#tlou 2

[les4elliewilliams]

warning: engaging with this post may cause her to appear unannounced. she knows where you sleep.

✶ part one ⋮ 18+ ⋮ desperately, pussy achingly in need of a feralwife!ellie who:

౨ৎ mumbles shit like “you’re such a good girl” under her breath while you’re doing regular domestic shit. could be folding towels, loading the dishwasher, or even watering the little succulents on the windowsill. the art of watering plants. yup, she finds that shit attractive. 

౨ৎ gets all twitchy when a toddler hands her a flower. claims, “i don’t like kids,” but keeps the flower in her sketchbook like it’s a signed autograph from caitlin clark.

౨ৎ holds a baby once at a family function, and the second it stops crying in her arms, she won’t shut up about it for the next week. “d’you see that? she liked me. babies fuckin’ like me, babe.”

౨ৎ gets awfully quiet whenever she sees you holding someone else’s baby. 

౨ৎ gets all weird when she sees a my first pride onesie at the thrift store and shoves it in your face aggressively. “hah. imagine. that’d be... gay as fuck.” 

౨ৎ starts picking baby names out of nowhere, like, you’re in the middle of grocery shopping and she goes, “that’d be a sick name if we ever had a kid,” then refuses to explain further. “not sayin’ we should. just sayin’... plus, s’not like i’d be a bad mom, right?” then crashes face-first into the doritos aisle when you actually agree. 

౨ৎ suddenly starts leaving her sketchbook out, hoping you’ll find the little doodles she’s been doing of you. ones where you’re asleep with your hand on a pregnant belly you don’t even have, or you holding a baby she hasn’t told you about yet, as a silent “if you’d ever want one, i’d want one, too” she doesn’t have the heart to utter, mostly out of fear. because what if you don’t want it? even though you said a long time ago that you were open to it, things change, and so do people. that’s enough to scare her into silence. unbeknownst to her, she’s been knocking on a door that’s already pretty much unlocked.

౨ৎ floats subtle ideas like getting a dog, casually throwing out a shy, “just to see if we’d survive having a creature that needs us, like, a test run! a baby but with less trauma, y’know?” or testing the waters with offhand comments “you’d be such a good mom,” pretending she hasn’t been carrying that shit in her chest this whole time. but eventually, she grows a pair.

౨ৎ blurts out “would you ever wanna… y’know. do the baby thing? with me?” mid-makeout, while you’re straddling her, cheeks of a deep cherry-red as if she just asked you to try out a new position (you lowk have tried them all by now, but that’s besides the point.)

౨ৎ reads all the parenting articles you send her after saying yes. she’s got whole tabs open on her ipad titled “gentle parenting for anxious people” and “how to not fuck up your kid when you’re gay and traumatized.” #ipadkidcore

౨ৎ talks with you for hours about the different options, like real adults and real partners, because she’s serious about this and wants to be ready. timelines, genetics, your job, her job, who would carry, health considerations, etc. all of it etched right next to a half-completed drawing of you in an unfairly serene slumber.

౨ৎ nods to every word that comes out of the doctor’s mouth on your first appointment. he’s explaining how reciprocal IVF works and ellie’s can’t shut the fuck up for more than 6 seconds (you were keeping track.) you think her questions are silly, but to her, they are highly significant and totally life-altering.

“can she still eat gas station sushi, or is that a bad mindset for implantation?”

“does stress really lower fertility because she gets stressed when she looks for parking—” you smack the shit outta her.

౨ৎ cries as soon as you walk out. her legs feel so weak that she has to lean against a wall, eyes all glassy, trembling hands braced on her knees. you even start to worry, already convinced she’s about to backtrack and change her mind after dropping three grand, just like that one time she impulse-bought wonder woman curtains from tiktok shop because ‘they matched the living room vibe’ and regretted it instantly. typical ellie behavior.

“ellie? what’s wrong?”

“it’s just— the idea of… you carrying something that’s half me?” she sniffles, looking away ashamed, “i didn’t think i’d ever get something that good.” only option, really, is to kiss her dumb. what else could you do?

౨ৎ suddenly develops a huge breeding kink out of nowhere. 6 inches in and she goes, “fuck, yeah. just like that. takin’ me so good. my girl’s gonna get full off me, huh? gonna carry our baby.” you try to remind her how insemination really works and all you get is a defensive, “shut up. it’s my fantasy.” 

౨ৎ slaps your ass around the house every time you bend over. “that’s a breeding ass, babe.”

౨ৎ takes the donor selection process way too seriously. at first, at least. the intention is there: notebook draped over her laptop keyboard, highlighter cap clenched between her teeth type of serious. she writes things down, circles relevant stuff; even makes a pros and cons list like it’s a fucking job interview. 

but no one’s good enough. she’s actively roasting these dudes like they personally disrespected her entire bloodline. “his name is braxton,” she reads out loud, squinting at you sideways. “nope. immediate red flag. he absolutely says ‘epic’ unironically. instant pass.” click. “liam. i just know he got arrested for tax evasion and called his mom to cry about it.” click again, without even giving you time to react. “why does his smile look like he knows what crypto is.” click. “babe, i swear i’ve seen this one dude on the dark web before,” she stabs at the screen of her laptop with her finger. click. “absolutely fucking not.”

she’s scrolling fast now, flicking through profiles like she’s on tinder with way too much repressed rage, commenting it all—height, hair color, childhood photo, medical history tabs she pretends not to care about while still reading every single one with a judgmental heart. 

the clicking eventually comes to a stop. “what. the. fuck.”

your eyes land on the name and you can’t help but snort. “who the fuck names their kid… elliot jackscum?”

click. click again. then goes back and clicks on the profile.

“…why does he lowkey look like me though.” you both frown, exchanging looks, “that’s me in the upside-down.”

now you’re both dead silent, fully locked in, reading every detail that actually matters. the medical history is clean, genetic screening clear. education is something arts-related, a personality similar to ellie’s (not that that holds much importance, in your opinion.)

you sigh, studying her face before murmuring a “we should pick him, shouldn’t we.” less a question, more a i know that look.

ellie sinks into the couch, blowing out a resigned breath through her nose as a calloused palm drags down her face. “god fucking damn it.”

“…yeah.”

“jackscum wins.”

౨ৎ starts hormone injections for egg retrieval and instantly becomes the most disgusting, horniest version of herself.

౨ৎ shrugs it off at first, saying it’s whatever, that she’ll get used to it. but it doesn’t level out; if anything, it escalates. gradually, but surely. suddenly she’s spooning you tighter at night, her hands wandering way more than usual, past the waistband of your underwear, up your shirt, cupping your breasts, kissing the back of your neck like you’re the dinner she didn’t get to eat because she got sent to bed early, grounded and starving. 

the sex dreams start happening almost every night. sometimes she even moans in her sleep. all you know is you’ve caught her humping her pillow more times than you care to count. you bend over for half a second to pick something up, and she’s there, fake banging you from behind like a dog in heat—except she very clearly wishes it wasn’t fake at all. then she starts begging. for neck kisses. for head. always pulling you into her lap or groping your ass at the most random times. sometimes all while dirty talking to you in a low rasp, her mouth at your neck, her breath caressing your baby hairs deliciously. it makes your head spin.

౨ৎ starts with hints before she actively starts begging. you’ll be eating and she’ll just stare at your mouth and go, “you could do something else with that mouth.” or “how bout you kiss my thighs and see where it goes?” still, not so subtle, but at least she’s cute about it.

౨ৎ other times she straight up whines about it, every time using the same old excuse when you dare call her out. “you don’t understand. i feel like a greek fertility goddess right now. it’s a medical thing—what happened to feminism anyway? girls having each other’s back and all that shit.” does she make any sense? absolutely not, but you hold her hand through it and keep her thighs open when needed, mouth where it matters, patience in your praises and your tongue on her swollen clit. <3

౨ৎ wakes you up in the middle of the night to announce how unwell she’s feeling. 

you feel her shaking you like a cocktail while you’re chasing some distant, juicy slumber of your own just to whisper, nearly panicked, “babe. emergency.”

“what,” you mumble, half asleep, half groan, half annoyed.

“i had a dream you ate me out while i was crying and then gave me a juice box. and i woke up horny and thirsty. it’s a sign. please.” she shakes you again, more urgently this time.

“mkay…” you don’t  fully register any of it. your half-conscious brain assumes she’s hungry or something, she’s woken you up for less. “go drink water,” you reach for her blindly, eyes still closed, meaning to pat her on the shoulder, except your hand lands right on her tit and her breath stutters like you just hit a wounded nerve.

“it’s not the same,” she sighs, pouting a little at the ceiling.

౨ৎ jokes about dying if you don’t suck her tits and moans way too loud when you actually do. 

from there, things derail fast, because somehow you end up between her thighs, slurping on a clit that’s never throbbed so angrily against your tongue. she’s so wet you almost feel bad. between the constant horniness, the random mood swings, the cramps, the snapping, you figure your girl genuinely needs the extra attention.

except she’s greedy about it.

she yanks at your hair harshly, sucking in a breath, moaning like a pornstar. freckles scattered over pink skin, growing impatient beneath you, looking so fucking pretty it physically hurts. “babe… please,” she begs in a voice so feeble, so high-pitched, “please, please—fingers, please.” seconds away from a full mental breakdown even as you’re eating her out. 

it’s never enough for ellie. doesn’t matter if she’s going to bed with an orgasm count of five or thirteen.

you pull away with the filthiest smooch, lips abandoning her completely. “doctor said no internal stimulation.” your huff lands directly on her cunt, making her shiver. “you’re lucky i’m even doing this.”

of course, she argues. “i’m literally not gonna die from one knuckle—”

“ellie.” you glare at her through your lashes and she swears she’s gonna squirt just from that.

“this is the worst oppression i’ve ever experienced—oh my god, keep going, keep—oooh fuck, fuuck!—” she comes gasping into the crook of her elbow, all whiny and twitchy, actively trying to argue even as she rides it out on your tongue.

“you still gonna complain? i’m fucking you to sleep at this point.”

“i’ll give it a six… could’ve been better with your fingers.”

you wipe your mouth and snort. “you’re lucky i didn’t call the doctor mid-orgasm and tell him exactly what you were asking me for, you little bitch.”

౨ৎ wakes you up the next morning with breakfast in bed: a cute, wooden tray with a japanese cherry blossom tree painted on it (by her), heart-shaped pancakes, chocolate-dipped strawberries and a tulip very obviously stolen from someone’s garden two blocks away—plus… a thick envelope?

still blurry-eyed and half unconscious, you press a lazy peck to her lips, mumbling a sleepy thanks as you squint at the envelope. not that ellie isn’t a love-letter type of girl, but this is… not that.

“NOTICE OF NOISE COMPLAINT – UNIT 3C” written across it in threatening red sharpie, you frown. “huh… what’s this?”

you shift the tray over your thighs and tear the envelope open, barely looking at her as you pull the letter out. the mattress dips when she climbs back into bed, knee knocking into yours under the covers. you grab a chocolate-drenched strawberry, take a big bite and unfold the paper one-handed.

“looks like we got our first official citation,” she says casually with a slight bounce of her shoulders. “we’re on record.”

your eyes skim the page, the words making your frown deepen, “ellie… this is not… a good thing.” a masterpiece of overly formal language explaining that someone yelling “oh fuck, faster—” at ungodly hours has apparently disrupted the recycling schedule.

“the old lady next door told building management that unit 3c films amateur porn at ungodly hours and traumatized her grandkids. she kept tabs on us too… even submitted a whole report with timestamps. timestamps, babe.” 

the pride in her voice makes you look back at her in disbelief. not because of the notice itself, but because she isn’t even a little ashamed that half the building now has a rough estimate of how many times a week she comes. “what. the. fuck.” 

the concern is unmatched, she’s beaming by this point. “i know, right? you’re that skilled with your tongue. we should frame it and put it in the living room,” she lifts her hands to frame an imaginary golden plaque in the air, eyes all dreamy. “bachelor of arts in making your wife scream.” bumps your shoulder with hers. you snort, barely. more amused than anything. genuinely just shocked it didn’t happen sooner, back to when she used to fuck you stupid with her beloved strap every night before bed, period or not, because “your body didn’t get to cockblock her like that.” her words.

“should be fucking proud, babe. not even kat—”

your eyes narrow at the mention of her ex. “say that name again and you’re out of the fucking house.”

౨ৎ sits through the egg retrieval process like a real champ. all cocky in the car, all “guess i’m donating to the cause, huh?” but the second she gets in the gown and hears “you’ll feel a little pressure” she asks the nurse for “just a minute” at least five times before anyone gets to lay a finger on her.

౨ৎ something in her sick brain rewires the second she learns her eggs are fertilized. “that’s it, this pussy’s full of me already—ride me like you wanna make another.” science sure is an opinion to her.

౨ৎ goes fucking insane when the clinic clears you for a natural transfer cycle—which means no suppression, no medicated estrogen protocol, just monitoring, timing and a whole lot of hope. they explain to you that transfers are usually more controlled, with generous doses of estrogen and progesterone scheduled down to the hour, but your stubborn ass wanted to try option b instead. what they don’t explain is that this would apparently include ellie tracking your ovulation on THREE different apps and bothering you about it. constantly. and that’s on you, really.

“hydrate, mama. cervical mucus loves hydration.”

you could be brushing your teeth and she’s leaning against the doorway, “so… how’s the mucus lookin’ today?” 

or it’s her prophecies. “according to clue, you ovulate in 15 days. according to flo? 14. but babe my gut says 13.5. trust.” 

