the way he sounded when he hits the back of your throat, tongue curled along the underside of his cock, mapping the pulsing vein that ran from base to head. His hips jerked too rough for a second, but you forced yourself to hold steady, let your throat spasm tight around him.

“S’tight, shit—look at you,” he muttered, voice gravel and ash, one hand dragging down to cradle your jaw as you bobbed slowly and messy.

“Been down there so long—Hnnnh… thass it, fuckin’—shit, so good to me,” he grunted, breathing through grit teeth, one hand still braced in your hair, keeping you close and locked down.

You moaned around him, the vibration making him twitch and hiss, hips canting forward again too fast. You choked a bit that time, throat clenching tight around the girth of him and the sound you made went straight through him. Joel’s thighs tensed, his breath stuttered and his hand slid down the back of your neck like he was grounding himself more than you.

“Easy,” he rasped. “Mouth on you’s fuckin’ dangerous.”

You couldn’t speak, so you showed him by hollowing your cheeks and let your tongue curl just under the ridge, let him feel the slick glide and tight suction.

He was close. You could feel it in the way he stopped fighting the groans now, letting them fall from his mouth with each slow pump of his hips. In the way his hand tightened, his fingers trembling against your scalp.

“Gonna… fuck, you better—hnnnhh—” He never finished the warning. He didn’t need to.

You buried him deep, held him there and felt the full spurts of hot come flooding the back of your throat as his whole body went taut. He groaned something wrecked and guttural, teeth clenched, hand cradling your jaw while you swallowed and didn’t stop until you milked the last drops.

Head now tipped back against the couch as he fell back down slowly, the thick column of his neck exposed in the golden hush of firelight, the muscles taut beneath the sweat-slick skin like cords straining to hold something heavy in place.

The light from the hearth flickered across the hard edge of his jaw, across the deep lines carved into his cheekbones, across the thick stubble that dusted his throat and jawline in silvered streaks. He looked drained but too stubborn to admit it.

That distant, hollow stare stayed fixed to the ceiling, that faraway look that made the whole room feel colder.

So you crawled up slow, palms brushing against the meat of his thighs, then his abdomen, the hard plane of his stomach twitching under your touch. You moved like someone crossing a minefield: respectful, careful, but with no intention of stopping. Not until you were straddling him properly, bare thighs draped across his as the weight of your body settled on his lap.

Joel made a low sound in his chest, something between a grunt and a sigh, but didn’t move. Not until you leaned forward, chest brushing his, breath ghosting along his jaw.

He grumbled at that, which rumbled through him like distant thunder. His head rolled forward slowly, neck muscles flexing and he stared down at you but not at your face.

His eyes landed on your chest, gaze dark and unreadable, lashes thick and shadowed by his brow.

Wide palms settled on your waist in a firm grip, callused fingers curling around your hips like this was where you belonged.

Your hips rolled forward in a slow, deliberate grind, the bare curve of your ass dragging lazily over his thighs, brushing his softening cock. Your own slid up the faint trail of hair on his abdomen, all of this to stir the bear.

Speaking of which.

Joel exhaled through his nose with disbelief, his head lolling back again for a second as your weight ground across him. The muscles in his jaw flexed tight and when his eyes cut down to you, it was possible to see that twitch again at the corner of his mouth. A subtle, exasperated smirk that wasn’t quite fond, it was equal parts warning and affection.

“Give me a second, for Christ’s sake. ’Less you like the sound’a my hips crackin’ when I roll you over.” His voice was rougher than usual, the Southern drawl thicker than molasses from the strain of release and memory.

You bit your lip at that, chuckling low, not backing off in the slightest. If anything, you rolled your hips a little harder, enough to shift the angle of pressure and feel the twitch beneath you, the involuntary kind that meant part of him was already thinking about giving it to you again.

“You’re a whiny, cranky bastard. All that muscle and no stamina.” you scoffed, and brought your hand up to cradle his cheek, dragging your thumb across the bristle of his beard, slow and teasing.