౨ৎ wakes you up every morning with fertility facts she studied the night before, after lying awake next to your snoring ass. the moment you open your eyes, the first thing you hear is shit like, “mornin’... apparently, when you sleep well, implantation chances go up.”

 “I HAVEN’T EVEN OVULATED YET.”

“yeah, but you will soon… my perfect little incubator.”

౨ৎ checks the cervical mucus so seriously it becomes scary. you drop your underwear to pee and she’s already leaning over your shoulder to take a peek. “hmm. fertile window approaching.”

“ELLIE WILLIAMS. GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM.”

“just saying, babe. it looks… promising.”

the craziest thing is that all her guesses weren’t even half wrong. the clinic confirms everything with ultrasounds and blood tests.

౨ৎ comes home after a long day of work and instead of greeting you with bouquets of flowers like she used to, she’s always carrying something that could benefit your health. vitamins, teas, supplements, all bought in ridiculous amounts. she even leaves little notes on them, the kind that used to come tucked between baby blue roses, baby’s breath and lavender. 

✉︎ “𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘦 ˙ᵕ˙ 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘥.”

౨ৎ holds your hand through the entire embryo transfer, somehow more anxious than you are. the nurses nearly kick her out for interfering too much. she keeps stopping the doctor with stupid questions, insisting he double-check everything, even get another doctor in the room, just in case. she finally behaves after a few very firm warnings. (no pegging for a week.)

౨ৎ treats you like a fragile little fawn for the next two weeks. you’re not allowed to lift anything heavier than a bobby pin. “my wife’s got a belly to grow.”

౨ৎ constantly tucks blankets around you, shoving her own pillow under your legs, sleeping like a starfish without one ‘cause “science says gravity helps.” if you dare suggest she’s making that shit up, or that reddit isn’t reliable, “science IS reddit.”

౨ৎ sits on the bathroom floor two weeks later, shaking like a wet chihuahua while you take a pregnancy test. after peeing gracefully on the stick, you place it on the counter face-down. “please… please… please…” two minutes in, “why’s this shit takin’ so long? oh my fucking god.” four minutes in, “swear to god, if she gets pregnant i’ll go to church every sunday.” spoiler: she lied. she’s not even religious.

౨ৎ when the pregnancy test finally comes back positive, she doesn’t react like a normal person. sure, she kisses you hard and gets a little emotional, but she’s mostly praising herself.

“I DID THAT. I KNEW I NUT GOOD.”

“you didn’t even nut.”

 “emotionally i was balls deep. let me have this.” + endless kisses to your nonexistent bump<3

౨ৎ is a nervous wreck the day she has to tell your family. and her dad. 

it’s a sunny sunday, barbecue smoke filtering lazily through the open windows, the neighbors’ kids are shrieking outside, their laughter piercing straight through your skull. a dog down the street barks furiously at bees hovering over its bowl, while the grumpy man across the road yells at the kids for kicking a ball across his precious patch of grass.

and ellie is absolutely shitting her pants. quite literally. she’s excused herself to pee at least three times in a row. she always gets like this when she’s anxious. by the time she comes back the fourth time, your mom is setting a cherry pie down in the middle of the table.

ellie refuses to sit, impulsively blurting it out, “i got her pregnant.”

the crust of pie lodges straight in your throat as you launch into a coughing fit, hand pounding the table. “y—yes,” you manage between coughs. why is she like this. why does she have to make it weird. “a doctor got me pregnant,” you quickly correct her.

ellie turns to you, offended, waving it off. “my egg. her womb. our baby.” she finishes with a small shrug and a smug grin, “jackpot.” claiming it’s all thanks to her because she ‘manifested that shit.’

౨ৎ orders a mug that says ‘world’s best breeder’ that she claims is “a joke” but uses it every fucking day.

౨ৎ stares at your belly when it really pops and ellie looks like she’s just seen a leprechaun. “i gotta process this. it’s happening. you’re big. (you’re not) i did that. i did that. holy fuck.”

౨ৎ starts giving you weird ass pet names, “my little transport truck full of baby” or “my stacked fridge.”

౨ৎ immediately leaves a positive review on the clinic google page “$14,000 to breed my wife. money well spent!!!” 

౨ৎ won’t let you walk anywhere alone. you don’t get privacy or independence, not anymore. you stand up to get water and she’s like “nonono—sit down. i’ll get it for you.” you sneeze once and she’s looking up: “can sneezing effect early pregnancy??” you lay on your stomach and she gets anxious about it, “what if you pop a tit?? will the baby feel it?”

౨ৎ has absolutely no idea how to act when she’s horny anymore. like, yeah, she’s still wildly attracted (obviously), but she’s also scared as fuck. she’ll kiss your belly, trail her mouth down your neck, press slow kisses to the inside of your thighs, then freeze like she’s committing a felony, two seconds away from an actual panic attack. “is it okay if i—? wait. is that safe? are you comfortable? tell me if you’re uncomfortable. actually… no sex tonight. nope. abort mission. i need to research.” she lasts exactly three hours before she’s straddling you again, phone carelessly tossed somewhere in the sheets, eyes gleaming in the dark like a cat’s. “okay,” she grins sheepishly, “i researched. turns out we can. can i ride your thigh now or no.” all that unnecessary stress just for her to end up leaving snail trails on your thigh. disappointing to say the least.

౨ৎ turns aggressively protective and insists on coming with you for every errand. 

grocery store? someone bumps your cart with theirs and ellie’s already stepping in front of you like she’s shielding the president. “watch where you’re going, for fuck’s sake,” she snaps so loud your face burns and you suddenly become a stranger three aisles away. “can’t you see she’s pregnant?” she gestures toward you like a crazy woman. you’re barely a few weeks in, nothing is visible yet, not even a hint. you honestly don’t even blame the guy for looking at your wife like she’s insane as he quietly wheels his cart away, terrified. little does she know, next time he’s bringing his wife with him because women terrify him. 

your first checkup? she nearly starts a riot in the waiting room because no one offers you a seat. again—absolutely no one can tell you’re pregnant. but ellie insists she can feel your shoulders tensing, your poor spine straining and your body working overtime.”

౨ৎ treats you like actual royalty. she brings you snacks but won’t make eye contact while doing it, drops them off all awkward, without mumbling a single word (loser ellie nghh)

౨ৎ kisses your bump goodnight and gets shy if she catches you watching her. 

౨ৎ sticks little anxious reminders on your nightstand on mornings she has to leave early for work.

“𝘱𝘭𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳!!! 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘵!!!”

“𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘴 >:(”

“𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 + 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘺𝘰 ♡”

౨ৎ narrates everything to the baby. you eat strawberries and she talks directly to your stomach, rubbing it gently, “hear that? mama’s feeding you antioxidants.” later, you’re watching zootropolis together, a fox plush tucked against your side and she adds, “see, kiddo? absolute cinema.” like the baby can actually see through your eyes. she’s convinced it can.

౨ৎ thanks you out of nowhere, because not only you’ve chosen her as your forever partner like swans do, but you’re also building a family with her. “hey, thanks for doing this with me.” then she kisses your shoulder and immediately pretends she didn’t just get emotional, stomping away before you can catch her tearing up like a way-too-chalant lesbian she swears she’s not.

౨ৎ cries over baby clothes, you’ll be walking in walmart and other places and she’ll be crying as if she’s the one pregnant and a walking ball of stubborn, unpredictable hormones. “babe it’s so fucking small—look—wait, hold it against your belly again—oh my god—that’s OUR kid—”

you swat her hand away. “kid? ellie, it’s barely an embryo.”

“bite your tongue. that’s our fucking heir.” she’ll promptly hiss every time you remind her. swear to god she’ll make you apologize like you just said the worst thing imaginable. 

౨ৎ checks your pregnancy app every morning before she even pees. you wake up to her perched in bed with her glasses on, “holy shit… the baby’s a blueberry today.” then she turns to you, grinning like a dork, “babe. you’re a blueberry mom.”

౨ৎ will clock that you’re sick before you even admit it.

౨ৎ cancels plans without even telling you because if her girl needs her, everything else can die. the world could literally collapse and crumble to the core of the underworld and she wouldn’t budge. you don’t even ask for her presence, ‘cause she’s already there like a sickening little parasite.

౨ৎ feels genuinely guilty when the morning sickness gets worse. you rush to the bathroom and somehow she beats you there. already kneeling behind you, holding your hair in a gentle fist and shielding your forehead from stubborn strands while you puke your soul out. rubs reassuring circles into your back with her palm, “’m sorry, baby… i’m so sorry you feel like this…” and she means that shit with her whole heart, like it’s her fault. “you’re doing so good. your body’s doing so much right now… i know it sucks ass, i know…” and the one that melts your insides every time, “my poor girls.”

౨ৎ goes down a rabbit hole about acupressure after reading somewhere in a facebook article dina sent her that it can help with nausea. the next morning you’re hunched over the sink complaining that you feel sick again and she’s already reaching for your wrist, “hold on, hold on, don’t move.” she presses her thumb on your wrist, right between your tendons, squinting back at you for any sign of improvement. “internet said this one’s for nausea.” when you tell her it actually helped a little, she sits back on the toilet lid looking waaay too proud of herself. “see? basically a doctor now.”

౨ৎ turns into a doberman about smells. you hate garlic, vinegar, anything sharp or fermented, so now she goes around sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “what the fuck is that? i said. no. funyuns. i told you the smell makes her gag. what the fuck is wrong with you?” and just like that, your friends are forever banned from your house.

౨ৎ sleeps lighter than ever when you’re feeling off. if you so much as shift or groan, she jolts awake like she’s just fallen into a void. “hey, hey… i’m here. what do you need?” even if what you need is just to complain.

౨ৎ refuses to complain herself, even when she’s exhausted, even when you keep her up all night because the nausea won’t leave you alone. she doesn’t say a word, doesn’t blame you, doesn’t take her stress out on you. even with dark circles under her eyes and all, she still rubs your shoulders, still makes you food, still reassures you. if you dare apologize, she shakes her head, shutting you up instantly. “don’t. you’re growing our baby and you’re sick. bare minimum. least i can do.”

౨ৎ cannot stand when men so much as glance at your bump or say anything remotely sweet to you. “that’s how it starts. smiling. then asking what school the kid goes to. next thing you know, he’s trying to be the father that steps up. not on my fucking watch.”

౨ৎ cries at your first ultrasound because the baby has her nose. honestly, you were glad. but then she says weird shit, “look at that shrimp spine. head’s huge as fuck, babe! definitely got my brain in there. my swimmers were built different.” the nurse looks at her weird.

౨ৎ prints out an image of your ultrasound, laminates it and keeps it inside the back of her phone case just to peek at it when she’s having a bad day :(

౨ৎ has a completely blank sketchbook she plans to fill only with baby drawings.

౨ৎ spoons you extra gentle at night, with one hand over your bump and her mouth in the curve of your neck, “you smell different,” when you ask her to elaborate, you feel her shrug behind you, “like… mom energy. sweeter. ripe. i dunno.”

౨ৎ is suffocatingly obsessive the entire pregnancy—waking you up at 3am to make sure you feel okay or if you need to pee. sometimes, you have to sleep on the couch just to get away from her. when you wake up, she’s passed out on the carpet right beside you. you even accidentally step on her the first time. arghh.

౨ৎ starts rearranging the entire house in the middle of the night to make sure the closets are neat and everything even remotely dangerous for a baby shoved out of the way (despite the fact that you’re barely a few months in). 

౨ৎ keeps calling the baby “big sister” as if having this one in the incubator somehow means you’re already open to more kids.

“babe, she’s not even born yet.” (utterly irrelevant to ellie)

“doesn’t matter. mentally preparing her. she’s gotta know she’s not gonna be an only child.” she’s so excited it physically pains you to demolish that delusion of hers. “also i ordered matching onesies that say ‘1st round’ and ‘2nd round’—” and the cherry on top, “fuck it, let’s go full lesbian duggar family.”

“ah hell naww. i’m divorcing you.”

౨ৎ lowkey gets horny when hormones start fucking you up hard. you don’t cry, you’re just mean as fuck… to ellie it’s foreplay. she blushes and her pussy starts throbbing in about 0.34 seconds. immediate reaction.

“i said no fucking pulp.” you narrow your eyes, pissed as fuck. all because she got you the wrong type of juice. “fucking useless piece of shit.”

she wishes you were like this 24/7. snapping, mean, reminding her how stupid and pathetic and useless her existence is. 

she doesn’t argue. can’t. actually, you catch that fucking loser stifling a groan—maybe a moan, you’re not entirely sure. all you know is she’s drooling between her legs. “right. yeah. i’m so sorry… wanna spank me? i deserve it, ma’am.”

౨ৎ the mornings are consistently tragic. she wakes up, unfortunately—that’s her first mistake. the rambling starts before her eyes are even open, words spilling out as her legs swing off the bed like her brain never truly powered down overnight.

you’re at the table, swirling your cereal, already soggy and sinking depressingly to the bottom of the bowl. she won’t stop pacing, won’t stop fucking talking. you check the clock more than once. ten full minutes of this and you’re at your limit.

“—in addition to that, i was reading that hedgehogs—”

your spoon clinks sharply against the porcelain. “oh. my. fucking. god.” she blinks, genuinely startled, thinking she’s missed a cue you never gave her. confusion seems to shut her up, granting you a sacred moment of momentary peace. your irritation, however, keeps growing. “do you ever shut the fuck up?” you snap, “do you have a switch? or did you wake up with an eminem up your fucking ass?”

ellie has always known that the normal response would be to get offended. to shut down, perhaps. cry. maybe even to snap back. only she knows how many times she’s wished that she could be normal about this. because unpredictability gets under her skin in the worst ways and she never knows which version of you she’s waking up to. way to keep the marriage alive!

౨ৎ spends actual hours tracing your stretch marks with her tongue before head time, “fuckin’ marked by me” like she’s proud of leaving permanent scars on your temple of a body (which is every other night because she claims orgasms keep the baby healthy.) 

౨ৎ fucks you with a strap when you’re in the second trimester and gets anxious as hell. it starts before even getting you naked. you’re doing chores and randomly huff, frustrated, telling her you need her inside.

“oh! okay. yup. happening. bedroom. now. careful—let me hold you—no, don’t walk that fast—babe slow down—BABE YOU’RE PREGNANT.”

when she gets on top of you it’s even worse. she’s rocking the strap into you at the pace of a fucking snail. no cocky shit, no dirty talk, just a super focused look on her face like she’s scared of giving you an abortion with her strap.

you wrap your legs around her hips, the heel of your foot pressing into her butt as some type of encouragement. “ellie... faster.”

she tries to mask the nervousness with cockiness. doesn’t work. “…yeah?”

“yes. faster. please.” you pant, restless and impatient and worked up, watching her through a blur as she hesitates and deliberately keeps the same pace, dragging the slow strokes out like it’s a punishment. “are you—” you claw at her shoulder, visibly losing it. “what the hell is this? you fuck me slower than the wifi at my grandma’s.”

she’s offended, maybe even tries to defend herself, “i’m—m’not slow.”

“it’s awful. i’m pregnant, not a fabergé egg.”

“‘m just… savoring it, y’know?”

“oh my god,” you smack her hand off your tit, “you’re scared you’re gonna hurt the baby.”

she legit freezes mid-thrust. “…no?”

“ellie, the baby is in my uterus, not hanging out in the hallway waiting to get hit.”

still doesn’t speed up, stubbornly sabotaging your orgasm. “yeah, but… what if she’s, like, right here?” her hand drifts to the underside of your stomach.

you actually laugh at that and smack her hand away once again. “right where? in my fucking cervix? do you seriously think your strap has prenatal combat abilities?”

“i just don’t wanna bonk her in the head or somethin’.”

you cover your face with both hands, in disbelief. you aren’t sure if you find this hot or embarrassing. “ellie,” longest sigh she’s ever heard from you, “i am so close to flipping us over and doing this myself.” you threaten.

“oh my god. are you seriously pissed at me for protecting our child?”

“from silicone?!”

“from reckless parenting!—fetus cost me over ten thousand dollars, ma. think i’m about to knock it loose ‘cause you’re horny?” all of it punctuated by yet another slow thrust, “no thanks.”

“that’s not even how–”

“gotta protect the investment, bro.”

“call me bro again and you’re dead.”

in the end, you flip her over and grind down slow and deep. you don’t stop, not even after you’ve already come, not even when her fingers clutch at your hips in an anxious attempt to stop you. you had to. next time, you’re tying her to the headboard so you can fuck her properly.

౨ৎ keeps a tally on the fridge called “times she let me touch the belly” when you start getting self-conscious about the stretch marks on your body, about how different you feel in your own skin. some days you can’t even bear to let her rest a hand there, let alone kiss it. you erase the tally every time you see it, feeling embarrassed and completely overwhelmed. but she’s more stubborn, more determined. she starts it over every single time, even adding smiley faces to the days you let her kiss it, repeating every day “you’re even prettier like this” without fail, until it finally absorbs.

౨ৎ doesn’t ask questions when you’re upset or crying, because she’s aware hormones don’t always make sense, like that one time you sobbed over giraffes not having proper shelter during storms. she’ll disappear for a minute and come back with one of those microwaveable lavender plushies because she’s read somewhere—deep in a reddit thread full of other pregnant women swearing by it—that lavender and chamomile help calm the nervous system. aromatherapy. figured it was worth a shot. ever since that precious discovery, the routine’s been the same. she settles behind you in bed, tucking the warm plush against your chest and wrapping herself around you like a safe blanket. no talking, no trying to cheer you up at all costs, just warm lavender filling your nostrils and quiet reassurance. if you start crying anyway, she rubs slow circles into your arm, “yeah, i know, baby. hormones are evil.”

౨ৎ screams when your water breaks, not a cute gasp, not an excited “oh my god,” but something ugly. high-pitched, even. straight out of a horror movie. she even notices before you do. she’s mid-sentence when her eyes drop to your lap and goes dead silent for half a second before it dawns on her. “uh.” her breath stutters, “uh.” the scream that follows makes you flinch. “IT’S HAPPENING.”

you’re still processing, barely feeling any pain, and she’s already sprinting down the hallway like the house is on fire. drawers are slamming, cabinets are opening, she’s grabbing the hospital bag she packed three weeks ago at 2am, your phone charger, her wallet, your pillow(??) and somehow a random framed photo from the nightstand. as if you’ll need it. as if that’ll make the pain more tolerable. 

౨ৎ keeps dropping things because her hands are shaking so bad. the keys hit the floor several times, the suitcase tips over at least twice. she tries to carry all of it at once and looks like a raccoon stumbling out of a 7-eleven, caught stealing whiskey.

you waddle after her, annoyed and contracting at the same time, clutching at your belly. “ellie. calm. down.”

“CALM DOWN?” she shrieks, “WE TRAINED FOR THIS!”

she barrels toward the front door, flings it open with way too much force and makes it halfway down the stairs before you realize something. “ELLIE YOUR FUCKIN’ SHOES. PUT YOUR SHOES ON!”

she freezes mid-step, looks down at her star wars socks, then looks back at you. “FUCK. FUCK. SHOES!” she glitches in place, like a badly programmed 2000s npc lacking any real sense of awareness, turning left, then right. “WHERE ARE MY— I HAD THEM— I—” she runs back inside, collides with the wall, then trips over the edge of the carpet, moving too fast for her own coordination. she yanks her converse on without untying them, nearly falling again as she tries to shove her heel in, hopping around on one foot like a deranged baby chimp.

౨ৎ has absolutely zero skills under pressure. she backs out of the driveway without checking the mirrors, knocking over your lined-up trash cans and the neighbors’. she honks at a random pedestrian who was literally just walking, screaming, “HOLY SHIT— THE BABY— THE BABY—” she nearly runs a red light and kills you both.

౨ৎ tries so hard to be supportive in the delivery room, letting you demolish her hand, stroking your sweaty hair, kissing your feverish forehead… until she makes the mistake of looking directly between your legs mid-push. she goes pale in 000.11 seconds, “oh my god—s’that—s’that supposed to— oh, fuck— OH—” and then she collapses to the floor.

౨ৎ wakes up and tries to pretend she didn’t faint even with a confused medical student fanning her, sitting up like, “i’m fine, i’m fine.” gets up again, pushes the nurse out of the way, “keep going, ‘m so proud of-” looks between your thighs again and… lights out.

౨ৎ fully wakes up at last, when the baby is already out of you, crying on your chest. she’s missed the entire thing and will forever hate herself for it.

౨ৎ follows you around like an anxious golden retriever every time your daughter makes any noise, “babe???? is that normal? do they always breathe like that??” 

౨ৎ insists on taking the night shift so you can sleep, rocking the baby in the dim lit living room, “hey, baby girl… mommy’s tired. let her rest, ’kay? i gotchu, i gotchu…” when the baby finally drifts off, she tiptoes back into the bedroom and tucks the blanket around you with the same dedicated care.

౨ৎ always makes sure the bathroom cabinets stay stocked with extra diapers for the baby and extra postpartum pads for you.

౨ৎ becomes so domestic in the most adorable way your heart aches, doing everything she can to make postpartum easier, even if she looks like she’s two seconds away from passing out every day. she washes bottles, folds tiny onesies with crazy precision, brings you snacks and water without being asked, and holds the baby while you shower. sometimes she’s the one passing out on the couch from exhaustion, and you have to tuck her into bed again :( poor baby.

౨ৎ is understanding at first when, after birth, your body and its healing process don’t really leave space for intimacy. she’s supportive, loving, so patient it almost hurts, “you’ve been through so much, babe. just rest. i got you.” she gives you extra love and attention, takes care of you, makes you food when you forget to eat, rubs your legs when they ache from walking back and forth to the bassinet, and your tummy when you get cramps. because she loves you.

౨ৎ starts to get grumpy once you’re cleared to have sex and actually try to initiate it, only to get cockblocked by your own daughter. like, extremely bitchy. she folds laundry with too much force, cabinet doors no longer experience gentle closing. you swear you even hear her mutter “fuckin’ blue-balled in my own house” under her breath while warming a bottle.

౨ৎ the first time you ride her again after birth, she’s laid out flat on the bed, arms limp at her sides, eyes a little dazed like she still thinks she’s dreaming. it happens after the baby has finally fallen asleep in her crib (handmade by joel), you close the bedroom door like you’re planning a louvre heist.

“you’ve got fifteen minutes before she wakes up again,” you’d said and ellie makes it her side quest.

no strap this time, claiming she needs to feel the warmth she’s been missing for so long. she’s too overwhelmed just watching you hover over her, your tits bigger, fuller, your hips rolling slowly against hers, your stomach soft with loose skin and marked with lines she loves so much it makes her dizzy.

she just lies there with her mouth slack while you ride her slick cunt, so slippery you nearly struggle to anchor yourself against her. the wet sounds are louder than they should be in a quiet house. at one point, you lean over her, moaning into her mouth as your tits bounce and one leaks directly onto her throat. an accident that makes her whole body jerk like she’s been tased, clawing at your hips. she doesn’t think, doesn’t speak, just breathes heavily, letting out a strangled, wet “uhnngh—” that sounds like her soul leaving her body and something else taking over—a succubus, perhaps.

she’s already close when you grope your own chest, milk spilling over your fingers as it drips slowly down your wrist. that’s what truly breaks her. she whimpers like a kicked dog, rocking up into you, desperate, mindless rolls of jerky hips while she pants through a red face and damp mouth, “fuck—baby, you’re dripping. m’gonna cum—don’t stop—keep making a mess, fuckfuckfuck—”

౨ৎ googles “is it safe to breastfeed your wife” after accidentally licking your nipple clean earlier with the brightness all the way down. blueprint forever ruined.

౨ৎ genuinely starts tweaking when your tits leak through shirts and tank tops. even buries her face between them, motorboating you, greedy hands everywhere, mouth trailing down between your thighs, not giving two shits if you’re moaning into the baby monitor or how many times you try to push her head away. “she won’t remember this. shut up and take it.”

౨ৎ conveniently starts wearing a strap under her clothes like it’s a uniform. when the baby is finally out cold, she sneaks up behind you and starts palming you real slow, intentions clear in the greediness of her palms. “could just slide it in real quick. five minutes, tops—two if you’re loud.” if you try to protest, she has her answer ready. “hey, m’not tryna force it, baby, just sayin’. you’re dripping. math is mathing again.”

౨ৎ sends you texts from across the room while your family is over to see the baby.

“your tits look heavy. come sit on my face after they leave.” “leak on me and i’ll build you another kid.”

when you look at her, she’s pretending to listen to whatever your aunt is saying about swaddling techniques, nodding and smiling all politely, while your phone lights up again in your lap like she’s not two feet away, acting completely normal.

౨ৎ gets ridiculously turned on when you whine “my tits hurt,” pacing around the house in one of her tanks while it slowly soaks through at the nipple. eyeing you from the couch, manspreading, she offers to help relieve the pressure with her mouth like it’s a public service, hoping the throbbing in her sweats will disappear if she lets her intrusive thoughts win. “that sucks, babe… do you want… me to, uhh… do something about it…?”

౨ৎ starts pulling little tricks. it always begins with an innocent shoulder massage, hands working the knots out of your tense muscles before her fingers disappear under the hem of your shirt when you’re most distracted. “i just wanna feel you,” she’ll claim before pulling your nursing bra down in one quick tug, pretending to be shocked when you leak. “oh nooo. oops.” the proud little smirk that follows genuinely makes you want to split her skull in half.

౨ৎ you find a folder on her phone named “ᴍᴏᴍᴍʏᴍɪʟᴋᴇʀs” and it’s just videos of you leaking through your shirts or nipple play.

her search history is worse, though.

⌕ “lactation kink + pornhub”

⌕ “is it normal to nut from taste of breastmilk reddit” 

⌕ “wifey boob.fullplease help”

⌕ “www.betterhelp.com”

the kinkshaming goes crazy. “the fuck are you on. it’s not a kink, it’s just objectively hot. and you leaked on me last night, so that’s on you.” she’s just devoted like that. how dare you kinkshame your wife for worshipping you.

౨ৎ drags you into the backseat after grocery shopping and fucks you there with the diaper bag half-open beside you, its contents spilling out haphazardly. in broad daylight, in a walmart parking lot. the two car window sunshades barely hiding your naked lower half, your pants bunched around your ankles, shoes still firmly in place like shackles. her fingers plunging deep into your dripping pussy, her mouth stealing every moan from you. all because she couldn’t wait until nightfall, when the baby would finally surrender to a sweet slumber.