His eyes narrowed and you watched that flicker of challenge pass through them, the way it always did when you gave him shit.

“You keep talkin’ like that, I’ll make sure you’re walkin’ funny tomorrow.” He muttered, the threat in his voice dry and almost lazy. His hand curled tighter at your waist, thumb digging harder into your hip as a hint of warning there.

You grinned, fingers curling deeper into the coarse line of his beard, thumb dragging up to the edge of his mouth, where that smirk was twitching into a scowl.

His eyes pierced right through you like you were the problem he needed to solve, that intimidation wasn’t an act.

Joel Miller was scary.

Terrifying when he got that look in his eyes like he was seconds away from either fucking you senseless or dragging you out by the scruff of your neck.

And it made you want him more.

Because under all that rage and steel, was a man who’d forgotten how to ask for anything. Help, comfort, love. He shoved it down until it festered and hardened and cracked around the edges.

That’s why you didn’t flinch when his eyes bored into you like he was trying to figure out why the fuck you cared.

You shifted in his lap, your hand never left his cheek, your other still firm on his shoulder, thumb dragging along the dense muscle under his flannel. Now, as you leaned in a closer, forehead nearly brushing his, your tone changed.

“Did she have fun?”

For a second you saw something flicker behind his eyes, a crack in the stone.

“She laughed,” he muttered, voice a low rasp. “At the start.”

Just that. Just enough to bleed with implication. You didn’t press further. Would never push him for what he wasn’t ready to give.

You leaned your head in until your brow pressed to his, breath mingling and let the silence stretch for a second.

“She’s a good kid,” you murmured. “Hell of a lot like you, too.”

He tensed, the frustration coiled again in his jaw, the flicker of doubt re-light behind his eyes like a match struck too close to an open wound. You pressed on anyway, slow and calm.

You let your fingers drift along his temple. “You keep everything locked in like that makes it easier. You think if you keep quiet, you’re protecting people. But really it’s you who’s paying the price.”

His eyes closed. Just a second. As if those words pressed a thumb right into a bruise.

“I know you think you’re too far gone, or too broken, or too—fuck, I don’t know—too old to be fixed. You’re not a bad man, Joel. You’re someone who’s been through hell and still gives a fuck. She still loves you, y’know. Even if she’s hurt.”

He finally looked at you again and his stare wasn’t blank anymore. It was burning. Like something finally broke open behind his eyes and he couldn’t shove it back down.

His hands jerked tighter on your hips, spine no longer slack against the cushion, the muscle in his arms flexing under your touch as he dragged you closer until he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

His beard scratched across your throat, bristly and warm, the coarseness scraping a low gasp out of your lungs as his breath rushed hot against your pulse. You felt the wet drag of his exhale on your skin. The tremble in his grip as his fingers dug so deep into your waist they left dents.

“You didn’t ruin anything. You just gave her time. A chance.”

His breath came slow, warm against the sweat-damp skin of your neck, each exhale threading with heat that curled down your spine and settled heavy in your gut. Joel hadn’t moved from the crook of your neck, his beard scratching softly every time his mouth shifted.

You weren’t moving anymore, just sitting in his lap, your cock pinned between your stomach and the iron weight of his abdomen.

His hands hadn’t loosened and his face stayed buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed tight to your skin like he couldn’t get close enough and you felt his shoulders tremble, not a sob, but that edge, a brutal restraint that defined him.

He made a low, guttural growl that vibrated against your throat, a sound scraped up from somewhere deep and gutted inside him. His grip crushed tighter on your hips, fingers digging hard enough to make you ache in the best way as he dragged you down, forcing the full weight of your body against his throbbing, thick and hard cock.

“Quiet now,” he muttered, an husky, grounded drawl of his voice curling around the words. “Ain’t wanna hear nothin’ but my name off your lips.”

A crooked smile formed before you could hold it back and he knew it was there. Could hear it in your voice when you leaned in to whisper, “You really want me quiet?” you murmured, cocky even as your breath stuttered from how hard he was beneath you.