౨ৎ can’t sleep unless her hand is under your shirt and cupping one leaking tit. tries to be chill about it but whimpers a little every time you shift away ;((

౨ৎ goes through real grief when you stop lactating, wandering around the house sighing like a tormented spirit that never found the light, “miss ’em heavy.” she’s mourning</3

౨ৎ talks to your daughter like she’s an adult who just happens to be gnome-sized.

౨ৎ lets her “help” with everything, even if it makes the task ten times longer. even if it includes your kid handing her socks one by one while she’s folding laundry. even if your baby is just standing on a chair stirring absolutely nothing in her bowl. ellie never rushes her nor complains ‘cause—“we’re doing it together, that’s the whole point.”

౨ৎ never misses bedtime routine. she reads the same damn book every single night because your daughter insists and ellie reads the same lines she read the night before with the same excitement in her tone, switching between all the voices anyway, even when she’s exhausted. and if you dare suggest skipping a page or skipping reading before bed, ellie gives you a look, as if you’d just suggested abandoning your child in the woods with no water, no food, no caretakers. she’s a dedicated mom and you couldn’t be more proud.

౨ৎ lets your kid sit on the counter while she cooks. “this is garlic… it smells insane—don’t touch it,” she warns gently as the toddler’s finger wanders toward it, eager to poke it. when she touches it, ellie simply sighs but doesn’t get mad. “okay. now you know.”

౨ৎ tries to get the kid to say “mah-mah” again, but the first word that comes out of her mouth is a very firm “noh.” ellie bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh in the baby’s face. “strong boundaries. we love to see it.” later on, she tries again, crouching in front of the little gremlin and tapping her own chest. “say… love you. loh-ve you,” the kid squints, thinking very hard, then proudly produces a clumsy “wah-yoo.” ellie grins like she just won the lottery, her heart practically bursting. “yeah. wah-yoo too, kiddo.”

౨ৎ becomes the kid’s personal elevator. every five minutes, the toddler waddles up to her on unsure feet, arms stretched straight up, bouncing like a little spring because she barely knows how to walk yet. “UHP! EH-YEE!” (a gibberish version of her name) ellie sighs like she’s completely exhausted with the life she chose, but bends down to scoop her up anyway. “yeah yeah, uhp. i gotchu, bug.”

౨ৎ accidentally teaches her sarcasm before manners. you’ll hear your toddler drop her toy and dramatically exclaim, “oh great!” ellie grins proudly at you from across the kitchen. “what? she used it correctly.” she’s ellie’s daughter.

౨ৎ is weirdly gentle about scraped knees. you’ve never seen her panic over your daughter tripping or getting small cuts. instead, she’ll crouch down, inspect it like a professional and blow on it after disinfecting it. “okay. that sucks, i know, bug.” she applies my little pony band-aids and kisses all her boo-boos. done. that’s it. the kid immediately stops crying.

౨ৎ saves every drawing your daughter makes. every scribble, every half-ripped, crumpled piece of misunderstood art. you always find them tucked into her sketchbook, her wallet, or even her jacket pockets—the latter usually discovered after you’ve shoved the jacket into the washing machine and the drawing comes out soggy and ruined. when you ask why she feels the urge to collect them all like pokémon cards, she’ll say: “they’re important.”

౨ৎ teaches her music early. hands her headphones that are way too big for her head and lets her pluck the strings on her guitar. she nods proudly and pretends it sounds good. “you’ve got rhythm, peanut.”

౨ৎ never says “because i said so.” ever. because she doesn’t want to be like her dad. she’d rather overexplain everything, even when she’s tired as hell. 

౨ৎ packs her lunch every damn morning before kindergarten. sandwiches with little faces, tiny cupcakes ellie bakes just for her, star-shaped pieces of fruit she meticulously cuts with tiny cookie cutters.

౨ৎ gives her adult reassurance in tiny doses. “hey peanut, it’s okay to be bad at things. that’s how you get good.” it makes you wanna rip your hair out. in a good way.

౨ৎ lets your kid tattoo her or color over her already existing tattoos with washable markers, then forgets to wash them off before going out.

౨ৎ teaches her that asking for help is normal by doing it herself. now, she’s the first to hate relying on other people, but she wants to set an example. “hey babybug, help me open this?” your daughter beams, a gummy smile with barely a few teeth on display and uses all her strength. ellie thanks her like she just saved her life, boosting her tiny confidence straight through the roof.

౨ৎ has a secret handshake with her that changes weekly (mostly because your daughter keeps forgetting it) and no one else is allowed to learn it.

౨ৎ goes insanely overboard for the kid’s third christmas. sometime after midnight, you wake up to noises in the living room, only to find ellie crouched on the floor with a bag of flour, making tiny snowy footprints across the floor from the window to the tree, like santa broke in like a cheap burglar and walked around the house. she even takes one of your boots and lightly stamps it in the flour to make it look ““realistic.”” when your toddler wakes up in the morning and waddles into the living room, she freezes in awe and points at the floor excitedly, “sah-nah! sah-nah he come! mama, look!” big, dreamy green eyes look up at you, tugging at your pajama pants, “he WALK!” and ellie’s standing behind you trying so hard not to laugh, shoulders shaking, covering her mouth as she nudges you gently in the ribs, “holy shit. it actually worked.”

౨ৎ gets two bouquets on valentine’s day, one for each of her fav girls. your toddler’s is mainly a tiny bundle of plush flowers tied with a pink ribbon, a little rainbow dash tucked in the middle because ellie knows it’s her favorite pony. yours, meanwhile, is an absurdly massive bouquet that barely fits through the door or into a vase. roses, peonies, every fucking flower she was able to find in the store. when you raise a brow at her, she goes, “she’s my valentine,” she nods toward the gnome-sized, freckled mess of a kid proudly clutching rainbow dash and zooming around the living room. “but you’re my wife. there are levels.”

౨ৎ keeps snacks in every pocket of every hoodie for every eventuality. when your toddler asks for one, ellie pretends to be surprised every time she happens to find snickers tucked in her pockets. “woah! how did that get there?” your kid genuinely thinks ellie is a magician.

౨ৎ thanks your daughter for the smallest things, it’s either “thank you for trying,” or “thank you for telling me.”

౨ৎ on nights your toddler falls asleep between you, ellie brushes your hair out of your face and mumbles “you’re such a good mom,” eyes full of pride, gratitude making her heart throb.

౨ৎ becomes that parent with the camera roll. your phone has maybe ten photos of the baby. ellie’s has thousands. blurry ones, mid-yawn ones, ones where the kid’s just staring at nothing like a confused potato with not a single thought behind her irises. at some point, it genuinely starts to feel like she’s documenting a rare species.

౨ৎ sets one of her favorite girls as her lockscreen: your kid asleep on your chest, drooling on your shoulder and her tiny hand clutching your shirt.

౨ৎ loves motherhood far more than she ever expected, but more than anything, she loves seeing you round, glowing, growing an entire human inside you. she loves the ugly parts of it, too—the stress, the anxiety, the sleepless nights, the excitement that sits in her chest like it might burst into tiny sparks, but would you want to go through it again the way she would?

you’ve been out with friends all day when she finally finds the courage to bring it up. funny enough, they’d just had a baby. a newborn. ellie had held him for a while, rocking him gently while he fussed, nose pressed to the crown of his head, which smelled faintly like cinnamon. it made her chest ache with nostalgia, holding something that tiny again, she realized she missed it.

it comes up later at home, while you’re both getting ready for bed. “what if she had a sibling,” ellie mumbles suddenly, after spitting toothpaste into the sink, looking at you through the mirror while you brush your teeth, shoulders bumping together. “like, one that’s just as annoying. that’d be kinda cute, right?”

“you mean another baby?” you question, already clocking the look on her face, watching her slide the hair tie off her wrist and gather her hair into a messy, low bun.

she hums casually, “one more can’t hurt.” for a second, you think she’s talking about gummy bears.

“i dunno. we already have our hands full, el.” you sigh. “babies take a lot of time—we barely survived the first one.”

she shrugs, already committed to the idea, determined to put the idea into your head. “you’ve already been pregnant once... what’s one more?”

you don’t answer. you just leave the bathroom and crawl under the comfort of your blankets, hoping silence will kill the conversation, but nothing ever dies with her. she’s sliding into bed a second later, scooting closer like a clingy koala. “we already have one kid,” she continues, “might as well go for the dlc.”

“dlc is crazy,” you smile despite yourself, “go to sleep.”

“huh. g’night, ma.” she presses a kiss to your shoulder when you turn into her arms, facing the wall. “...sleep on it, though.”

divider creds @/cursed-carmine!!

taglist : @liztreez , @andieprincessofpower , @zzelysian , @letmebeurbaby @shadowmythe , @bluesp1d3rs , @notlinearr , @seasonsofchaos , @heartsfromken , @only4theweeknd , @visupremacysstuff , @ellieskitty , @rhian88 , @risenember , @slut4elliewills , @satellitespinner , @valeisaslut , @reneeisadyke , @c0nfused-idiot , @stxrryskys , @willowsanangel , @improbablynotpoppy , @sapphistanaisnin , @flutterlesbian , @ignoreme33

[chaotic-ppeach]

Birthday suit?

[followyourfleart]

Baby, Come Back to Me

a03 | masterlist

blurb - Separated by miles, years, and the undead, you and your husband have been ghosts in each other’s lives for two decades. The thought of Joel being alive hurt just as much as thinking he was dead. But when a stand-off forces you face-to-face with a familiar man—older, harder, and still devastatingly him—all the pain resurfaces.

warnings - nsfw,  mdni  18+, attempted murder, violence, yearning, loss of a child, parent!Reader, grief, fear of intimacy, slight suicidal wishes, female masturbation, mutual masturbation, 69, cuddle fucking, creampie (don't try this at home), emotional sex, scent kink???

author's note: I did listen to "Back to Me" by the Marias the entire time I wrote this...

One shot requested by: anyomous

wc: 18.3 k

Mwah!

“Joel…”

Mwah!

You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”

Mwah! Mwah!

“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”

He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.

“You ain’t leavin’ yet,” he said against your hair.

You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. “Joel—”

“My birthday is tonight,” he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. “Keyword: Tonight.”

“You’re not six.”

“Don’t need to be,” he muttered, “To wanna spend it with my wife.”

Somewhere down the hall, Sarah’s laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.

“Joel,” you whispered again, gentler this time. “It’s an ER shift. You know I can’t just—”

“I know, I know.”

He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.

“I packed you dinner,” he said finally, nodding toward the counter.

Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.

You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadn’t watched him make sure your thermos didn’t leak and your sandwich didn’t get squished while you changed into your scrubs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did,” he cut in, quiet but sure. “You forget to eat when it gets busy.”

“I do not forget.”

“Mm,” he said, unconvinced. “That’s why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ain’t seen food in a week.”

You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.

And that’s when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.

“Ew,” Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. “Not this again.”

Joel didn’t even look her way. “What’s this ‘gain?”

“You being a total sap,” she said, hopping up on one of the stools. “She’s just going to work.”

Joel’s head turned slowly to his kid. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re dramatic.”

You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.

Joel lifted a brow at her. “You done?”

“Not even close,” she said sweetly. “Stop hogging her.”

He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why’d wanna talk to her so bad, huh?”

“Maybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.”

Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. “Uh-huh. I’ll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.”

You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.

“Did it get fixed?”

Her grin was instant, mischievous, like she’d been waiting for that cue all night.

“You bet it did.”

She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.

Joel’s watch. Working.

You hadn’t seen it tick since—well, since ever. Not once in all the years you’d known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. “He deserves it,” she said softly.

You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. “You did good, baby.”

Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.

“When I’m back in the morning,” you murmured against her hair, “Your dad gets me, then it’s all you and me, okay?”

She pulled back, grinning. “Deal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.”

You smoothed her hair from her face. “Then we’ll find you the perfect one. Promise.”

Her eyes sparkled. “It’s gonna be the best.”

You smiled, meaning it. “It will.”

For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.

Then you glanced up—and froze.

“Shoot,” you muttered. “I’m late.”

You moved fast—badge, phone, keys—but she was still standing there, smiling at you.

“I love you, Sarah!” you called as you backed toward the door.

“Love you too!”

The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadn’t quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.

The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.

“Hey!”

You turned.

Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.

“What—?”

Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.

Steady. Familiar.

You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. “Happy birthday,” you murmured.

His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, baby.”

He kissed you again—slower this time—and then rested his forehead against yours.

“You sure you can’t call in sick?” he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Y‘know I can’t.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joel’s jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.

“Tomorrow morning,” you promised quietly. “I’m all yours.”

He nodded once, like he was filing it away. “All mine,” he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.

You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.

“Go on,” he said, smiling now. “‘Fore I think of another excuse to keep you.”

You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.

Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. “Text me when you get there.”

“I always do.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Still.”

You looked up at him for a moment—just a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.

Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.

The taillights disappeared down the street.

And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.

That was the last quiet night.

┈┈・┈┈

The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossil—half-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.

You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.

The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like it’s been waiting for you all these years.

You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.

Good.

Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counter—some old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.

You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.

Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the corner—torn, mold creeping up the side. But it’s shelter.

You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.

You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but there’s always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if you’re lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.

Outside, the wind changes pitch—sharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.

You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.

Wyoming. You’d always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.

The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonder—not for the first time—why food never tastes like anything anymore.

The silence stretches long and thin.

Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The storm’s closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.

The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.

You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.

You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.

You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.

You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.

For a moment—just a flicker—you see it again.

The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.

You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.

Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldn’t even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at you—you’d dropped it. You remember that clearly. You’d dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.

You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.

The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.

You sit for a while, just breathing.

Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklace—its chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.

Your wedding ring.

It still fits around your finger, though you haven’t worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the inside—J.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.

Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joel’s hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.

Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.

Half the roof gone, windows shattered. You’d stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.

The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. There’d been blood by the entryway—dark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.

That had meant something. You’d clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.

“They made it out,” you’d whispered into your old bedroom. “He got her out. He always does.”

Now, years later, you still hold the ring like it’s proof that somewhere, somehow, they’re still alive.

That Sarah’s grown—thirty-eight now, if you’ve done the math right—maybe with her father’s strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.

You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.

That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.

The wind howls against the window. And then—a noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.

It’s faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.

You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.

Another sound. Closer this time.

You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is human—not the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.

You don’t take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.

Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and there—under a hanging sign that reads ‘SNACKS’ in flaking red paint—is a person.

She’s young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then you’re beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.

“Don’t make noise,” you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.

She makes a sound—a sharp intake—but you clamp harder until it’s a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.

You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesn’t flinch. “Who are you with?”

Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.

“Nod if you’re alone.”

Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You don’t believe her.

“Walk.”

She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.

Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look new—canvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.

“Community,” you mutter.

The girl mumbles behind your glove—garbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You can’t tell if it’s anger or a plan.

You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. “You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. There’s defiance there. “You don’t wanna do this.”

“That right?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. “Because—”

She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But it’s enough. Your instincts snap tight.

You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.

They’re cold. Wild. Protective.

He’s holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.

“I’ll slit her throat before you take a step.” you snarl.

He doesn’t blink.

You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.

“Back off, I swear I’ll—”

“I’ll kill you ‘fore you can.” he interrupts, stepping closer. There’s a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but can’t name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.

Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerks—twists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.

“Stop movin’, Ellie!” The man yells.

“Goddammit!”

She spits, and the world completely inverts—just by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.

“Kill her already, Joel!”

Joel.

The name stops you cold.

Joel.

It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip falters—barely, but enough.

Joel.

“...What did you just say?” you whisper.

The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.

Then—pain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.

For a second, you don’t feel it. Not really. Your body’s in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.

Two against one. You’ve been in worse. You’ve survived worse. But still—your pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.

The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.

Except the softest call you’ve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.

You haven’t heard it in years. You’d forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. You’d forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.

You look up.

The man’s eyes are on you—wide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like he’s staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.

“Stay back,” you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.

He doesn’t. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. “Joel! What are you—?”

No.

No, no, no.

The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his face—

It’s him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.

Your Joel Miller.

Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyes—same as the day you lost saw him.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Joel…”

The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.

“Darlin’...”

You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You can’t do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.

Your knees go weak. You can feel pain now—the slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesn’t stop the tremor.

Joel takes another step.

“Don’t…” you manage, breathless. “Don’t—come any closer.”

You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.

The girl’s hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. “What are you waiting for?! She’s…she’s—why are you hesitating—”

You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if she’s going to finish the job for Joel, and that’s when you see it—the blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.

“Christ…” you whisper.

You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.

Then, you fall.

Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.

You forgot this.

The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrified—words you can’t quite catch, just the vibration of them.

Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your head—barely—and see his face. That face.

The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldn’t sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought you’d never touch again.

You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.

He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you can’t really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.

You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.

He yells something over his shoulder—maybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You can’t tell. The world’s shrinking too fast.

Then—his voice, raw, breaking:

“Not ’gain. Not ’gain.”

You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like he’s said this before.

Again?

The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?

The thought makes you smile. You look up at him—just once more—and the sight fills you whole.

Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.

He calls your name again, but you don’t hear it. The world folds inward—black and quiet.

┈┈・┈┈

The church wasn’t much.

A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no music—just the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.

It was perfect.

Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.

“C’mon now, darlin’,” he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. “Your daddy’s a little busy right now, alright? You’ll see him in a minute.”

Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joel’s shoulders stiffen and then sag.

You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.

“I swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jus’—” He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “She don’t like sittin’ still. Guess that’s my fault.”

“She just wants her daddy,” you said softly.

Joel’s eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. “Well, can’t say I blame her for that.”

“You always this confident at the altar?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Confidence or stupidity—hard to tell.”

There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about ‘should’ve brought snacks.’ Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.

“Still time to back out, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—not like that, darlin’. Jus’... y‘know I’m not exactly prime real estate.”

“Joel Miller…” you said, voice full of mock outrage.

“What?” he said, laughing now. “I’m jus’ bein’ honest!”

You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.

“Never,” you whispered.

He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.

The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of you—your hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.

Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

And when Joel finally whispered, “For as long as I got breath…”, you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.

┈┈・┈┈

You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t your own.

Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from… a heater? For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.

You jolt upright—too fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.

That’s when you hear it again.

You whip your head toward the sound—instinct first, reason later—and shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.

“Hey—hey, easy, easy.”

That voice.

Joel’s sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face you’ve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannel’s frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He must’ve just woken up.

It’s all impossible. It has to be.

“Joel?”

His mouth parts just slightly, like he’s afraid to breathe wrong. “Yeah, darlin’. It’s me.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the same—warm brown, flecked with gold—and that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.

For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around you—wind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outside—but all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joel’s shaky breath.

You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joel’s expression crumples.

“Stop movin’,” he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “You’ll rip the stitches.”

You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.

His jaw works, like he’s trying to find something to say.

But all that comes out is your name.

It roots you to the floor.

You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.

He says it again. Softer this time.

Your breath stumbles. There’s a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.

When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinch— from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His hand’s rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.

Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.

For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing—fast, uneven, disbelieving.

And then—

You take a step back. Another. Another.

Distance.

You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joel’s brow furrows. “It’s alright,” he says, voice low, coaxing, like you’re some frightened animal.

You shake your head, breath catching. “No—no, it’s not.”

“Darlin’, it’s me—”

“Don’t.” The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. “Don’t call me that.”

His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.

You can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body won’t stay still—your fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.

He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here… it was all too much, him standing here, alive.

“I knew you died,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I knew and I still believed—"

“I didn’t,” he interrupts, desperate. “I didn’t die, darlin’. I—”

“Stop!” You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. “Stop calling me that!”

“You’re shakin’. Lemme me—”

“No!” You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. “You can’t—no—you can’t just—”

Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You can’t fill your lungs, can’t find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.

He’s reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.

And then—

Bang.

The door slams open.

“Joel!” Tommy’s voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.

You stare at him. He’s got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.

You make a small, broken sound in your throat. It’s too much—the sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.

Tommy’s eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. “Step outside, brother.”

“Hell no,” Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. “My wife’s panickin’, Tommy—”

You twitch at that word—wife—and your breath catches, shuddering.

Tommy lifts a hand. “Out. Now.”

“Tommy—”

“Joel.” His tone hardens. “Get out.”

The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joel’s chest heaves. His jaw flexes.

Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that look—raw, gutted—undoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.

Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smile’s thin, a shade of what it used to be. “Why don’t you sit down, huh? Maria’s comin’ over real soon. She’ll take care of you.”

You don’t even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.

Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.

You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.

You don’t cry. You just listen.

Through the crack of the door, their voices filter in—muted, low, but heated.

“You’re overwhelmin’ her, Joel. Can’t you see that?”

Joel’s voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. “She knows me, Tommy. She—she looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, dry. “Don’t mean she can handle you right now.”

“I ain’t some stranger, dammit! I’m her husband. That’s my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thought—”

“You thought a lotta things, but that don’t change what’s in front of you. I get it.”

A pause. You imagine Joel’s face—the way he presses his lips together when he’s holding back something too big to say.

Then his voice again, lower. “You didn’t see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didn’t forget.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“She belongs with me. She should live with me—get used to things ‘gain, get used to me.”

“The hell she should,” Tommy snaps. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard come outta your mouth, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“Why? Why the hell not? Y’think I can jus’—what—leave her sittin’ in some damn corner, pretendin’ like she didn’t spend almost half her life with me?”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.

When he does speak, his voice is steady. “’Cause she’s scared of you, Joel.”

The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.

“She flinched when you touched her.”

Joel says nothing.

“She damn near stopped breathin’ when you got closer,” Tommy goes on, quieter now. “And not ‘cause she don’t care. It’s ‘cause she’s been out there, alone. Y’know what that does to a person.”

Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.

Tommy sighs. “Y’think she had folks lookin’ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, she’s been walkin’ ‘lone for years. One, two, five, ten—Christ, maybe since the whole damn thing started.”

A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.

“She ain’t the same person you lost. And neither are you.”

The words twist deep, where you don’t want them to reach.

Eventually, you hear the floor creak again—Tommy’s boots moving away, Joel’s slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.

You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

And you don’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.

┈┈・┈┈

To say you’re skittish is an understatement.

Tommy and Maria’s house feels too clean. Too normal. Every sound—every creak, every low murmur from the kitchen—puts your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you don’t belong here.

The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.

Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.

Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.

Beds. Nightstands. Floors that don’t creak from rot.

Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.

You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.

Almost.

But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.

They never complained. Not once.

Maria—she tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like she’s seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.

He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. “Healin’ good,” he says. “Maria’s been keepin’ the bandages clean. You’re lucky she’s the one runnin’ the place.”

You nod. You never know what to say back.

He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. “Jackson’s different,” he tells you. “We got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.”

You hum under your breath, skeptical. “Sounds like a QZ,” you croak out before you can stop yourself.

Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. “Ain’t no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardin’ food. We look out for each other here.”

You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,

“I wouldn’t have stayed if it wasn’t what I said.”

He means it. You can tell.

Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.

Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.

You’re sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.

When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. “Got someone who wants to see you,” she says.

Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. “Who?”

Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. “A visitor.”

You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. “Alright.”

She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wall—Tommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his father’s grin. You pause for half a second, staring.

A son. You hadn’t known.

Your pulse stutters.

Maria’s voice pulls you back. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if it’s Joel? What if he came here, decided he’d had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice already—low, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.

No. You can’t do that. Not yet.

Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. “Don’t worry. She’s kind. Sometimes.”

She.

The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.

Then you see her.

Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her hands—a knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hair’s brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.

It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.

Maria’s voice is light. “Ellie. I brought her.”

Right. Ellie.

She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.

Her mouth opens first. “Uh… hey.”

You nod once, your throat too tight for words.

She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. “You, uh… you probably don’t remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kinda…” She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. “Y’know. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.”

“I remember.”

“Oh.” She blinks too, like she wasn’t expecting that. “Cool.”

Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. “I’ll let y’all talk.”

You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.

The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. “I wanna… apologize.”

She says that last word like it’s a grater dragged across her throat.

You raise an eyebrow.

“For—uh—stickin’ you like a pig.”

Your frown comes without effort. “You stabbed me.”

“Yeah. Guess that’s another word for it. My bad.”

You just stare at her.

She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, “You were sneakin’ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I just—look, I didn’t know who you were, okay?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because she’s just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.

“I’ll live,” you say quietly.

She sighs, quick and relieved. “Yeah, looks like it.”

Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.

“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “You were… married to Joel?”

You stiffen. That one hits bone.

“Okay, too soon.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s—” You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. “Yes. We were married.”

“Wow.” She whistles softly. “I mean, huh. You and Joel. That’s—” She stops, shakes her head, smirking. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, y’know?”

“He wasn’t always.”

“Yeah?”

“He liked to dance.”

That makes her laugh—loud, surprised. “Bullshit.”

“He did. Badly.”

She snorts. “Okay, now I gotta see that someday.”

You don’t answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like she’s working up the nerve to keep going.

“So… you guys got, uh…” She squints. “What’s the word—divorced? Before the outbreak? You said ‘were married’.”

The question hits you like cold water.

“No,” you say softly. “No, we didn’t.”

“Oh.” She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. “Just been a long time, huh?”

You exhale through your nose. “Yeah. Long time.”

Ellie is easy in a way you’ve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesn’t know how to sit still. She reminds you of… you, before the world before it burned down.

You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long she’s been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.

She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn she’s got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.

And then—

Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. “You… you must’ve known Sarah, then.”

The name slices through you like wire.

Sarah.

You blink, too slow, too hard.

“Sarah,” you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. “Of course I do.” You can’t stop the small laugh that breaks out of you—shaky, a little too high. “God, how did I not ask? I didn’t even—she’s grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does she—does she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball she’d kick around the kitchen—drove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floor—”

You stop. Because Ellie isn’t smiling.

She’s staring at you.

And her whole face has gone still.

“Oh.”

Just that.

And you know.

Instantly.

Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You can’t feel your hands. You can’t feel anything.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. “No. Not Sarah.”

Ellie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches you, stricken.

You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. “No, she—she’s just a kid. She is—she—”

You don’t finish. The words choke, collapse.

Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize you’ve moved.

You see Sarah’s hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something she’d drawn.

Gone. Forever fourteen.

Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasn’t true.

You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isn’t human—it’s raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.

Ellie’s eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. “Hey, hey, I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellie’s voice is muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. You don’t even hear what she’s saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarah’s voice calling for you in the dark.

Your throat closes. You can’t breathe. You can’t see.

“She’s gone,” you whisper to no one. “She’s gone. Sarah’s gone.”

Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. “Hey—hey, slow down. It’s okay. You’re safe, you hear me?”