That was all you got out before Joel’s teeth sank into the junction of your neck and shoulder hard enough to rip the breath from your lungs. His mouth dragged back with a rough scrape of beard and you swore your hips bucked down against him without your permission against the thick heat of him and he groaned, deep and feral, nose flaring as he pulled back, tongue flicking over the teeth-mark left behind like he wanted to taste the defiance out of you.

Hot breath dragging across your skin as he ducked his head and buried his face in your chest, biting your pec, sucking dark marks into your skin, lips closing hard around your nipple and tugging until you hissed through clenched teeth.

“F-fuck, Joel—”

You arched back, spine bowing as his hands worked you open from behind, thumbs circling, pressing deeper, coaxing your hole open with rough little twists. Those wide, callused palms engulfing the swell with no hesitation or softness.

He squeezed once to feel the whole shape of you. Fingers sank in deep, parting your cheeks with a bruising pressure that left you gasping. The heel of his palm dug into the small of your back, forcing your hips forward as his thumbs dragged along the cleft of your ass, parting you more for him.

Your head dropped forward against his, teeth grit as he breached you with one thick finger.

“Sh-shit—Joel—” you grit out, jaw tight, fingers scrabbling into his shoulders. You weren’t trying to stop him, just brace yourself. He groaned into your sternum. “That’s it,” he muttered, teeth draggin’ lower, tongue hot on your belly. “Tight like that—shit—hold on to me like that, boy…”

Every drag of his beard stung like fire, but you were shivering now, muttering curses that broke into moans as he worked the finger deeper, pumping slow, twisting cruel when he hit a spot that made your thighs spasm.

“Fuuuck,” you hissed. Your eyes flew open, but no more words came when that second finger slidin’ in thick and deep. Teeth sank into his shoulder due to the burn that tore up your spine like a live wire and you grunted into his skin as your hole stretched around him.

The pressure from his fingers built, twisted, drove into you harder and when he curled them just right, you cried out and his hand on your thigh gripped like a vice.

“There it is,” he ground out, voice tight and breathin’ heavy. “Right there, huh? That’s the fuckin’ spot.” His jaw flexed while his fingers curled deeper, meaner.

You choked, mouth open, hips grinding against his hand before you even realized what you were doing.

When he pulled them out, the loss made you whimper. His hands were already back on your hips before you could even shift. Big and brutal, thumbs pressing into the meat of your ass, fingertips digging sharp into your waist like he was physically restraining himself from flipping you over and fucking the breath out of you then and there.

But he didn’t move, just stared up at you from beneath that heavy, furrowed brow, jaw clenched so tight you could see the flex of tension beneath the beard.

You braced one hand against his shoulder, the other sliding down to grip his thick shaft, still slick from your mouth, flushed and leaking. His breath hitched when you lined him up, the tip dragging hot across your rim, your own body trembling from the stretch to come.

You pressed down slow and he grunted, deep and low, his hands crushed into your waist as the head of his cock slipped in, tight and unforgiving, dragging every inch of frustration through the ring of your body.

A sweet burn that brought pleasure and agony as his cock split you open with that blunt, unforgiving girth and still you pushed, forcing yourself down until your ass was flush against his lap and his cock was buried deep inside, pressed snug against that spot that made your breath catch and your eyes roll back.

Joel’s head tipped forward, breath catching in his throat and he groaned against your chest. A hot, shuddering exhale of air that made you throb around him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, voice muffled against your skin. You couldn’t speak, just clenched around him, muscles fluttering at the stretch and his hips jolted upward instinctively, driving deeper into that already brutal press.

Your thighs tensed as you rose, only to sink back down with a wet slap of skin on skin, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that made your voice come out in choked, bitten-off moans.

Joel cursed under his breath, hands locking tighter around your waist. Your thighs slapped against his, every thrust downward shoved a groan from him, sometimes muffled into your neck, sometimes dragged out through clenched teeth.

One of his hands slid to your ass, cupping it hard, spreading you open to take more. The other stayed firm at your waist, holding you in place. His breath was ragged now, teeth grazing your throat between murmurs.