You shake your head. “No. No, I—she—” You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. “She’s just a kid. She—she calls me—she calls me mama—”

Maria’s eyes soften, and that’s worse. You can’t bear it. Her pity feels like fire.

You hear Tommy’s boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. “What happened?”

Ellie’s voice, trembling. “I—I told her about Sarah.”

Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. “Christ almighty.” He doesn’t look at you for long—maybe he can’t.

You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.

You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like it’s tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.

“She’s gone,” you whisper, voice trembling. “She’s gone, and I didn’t—”

Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.

Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between them—understanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. “I’ll get him,” he says, and he’s gone before Maria can stop him.

Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. “I wasn’t there,” you whisper. “I wasn’t there.”

Maria’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.

A sound—heavy boots, the door opening. You don’t have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.

Joel’s frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.

“Darlin’,” he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.

You shake your head, stepping back.

He doesn’t listen. He never did. In three long strides he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—” You push at him weakly. “She’s gone, Joel. She’s gone.”

He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, shaking. “I know, baby, I know.”

You pound your fists against him, but the strength’s gone from your body. “You don’t—”

“I do,” he cuts in, desperate. “I do.”

You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.

“She’s gone,” you whisper, smaller now. “Our girl. She—”

He doesn’t let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.

Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.

He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. “Don’t—don’t do that,” you rasp.

He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You wanna know what happened?”

You don’t answer, but he tells you anyway.

He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragments—him and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommy’s truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.

“\We were tryin’ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told him—told him to take us down. I was holdin’ her when he fired.” He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. “She was scared. Cryin’. I told her I had her. That I wasn’t gonna let go.”

You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. “You held her,” you say, the words barely forming. “You—”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t—” His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.

You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.

You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.

You reach out.

He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.

You cry until you can’t anymore—quietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t move to fix it.

Now it’s just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because there’s nothing else left to do.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

Joel didn’t give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.

He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldn’t get his head bitten off. But when he looked at you—eyes blank, body barely holding itself upright—he just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.

The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it should’ve been—like he’d gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didn’t thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.

The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didn’t come in.

By the third night, he’d moved a chair into your room and sat there while you slept—if you could call it that.

Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. You’d wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, “You’re alright,” though neither of you believed it.

By the end of the first week, he’d stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.

Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.

Tonight is like every one of those nights.

It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joel’s there in a second, just coming off his patrol.

“Hey,” he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. “Hey, now. Look at me.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re somewhere else entirely.

He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. “You’re safe,” he tries again. “You’re right here, darlin’.”

That word—it tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

But it isn’t. It isn’t okay.

Your voice comes out hoarse, like you haven’t spoken in years. “She was scared.”

Joel freezes.

“She was—she was scared, and I wasn’t there.”

He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.

“I just know it.”

His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue—but then he just lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, only it’s broken right down the middle.

Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. “I was supposed to protect her,” he chokes out. “That was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.”

Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.

He doesn’t flinch away.

“She was—she was so little,” you whisper.

He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. “She was,” he breathes.

Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.

When you finally speak, it’s a wish you didn’t plan to say.

“I wish Ellie’s knife killed me.”

Joel’s head snaps up.

“What?”

You meet his eyes—really meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. “That knife,” you say, voice breaking. “When she stabbed me—I didn’t think it then. But now…” Your throat locks. “It should’ve killed me. I can’t… can’t live in a world that took Sarah.”

He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something he’d buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.

“Don’t say that,” he rasps.

“Joel—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. “Don’t you ever say that. You hear me?”

You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.

“I can’t lose you too,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I ain’t strong ‘nough for that.”

“You already lost me.”

“No. No, you’re still here. You’re breathin’. You’re here.”

Something inside you caves in. You don’t know which one of you moves first, but suddenly he’s holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.

You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.

He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. There’s no logic in the way he looks at you—just devastation and recognition, like you’re both staring into the same pit and realizing you’ve been standing beside each other the whole time.

He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.

But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.

He looks up, startled at first, like he’s not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

He blinks. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t go.”

The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they sound—but they’re true. Every piece of you feels hollow when he’s not near.

Joel’s throat works. He studies you like he’s trying to find the right answer in your face. “You sure?” he murmurs.

You nod, but it’s shaky. He still doesn’t move.

“I mean it,” he says again, voice rough. “You—don’t gotta say things you don’t—”

“I said don’t go.”

That’s all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinking—your hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like you’re checking to make sure he’s real.

He doesn’t stop you. You pull him closer.

He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like he’s fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.

You tug him down until he’s lying beside you.

You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at first—two unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.

You don’t know what you’re doing. Neither does he.

He exhales against your temple, like he’s afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.

His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You don’t realize you’re crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.

He whispers something you can’t quite catch. Maybe it’s your name. Maybe it’s hers. You don’t ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touch—your shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.

It’s clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.

You both crack there—slow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.

And this new ritual continues.

Time folds in on itself—weeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.

The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.

By late November, you’ve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You don’t always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.

He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think he’s waiting to see if you’ll join him. You rarely do.

Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimes—only simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes she’d drown in syrup, not the chicken stew she’d claim was “better than school lunch.” You can’t.

The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn she’s been staying there. She has her own rhythm—friends, her girlfriend. It’s soft, watching her have something sweet.

Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmers’ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.

“Maybe next week,” you say

He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.

And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.

Sometimes you thank him.

Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.

Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilot—bare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.

You’re about to shower, something you’ve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.

But when you open the drawer for clothes—nothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans you’ve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.

You curse softly under your breath.

Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joel’s handwriting—blocky, uneven.

Went to help at the barn.

Didn’t get to the laundry yet. My bad.

You can borrow whatever of mine you need.

—J.M.

You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.

Your face warms. You forgot he’s been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.

Your bras.

Your panties.

God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.

The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:

Stay warm. Water heater’s touchy again—let it run first.

You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.

You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.

When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they don’t like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find it—cedar and faint tobacco.

Soft flannel. His.

You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You haven’t worn Joel’s clothes in years—a whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.

You hesitate anyway.

“Jesus,” you whisper to no one. “You’re ridiculous.”

You slip it on.

The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.

And suddenly you’re back there. In that other life.

The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way he’d leave his boots by the door and say, “I’ll get ‘em later,” and you’d roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when he’d come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.

You don’t mean to move, but you do—backward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.

“Goddamn you,” you whisper into the cotton.

But what you mean is thank you.

It’s like being wrapped in him. And God, you’re terrified of what it means. Not of him—never of him—but of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.

He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.

Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldn’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than this—or so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.

Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.

No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Don’t do this.

But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.

C’mon, darlin’. Let go for me.

You’re lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.

Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.

You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; you’re already drenched. When’s the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesn’t leave room for want.

You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.

Please, Joel. Touch me. I’ve been so cold.

One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.

You take me so good, baby. Always have.

You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.

Your breast spills free—flushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.

You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.

The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.

You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?

You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.

The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You don’t move to cover yourself.

The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.

Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but it’s drowned by the slow creep of something else.

Guilt, maybe.

You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:

You might be falling in love with your husband again.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

He was early.

You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked… nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.

When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. “You look—uh. Nice.”

You smiled. “You too.”

He was wearing his usual—plaid shirt, denim jacket, jeans—but somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like he’d actually wiped them off before coming.

The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.

“So,” Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. “Uh—”

You looked up. “Uh?”

“I should probably jus’—jus’ say this upfront.”

You set your menu down, a small smile forming. “Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. “I got a kid,” he blurted. “Her name’s Sarah. She’s one. Almost two.”

He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.

“She’s… well, she’s my whole damn world. I jus’ don’t wanna waste anyone’s time pretendin’ otherwise.”

He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasn’t something he said often—probably something he practiced in his head on the way here.

“You love her.”

He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. “Yeah. More’n I thought I could love anythin’, to be honest. It’s jus’ been me and her since—well, since birth.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “So that’s kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethin’ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitin’.”

You grinned. “You sound like a good dad.”

That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didn’t quite know what to do with the words. “You ain’t—uh—you’re not scared off?”

“By a good dad?” you teased. “No. I think that’s actually kind of attractive.”

His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s a first.”

After that, the tension broke.

You asked him about his work—how long he’d been building houses—and his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics he’d probably hate.

And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.

“She’s wild,” Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Got more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was ‘too old’ to play hide and seek.”

You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.

“She’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askin’ me if there’s any still walkin’ ‘round Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe there’s one hidin’ in the Hill Country.”

“She sounds smart.”

“Too damn smart, sometimes.” He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, “Her mama—well. She ain’t ‘round. So I’m jus’ tryin’ to figure it out best I can.”

You didn’t press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.

Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twice—quick, flickering glances that he pretended didn’t happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that “wouldn’t fill a bird.”

It was nice. Simple.

By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.

“Joel—”

“Nope.”

“C’mon, at least let me—”

“Darlin’, don’t even try.”

You stared at him, fighting a smile. “Darlin’?”

He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. “Oh. Uh—slipped out. Sorry.”

You laughed. “Don’t be.”

He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.

When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.

At your front door, he stopped.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.”

“Me too.”

He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. “If you wanna… maybe—I don’t know—keep goin’. Not tonight, I mean—well, maybe tonight, but not like that—jus’… I mean, if you wanna see me ‘gain.”

You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.

“Sorry,” you said between breaths. “You’re just—”

“Terrible at this?”

“Adorable,” you corrected.

“Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”

You stepped closer, your voice quieter. “Then I guess you were overdue.”

And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.

It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.

“You wanna come inside?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. “Sarah’s with Tommy.”

You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. “Right. So you should probably—”

“I’ll jus’ pay him more,” he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.

That made you laugh. “You sure?”

He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.

The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.

And that, was the start of it all.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.

The crowds gathered around the tree—families, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.

Tommy’s got Benji in his arms. The kid’s nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.

You lean a little closer, smile softly. “He’s about two minutes from a faceplant.”

Tommy grins, voice low so he doesn’t wake the boy. “Yeah, he’s a fighter though. Ain’t givin’ in easy.”

Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. “Want me to take him?”

Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. “Hey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?”

Aunt. You’re not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.

He’s warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought you’d forgotten.

Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. “You always were good with kids,” he says.

You smile, brushing a curl from Benji’s forehead. “Guess it’s like riding a bike.”

“Yeah,” Tommy murmurs. “One hell of a bike.”

You don’t respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benji’s lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. He’s got that same Miller look—those brown eyes, that furrow even when he’s half-asleep. You’ve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.

Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.

Maria’s speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.

“There’s my boys,” she says, coming over.

She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Maria’s shoulder.

“Out cold,” she whispers, smiling.

You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once he’s gone.

The music starts again—a few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. You’d almost forgotten you brought yours.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. “This is for Benji.”

Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details careful—each line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop who’d carved it by hand.

“Look at this,” Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. “You serious? You got this for him?”

You shrug, a little bashful. “He’s obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.”

Maria smiles, kissing her son’s temple. “He’s gonna love it.”

You hand her two more small bundles—one for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything you’ve felt in years.

Tommy whistles low. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.

“This one’s from us.”

“You didn’t—”

“Jus’ open it,” he says, voice low.

The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.

It’s a photo.

A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.

You and Joel—both asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarah’s in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like she’s in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadow—Tommy, holding the camera.

Your throat closes.

You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. “Tommy… how—”

“After the outbreak,” he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. “First couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepin’ it safe.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesn’t stop the ache building in your chest.

“I thought they were all gone,” you whisper.

Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.

You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you don’t drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.

Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.

You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Tommy’s face is all soft lines. “Go eat. You look like you’ll fall into the fire otherwise.” He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like he’s offering you heaven on a platter.

It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.

A man steps in front of you—too close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. He’s around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like it’s a badge.

“You lookin’ lonely,” he says, grin crooked. “Mind if I—”

“I’m not,” you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.

He doesn’t take the hint, following you. “Come on, lighten up. I’ve got a bottle with your name on it.”

“Not interested,” you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.

He laughs like you’re the joke. “Someone’s touchy. You look like you could use a good time.”

“Or maybe you could use a lesson,” you say. “Either way, back off.”

People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The man’s jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.

“Don’t,” you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.

He bends, leans in. “I said—”

You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.

“Jesus—” he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.

“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Don’t touch any woman who doesn’t want it. Fuck off asshole.”

He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.

The he moves.

Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neck—hard—and cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the man’s face.

You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesn’t get the chance.

A blur of motion—then the man’s body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.

You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.

Joel’s there.

Not the quiet Joel. Not the ‘coffee in the morning’ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas station—feral and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife!”

The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then he’s on him.

Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.

Joel doesn’t hear. He’s somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.

“Joel!” you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. “Joel, stop!”

He doesn’t.

You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.

That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyes—they’re wild. Like he doesn’t even recognize where he is.

Then he sees you.

The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyone’s staring. No one moves.

Joel’s chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his hands—bloodied and shaking—on your face.

“Hey. Hey, look at me. You okay?” His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. “He hurt you? Tell me if he did.”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. You’re fine. You were fine. You always were.

He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.

Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommy’s face through the haze—brows drawn, mouth tight. Maria’s beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesn’t change.

You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.

The fear comes slow.

Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you can’t stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.

He doesn’t speak until you’re well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.

Then you pull away.

“Stop,” you say.

He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like this—softer really, though the blood on his hands hasn’t dried yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “If I scared you. I didn’t mean to. I’m—so sorry, darlin’.”

You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. “No. It’s not that. I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His brow furrows. “Can’t do what?”

“This,” you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. “You. Me. The way you—look at me like I’m still…” You stop, shaking your head. “Like we’re still the same people.”

He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“You scare me, Joel.”

The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesn’t block.

He blinks. “What?”

“You scare me,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like I’m still yours.”

“You are mine.”

You close your eyes. The snow’s starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I jus’—he touched you, and I saw red. I couldn’t—hell, I ain’t proud of it, but I’d do it ‘gain if it meant—”

“Joel.” You interrupt, firm. “Just stop.”

He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.

You take a step back. Then another. “You keep saying you’re sorry, but you’re not. You’re still justifying it. You think it’s love, but it’s not. It’s fear. It’s control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you won’t lose me again.”

His chest rises and falls, ragged. “You don’t understand—”

“You were my husband,” you say, your voice shaking now. “You were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And now—now you’re back, and I don’t know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I can’t. You smother me, Joel.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to smother you, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”

“I don’t need you to keep me alive,” you fire back. “I already did that for twenty years without you.”

He takes a step closer, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to not care ‘bout you. You understand? I don’t know how to turn that off. I’ve already lost everythin’ once, I can’t—”

“But you aren’t my husband anymore.”

He stops cold.

The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like he’s trying to recognize a face in a dream—one that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.

“No.”

“Joel—”

“No.” He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t do that to me.”

You step forward, voice soft. “Joel, listen to me—”

“You don’t get to just say that like it’s some Goddamn fact. Like it ain’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. “Y’think I can jus’ stop bein’ your husband ‘cause the world went to shit?”

You feel your throat close. “That’s not what I—”

“‘Cause I never stopped.” His voice cracks, raw and broken. “Not for one second. Every day, I—” He presses a fist against his chest, like he’s trying to hold something in. “I woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkin’ of you. When I saw—when I saw Ellie—I thought, ‘you’d like her,’ because I still—still thought about what you’d like.”

“Joel…”

He’s breathing hard now, his voice shaking. “Y’think I don’t know what I am? What I’ve done? Y’think I don’t hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I never—” He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.

“Don’t—stop—”

But he’s already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.

The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.

You go still.

Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.

“I didn’t wear it for twenty-somethin’ years, carried it ‘round in my pocket,” he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. “Couldn’t. Didn’t feel right. But when I found you ‘gain, when I—when I saw you—” His hand trembles as he grips the ring. “I started wearin’ it ‘gain.”

You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.

“I thought of you every day,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Beat myself bloody over losin’ you and Sarah. Over not savin’ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ain’t your husband.” His voice cracks. “How the hell am I supposed to live with that?”

You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isn’t fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.

Because your hands are already moving.

You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.

Joel’s breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.

“You… you didn’t have it, when you left. How did you—”

“I couldn’t let it go.”

He makes a sound—half sob, half gasp—and suddenly he’s moving.

The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then you’re both crashing together like you’ve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding you upright.

The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You don’t even notice.

You taste salt—tears, his or yours, you can’t tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.

“Please,” he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. “Don’t—don’t go.”

“No,” you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes him—low, guttural, broken.

“C’mon,” he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. “Let’s go… home.”

“Okay.”

He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.

Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellie’s there.

Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like he’s relearning your weight against his.

You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. “Joel—” you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t care. Keep goin’,” he insists.

He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. “No. Joel, c’mon. Sit.”

He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, he’s already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.

“Take it off,” you instruct softly.

He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, he’s different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you don’t need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.

Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.

“You need to be careful. You aren’t young anymore, can’t heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.”

He doesn’t answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.

You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.

You can tell he’s unsure what to say, and for once, it’s the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.

Joel’s thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. He’s watching you, and it makes your chest ache.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.

You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. There’s something in the way he exhales, a tension you’ve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.

There’s a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until it’s just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.

You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.

Both of you know what the other wants. Words aren’t needed in a relationship like yours and Joel’s.

“I… are you sure?” you still check. “It might be too much. And your side might be—”

“Darlin’.”

“Yes?”

He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Stop talkin’.”

You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yours—soft, tentative.

Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like you’d dreamed of for countless nights.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.

The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.

In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. It’s been years since you’ve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.

Your cheeks flush, and you give him a shy, light peck on the lips.

Joel pauses briefly, pulling back just enough to study your face with concern and intensity. “Hey… are you ‘kay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m fine,” you reply, slightly breathless, hands resting on his shoulders. “It’s just… been a while.”

His lips curve into a small, crooked smile. “You’re ain’t alone in that.”

Relief washes over you, comforting you like a warm blanket.

Joel’s hands steady your hips, guiding you as you press against him. Your hips move together, a desperate rhythm. The couch creaks faintly beneath you, but neither of you notices.

Your hands slide up to his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, and he lets out a low, shuddering breath. His eyes darken, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, almost to himself, his voice rough with awe. “Look at you.”

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but there’s no room for embarrassment. The rhythm slows, and he leans back and before you can process it, he’s easing you off his lap, guiding you to lie back.

He kneels between your legs, his movements unhurried. His fingers find the hem of your jacket and shirt, and he pauses, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His hands move to your jeans next, unbuttoning them. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off, leaving you in just your panties and bra.

Joel sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over you. He huffs out a breath, a low sound that’s half awe, half restraint. His fingers trace a slow path over the fabric covering your slit, and you both shiver at the contact.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “One thing I forgot was how pretty you looked in these. How fuckin’… soft.”

You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and his expression shifts to something almost pleading.

“Touch yourself. Wanna see.”

You hesitate for a moment, but his gaze is patient, urging you on without pressure. Slowly, you slide your fingers down, pulling your panties to the side. You touch yourself, tentative at first, moving through slick, then with more confidence as you feel his eyes on you.

Joel groans, a deep, guttural sound. His hand moves to the front of his jeans, unzipping them but not pulling them down, just enough to let his bulge sit heavy in his boxers. You swallow hard, your eyes flicking to the outline of him, your fingers faltering.

“Keep goin’,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “Need somethin’ pretty to watch. My cock… it don’t work the same no more, but you—” He breaks off, his hand palming himself through the fabric. “You’re doin’ so good.”

His words sink into you, warm and safe, fueling the fire. You circle quicker, your fingers finding a rhythm, and Joel’s breath grows uneven.

He shifts, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself, his soft cock in his hand as he begins to stroke slowly. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. Your skin prickles under his gaze, and a flicker of insecurity creeps in.

“I’m… sorry,” you mumble, eyes dropping. “My body’s not what it used to be.”

Joel’s hand stills, and a low growl rumbles from his chest. “Get that the fuck outta your head,” he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. “I ain’t a catch, darlin’ no more. Look at me—gray hairs, creaky knees. But you? You’re still everythin’.”

You moan softly, emboldened, and slip a finger through your folds, the stretch drawing a shudder through your body. His gaze darkens, his strokes growing firmer as his cock hardens, springing up against his soft belly.

Without warning, Joel leans forward, his hands finding your waist. “C’mere,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him, and promptly bent down to put you over his shoulder with a grunt.

You gasp, your center of gravity thrown off.

“Joel, don’t show off!” you say, swatting at his back.

He chuckles low, and gives your ass a smack as he climbs the stairs. “Don’t matter if I’m sixty or thirty-six, darlin’. I’m makin’ sure you don’t lift a damn finger.”

The world tilts back to normal as he sets you down on his bed with a huff. He steps back, eyes raking over you, then lies back on the bed, his hand brushing his lips as he looks over at you.

“Sit,” he says, his voice low and commanding.

Your cheeks flush, and you hesitate, glancing down at yourself. “I’m… I’m too heavy,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

“’Gain with this? Sit, darlin’. I ain’t askin’.” His hand reaches for yours, and the certainty in his voice pulls you past your hesitation.

You slip your soaked panties off and move to hover over his face, your thighs framing his head, your own gaze drawn to his hardened cock, now fully erect and resting against his stomach. Joel’s hands grip your hips, and with a low growl, he pulls you down, his tongue finding you with familiar skill that makes you gasp.

The heat of his mouth, the way he works you, makes you wetter than you thought possible.

Your eyes drift to his cock, and you lean forward, your breath catching as you take in the sight of him. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the ridges, and Joel groans against you, “Keep touchin’ me.” he mumbles into you, his voice muffled.

You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue. “You’re so good,” you whisper, barely aware of the words spilling out. “Joel, I—”

His hands guide your hips, urging you to move faster, and you comply, grinding harder against his mouth as your hand works him in tandem. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and before you can shy away, you lean forward further, taking him into your mouth, and Joel’s hips buck slightly, a choked groan escaping him.

You hum around him, the vibration drawing another groan from deep in his chest. Pre cum fills your mouth, and you kitten lick at the tip. You can feel Joel’s thighs tense around your head, his groans against your pussy groaning.

The rhythm between you grows frantic, you sucking deep with hollow cheeks, his tongue entering and exiting.

“Joel—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to speak. “I’m close—oh fuck—shit, shit, shit!”

He doesn’t respond with words, but his tongue moves with renewed purpose, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension in your core snaps, and you come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your body trembling against his mouth.

You ride it out, hips moving instinctively, chasing every last pulse of sensation until your breath steadies and you slump forward.

Joel’s hands are gentle now, easing you off him as he shifts beneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your side with a swift, the sudden change making your head spin. You laugh, breathless and a little indignant.

“Joel, you gotta stop manhandling me like that.

He chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief, his cock pressed flush against your ass. “What, you don’t like it?” he teases, leaning over shoulder, his hand braced on your side. “Thought you’d be used to me by now.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Joel’s gaze locks on yours, and he moves closer, notching himself against your sopping core. This feels different—different to all the touching and kissing and sweet gestures. Like the years apart have carved out a space that only this moment can fill. .

You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and the sight of him—his weathered face, the gray in his stubble, the liver spots on his face, the unguarded emotion in his eyes—hits you like nothing before. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and your voice trembles as you speak.

“I’ve missed you.”

He groans like you stabbed him.

“...I love you.”

He lets out a sound that’s half pleasure, half pain, and pushes into you slowly, filling you with a tenderness. “I love you too,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. “Always have. Always fuckin’ will.”

Your lips meet over your shoulder, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but neither of you cares. It’s love, pouring into every messy press of lips, every shared breath.

His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you as he moves, slow and deep, each thrust a reclamation of what you’ve both lost.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, and you feel the tremor in his grip. “Missed you so damn much,” he murmurs, like a secret meant just for you. “Thought I’d never get this ‘gain.”

“Me too,” you whisper, your voice thick with tears. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know if we’d ever—”

“Don’t think all that,” he cuts in softly, his lips brushing your shoulder. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

You nod, and let the moment carry you. His movements grow steadier, more purposeful, and you match him, like when things were simpler, when it was just you and him against the world.

His hand slides up your side, resting over your heart, and you feel its frantic beat under his palm, mirroring his own. Eventually, his hand holds your ring, holding so tight your worried it might snap off, but all you can focus on is the pleasure and the cold sting of his own ring against your back.

You feel the tension coiling in your core, and Joel’s movements falter slightly, his own release building. “Your close…” he simply notes, his lips brushing your ear.

“Yes…” you breathe, your voice trembling. “You?”

“Fuck, yeah,” he mutters, a faint chuckle in his voice, but it’s laced with something else. “Together, alright? Stay with me.”

His hand moves to your cheek, turning your face so he can look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes undoes you. You move together, faster now, chasing the edge together.

You cry out, your body trembling as the pleasure overtakes you, and Joel groans, deep and guttural, his grip tightening as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cum fills you warm and sticky.

Your bodies shudder together. You’re both gasping, clinging to each other, the intensity leaving you both raw and exposed.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, staying tangled together, his arms wrapped around you, your fingers still laced with his. The silence is comforting, a space where words aren’t needed.

Joel shifts slightly, his breath still uneven, and reaches for his handkerchief on the nightstand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. He gently wipes the sweat from your skin, his hands careful and deliberate. You lean into his touch, your body relaxing under his care.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into the lines of his face.

“More than okay,” you whisper. “You?”

“I’m good.” His thumb lingers on your cheek, and for a moment, the world feels soft, safe, just the two of you.

His eyes search yours, and then, something sparks behind them.

He sits up with a sudden burst of energy, slipping out of you gently. “Sit with me.” He gestures to the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but insistent. Your dazed, but you still follow him, pulling the covers with you. You wrap yourself and Joel underneath the sheet, pressed flush against each other.

No words are traded, no noise, nothing but feelings.

Joel’s hand moves to the chain around his neck. He tugs it, snapping it free. He holds your gaze, then reaches for your neck. You swallow hard, your heart pounding, but you nod, giving him permission. He tugs, and the chain breaks with a quiet snap, falling away.

He unspools the rings from their respective chains, tossing the broken metal over his shoulder without a second glance. He stares at them, his eyes glistening, and you feel your own throat tighten.

“What are you doing.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Are you going to make me guess?”

Mwah!

“Joel…”

Mwah!

You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”

Mwah! Mwah!

“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”

He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely fight him off.

“Joel, what are you doing with our rings?”

He looks down at them, tracing the gold edge.

Then he began to speak, low and raw.

“I loved you ‘fore everythin’, y’know?”

“I know baby.”

“I loved you in every sunrise I saw without you, every quiet night I spent thinkin’ of you. I loved you through fear, through anger, through losin’ myself trying to find you ‘gain. And I… I still love you. Always have, always will.”

Tears spring to your eyes, and you hide your face against his shoulder.