“Goddamn… keep goin’. Just like that.” he growled, one hand sliding up your back, holding you tighter, voice hot against your neck, beard scraping raw against your throat.

You fucked yourself on him harder, bouncing now, thighs flexing as you rose and dropped, walls wide as he rearranged your insides and forced every nerve open.

Fingernails dug into his shoulders as you gripped them for dear life, sweat dripping from your jaw down onto his chest. He met your rhythm with short, brutal thrusts from below, matching your bounce, driving up into you with every slap of flesh on flesh.

“Joel—fuck—I—” you whimpered and he cut you off with a growl, lips hot on your ear, one hand slipping up to the back of your neck and gripping.

“Don’t,” he murmured, voice thick, grinding. “Don’t talk. Just feel it. That’s what you need, ain’t it?”

His cock hit that spot again and again and again, every thrust pushing you closer, dragging your orgasm up from your spine until you were shaking in his lap, voice cracking with every downward thrust and when you came, your frame jerked, back arched, cock spurting thick, white ribbons across his stomach, painting his abs and the trail of hair leading down to where you were still taking every inch of him inside you.

His mouth clung to your throat when his whole body jerked, a sound punched out of him that was half groan, half growl as his cock pulse inside you, thick spurts spilling deep and hot. He clutched you tight against him as he came, arms like steel bands enveloping your frame.

You stayed seated on him for a longer time than either of you needed to, really. Your chest pressed to his, breath slipping out in quiet, broken pulls. His face stayed buried in the crook of your neck, breath cooling the slick trail of sweat he’d left there with every grunt and curse.

“Y’okay?” you whispered, one hand moving slow to comb through the hair at the base of his neck.

“Should be me askin’ that,” he muttered, his stubble scraped along your collarbone as he exhaled hard. His voice was low and hoarse, worn thin by all the breath he’d forced out with every thrust.

“Y’done brooding now?” you teased gently, shifting your hips just a little to feel him again. He hissed a breath through his teeth and gave your waist a warning squeeze.

“Don’t push it,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. Only that low, tired affection that you’d learned to read through his roughness.

You pressed a kiss to his temple, slow and lingering. “Might not know what’s goin’ on in that thick head of yours,” you whispered, “but I do know you don’t have to carry all of it by yourself.”

Joel didn’t move. But his breath hitched before sliding one hand up the back of your shirt and splayed it there, holding you flush against him.

“You keep sayin’ that,” he murmured, voice rasping at the edges. “One day I might believe it.”

You let out a soft breath, half a laugh, half something sad. Because he meant it, he wanted to believe it. But Joel was built out of loss and sacrifice and he hadn’t learned yet how to let anyone else carry the weight.

“Could barely sit straight before you even finished,” you teased, trying to keeping it light, knowing he’d bristle otherwise. “If you ask me, I think you’re tryin’ to break me in half.”

That got a reaction. A faint huff, almost a laugh.

His hands twitched like he meant to lift you off but didn’t quite follow through. “I gotcha,” he murmured instead. “Hang on.”

You shifted with a quiet groan, lifting yourself slowly off him slick and slow, making you both hiss at the stretch. His hands caught your hips on instinct, holding you steady as you dropped beside him on the couch, legs shaky, body still pulsing.

Neither of you spoke for a bit, room quiet and full of the aftermath. Joel sat there with his legs still spread, streaks of your release painting his stomach, glistening through the coarse trail of hair leading down his abdomen.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting your fingers trace lazy circles on his thigh and he didn’t push you off or pull away.

His hand slid around your back, palm splayed warm between your shoulder blades, anchoring you there against him as he let himself rest with you and, for a man like him, that was as close as he’d ever come to saying he was safe.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x male reader #joel miller x you #joel and ellie #x male reader #male reader #x bottom male reader #bottom male reader #the last of us x reader #the last of us x male reader #the last of us x you #ellie the last of us #the last of us #gay smut #gay #video games #game joel miller #male!reader

133 notes · View notes