“I never stopped,” you whisper. “Not once.”

“I know darlin’.”

His hand lifts yours, and together you trade rings—his for yours, yours for his—as a silent acknowledgment of every scar, every loss, every year separated.

“I vow,” he continues, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “To keep findin’ you. To stand with you through the shit, through hell. Ain’t ever let you feel alone, not ‘gain. You are my heart, my home, my life.

He swallowed.

“My wife.”

You reach for his hands, steadying them in yours. “And I vow… I vow to love you. To stay by you side, never let something come in between us again. I will walk with you, always.”

You smiled wider than you have in years.

“My husband.”

The rings slip onto fingers that know each other so intimately.

You pull each other close, pressing foreheads together. And then, finally, lips meet—slow, then urgent, sure. A kiss that stitches together all the lost time.

And you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.

Ah yes, tragic lovers. My favorite hehe

Tag list (just for this fic):

@spookychaossuit, @joeldjarin

˚.⋆𓂃𓊝 / / all work and designs are owned and copyrighted by @followyourfleart (©2023-2026). all rights reserved.

[watermelonshine]

content : ellie is still fucking horny and you're trying to sleep (cw : 18+, minors dni, high key somnophilia, ellie has the libido of a rabbit, short drabble)

ellie is insatiable, she'll not be done with the four rounds you already had. she wants more.

she'll wrap her hands around your tired body and press herself against you, with her heat rubbing against your ass. you're so warm and comforting to hold, it all makes her want to rut on you even more.

she lifts one of your legs and slids in hers between yours and oh fuck, she feels like she'll go insane. she can feel your wetness from the previous rounds, the previous rounds where you were nothing but a bambling mess around her tongue. she nuzzles her nose against the crook of your neck while leaving behind sloppy kisses on your back. if she could be any closer to you than she already is, she would.

she presses her knee against your already wet pussy and- ah there it is. small whimpers leave your lips. as if it was like fuel to her already hot fire, she drags her hands south and finds your clit. her lips don't stop abusing your neck, which already had several hickeys, while her hands play with your bundle of nerves. you're panting, groaning and stirring in your sleep, desperately in need of rest. but ellie needs more.

[holyblanchett]

"Joel killed 19 people." ok?? Am I supposed to care?? God forbid a man has hobbies 🙄

[luskbook]

tlou au, inspired by @/_eclrr_ on twitter

[hersuniverse]

#AFTERCARE

P*RNSTARS 'N PAINTINGS

Masterlist

Synopsis: new apartment, new hot neighbor and very needed new pink curtains.

WC: 5K

Warnings: MDNI 18+, camgirl!reader, artist!ellie, maturbation, squirting, fingering, tribbing, voyeurism(?) ,

It was your first real move, your first apartment wasn’t far from your parents house, unfortunately, so when the opportunity to move somewhere far, far away presented itself you were gone with the wind. 

The apartment you found was perfect, a big one bedroom flat with many windows. Though the two windows in your room were directly across from someone else’s apartment, it didn’t take away from the views you had in your living room. 

You signed the lease, got the keys and you were letting the movers bring your boxes in, in no time. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be all alone in such a big spot like this.” One of the movers joked, you rolled your eyes. 

“You should have someone strong around to protect you.” He flexed his biceps in some corny manner, trying to flatter you somehow; yet it only seemed to give you the ick.

“No need.” You whistled, first came jaws, a tiny puppy you’d recently picked up from the pound. He was an absolute sweetheart and you clicked with him from the first time you met him “I have Jaws!” You smiled, now holding the pup in your arms. 

“This little guy? He doesn’t seem like he’d hurt a fly!” The himbo in front of you folded his arms over his chest. “Who said I just had one?” You whistled once more “Binks!” You called, to which came running a larger dog.

“Holy shit.” He took a step back, the Rottweiler sat at your feet, panting happily. “Binks is three in a few weeks, she’s friendly, trust me.” Binks was another rescue, she was always so friendly with new people but she knew when playtime was just about over. 

“I think we’re just fine here, thanks though!” You forced a smile.

Once the men were done moving everything in, you spoke with their supervisor, making sure everything was taken care of. “Oh and the spare you gave us will be taken care of, we have special services that repurpose any keys that aren’t needed.” You furrowed your brows, it was suspicious but you didn’t want to argue it too much.

They had an option for you to allow them a spare key in case you weren’t home for them to move you stuff in, which sounded reasonable at first but now, you were starting to regret it.

“Are you sure that’s, you know, safe? Legal even-”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, it’ll be melt down my eleven tonight. I’ll make sure of it.” He smiled, he seemed set on it — probably some sort of commission, maybe it was just part of the job. Though something did feel off about it, you let it go. 

You planned how you wanted to decorated the place but of course, that wouldn’t get done until atleast the end of the week. So instead you decorated your room the best you could, hell you even went as far as setting up your desk and cam stuff to maybe even stream a little; get a bit of extra pocket change. 

Sitting in front of your laptop with the website pulled up, you were just about ready to go live and then you remembered, turning slowly to the window, you had no curtains. 

“Fuck me!” You got up, walking over to the window you analyze your neighbours room. Whoever they were, they had a lot of cool stuff lying around and an easel? Did you manage to move in next door to a painter? 

As if on cue, you saw through the open bedroom door the hallway light turned on. You decided to keep watching, so you did just that, crossing your arms over your chest as you observed.

It was a girl, maybe around your age, she was cute you wouldn't lie, but she looked stressed. She didn’t notice you — not yet at least — she tossed down her side bag and began rummaging through the place.

Searching for something until she seemingly found it, a sketchpad? She dropped it down onto the desk in front of the parallel window, still too focused to notice you, she began flipping through the pages clearly muttering to herself. 

It wasn’t until she stood up straight, running her hands through her hair, her eyes caught yours and she froze. Now this, this was awkward, the girl was very clearly embarrassed to be caught brainstorming whatever it was she was doing and you — you were people watching, a normal occurrence for you actually.

You both blinked a few times before you decided to give her a small wave and smile, hoping to come off as friendly. She looked behind her then back to you before pointing at herself; she couldn’t be this dense? 

You nodded your head, giggling to yourself; cute, probably talented and funny? What a score.

She nervously waved back, you came up with the smart idea to open the window. Looking down at the locks you tried to decipher them before attempting just to make yourself not look stupid, fucking architectures and their complex living designs.

You thought, why not ask your neighbour? Turning your attention back to her you were met with closed curtains, your stomach sank, was it something you’d done? You tried to shrug it off and sat back at your desk, it ruined your mood, even if you could stream you didn’t even really want to anymore. 

You typed up a short announcement for your page, letting your fans and followers know that you’d be back in a few days due to your location move. With that, you shut your laptop and plopped down into your bed, Jaws joining you shortly after. 

“Hey bud,” you whispered, scratching behind his ear as he flopped over next to you. “I’m not that mean looking, am I Jaws?” You joked, slowly falling asleep as the thought of the girl pacing her room filled your mind. 

On the other hand, Ellie was up late, she’d sold one of her pieces earlier that evening but that only meant she had to get to work on her next big thing. “Shit.” She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands pulling at her roots and her knees bouncing. 

She could do Salt Lake City, a pretty portrait of what the place would look like post apocalyptic? No, that was too childish. She could do something displaying her personal struggle, but that would be too telling; she didn’t want people to know her personally. 

There was so much she could think of but nothing felt right to her, she sighed, laying back in her bed and staring at the ceiling. “Fuck my life.” She muttered, she sat in silence for a bit before turning back to closed curtains. 

She felt bad for abruptly cutting of your interaction but she knew she needed her focus, though she was curious, the last person that lived there had their blinds closed all the time; Maybe she should’ve been a bit warmer.

Ellie rose from her spot, slowly walking over to the closed curtains taking a breath before peeking through them. Your room was now dark, but she could still make out your sleeping silhouette on the bed and the small dog you had curled up next to you. “Awe.” She smiled to herself, Ellie had always wanted a dog growing up but Joel had always deemed her ‘not responsible enough’ to handle one. 

She stood there watching you, not in a creepy pervy way — maybe just a little bit — but in admiration. You were stunning from what she caught a glimpse from earlier, it made her kinda nervous to have someone as pretty as you just next door. 

She sat at her desk, opening her signature sketchbook and beginning to scribble. It was you, your silhouette at the window earlier and you now resting next to your pup, she also drew a small portrait of you with your smile and pretty nose. 

All it was missing was your eyes, she couldn’t recall what they looked like and it pissed her off. She spent all night trying to get them right but she couldn’t; she fell asleep at her desk trying to perfect your portrait but alas, her body betrayed her.

You spent the next few days unpacking, Jaws and Binks being your extra set of hands, or paws you should say. 

You sat on your couch, Jaws in your lap as you watched ‘Love island’ for the first time. “What the fuck is this.” You muttered to yourself about a hundred times while watching it but you just couldn’t pull yourself away from the screen.

Just as you were about to try and find something else to put on there was a light knock at your door. Jaws was quick to start barking and run to the door, you chuckled. “Alright Jaws, I heard it too.” Padding your way to the door, you weren’t expecting anyone? Who dares disturb you while you're so busy?

When you opened it, you were taken back by the girl before you.

“Hi.” She smiled, very obviously nervous. You gave her a soft smile in return. “Hello.” You greeted playfully.

“I, uh-” She squeezed her eyes shut, thinking. “Sorry, I’m Ellie.” She greeted, sticking her hand out for you to chase, you tilted your head to the side.

“Are you gonna open your eyes, babe?” You giggled, she did, blinking a few times before putting her hand back down. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” You introduced yourself, your name echoing through her head as you smiled at her. She couldn’t collect her thoughts in time, you looked down at her other hand that was pretty preoccupied. 

“Is that-” It was a try of two drinks and a small brown paper bag, had she gotten you breakfast? “Oh, yes. Yeah, I didn’t know if you drank coffee or liked tea, so I got you a hot chocolate. Can’t go wrong with that.” She handed you the cup, her hands stained with colors which confirmed your suspicions from the other night; she was a painter. 

“Still warm.” It melted your heart, not completely, but you did feel that sting at the back of your throat; the one that only meant one thing, tears. 

“I also brought you something to go with it, a croissant, freshly baked.” She handed you the folded paper bag, breakfast in bed? She was pulling so many strings.

“This is so sweet, thank you, what do I owe this pleasure?” She smiled. 

“Nothing, I just wanted to properly introduce myself to my new neighbour. I wasn’t all that nice the other night.” She fidgeted in her spot, kicking the ground. 

“Don’t apologize, I was- people watching. I’m sorry.” Her apologetic eyes made your stomach jump, something about her was just so intriguing and you wanted to find out what it was. “Uh- would you, like to come in?” You opened the door a bit wider, trying to invite her in.

“I would- love to but I have a meeting with a couple buyers.” She spoke with her hands, it was cute, like a t-Rex with their signature tiny hands. 

“Buyers?” You raised a brow, it sounded like what she did was very important. “Yeah, I do art. Well not do, I make art, well- I paint.” She corrected.

“Oh I see,” You smiled, an idea coming to mind. “Well I don’t wanna hold you here any longer, don’t want you to be late or anything.” 

“Yeah.” She sighed. “I’ll see you around then?” You asked and she nodded, you bid your goodbyes, as she was heading to the elevator you stuck your head out the door one last time. 

“Ellie?” You called, she spun around on her heel, stopped in her tracks. “Maybe you could paint me one day?” You could see the color rise to her cheeks, before she could answer you, you started again. 

“You know, like one of your French girls? If you catch my drift?” You smiled wide before disappearing into your apartment.

Ellie’s mind was filled with nothing more than your silhouette, your smell, your smile and your eyes. Sitting in the small conference room, her coffee had gone cold and she’d barely drunk it “like one of your French girls?” She whispered to herself for the thousandth time, smiling to herself; were you flirting with her? 

“Ellie?” She turned to Dina, her best friend and basically manager “Can you do this?” She asked, her voice was stern, this was serious. Of course Ellie had sold the painting at the gallery from the night before but now she needed to solidify the price and figure out if they had any other inquiries. 

“Yeah, yeah, I got this. In the bag.” She slouched back in her chair, trying to play it cool but the blush that started at your apartment never really went away. “We’re so fucked.” Dina sighed quietly as the buyers entered the room. 

“Mister and Misses Nelson! Hello, how are you?” Dina put on her best ‘servicing voice’ she called it — just another way of her saying customer service tone, but she’d never admit that — greeting the married couple. 

“I’ve got this.” Ellie reassured herself quietly. 

Ellie bursted through her apartment door, tossing down her side bag and shrugging off the sweater she wore. “Fucking idiot.” Kicking her shoes off, she began to pace, now you’d think that she flunked the sale, that the Nelsons walked out and she didn’t get a single penny; well that’s not the case.

She sold, and it was huge, the Nelsons brought in her biggest cheque to date. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars, her chest tightened when she heard it; she was always so used to a mere three thousand, eight thousand, and on some occasions maybe ten thousand, but this? This was big. 

That wasn’t the cause of her panic, no, the Nelsons wanted more than the one piece. They’d offered her a contract, they wanted her to do three more pieces. 

They’d pay her twenty-five thousand a piece, present them at a high end showcase and go 75/25 on the finalized prices — and no she wasn’t on the short end of the deal, they were giving her most of the profits. 

The only issue, Ellie’s pieces as of late had been lack luster in her eyes. Stuff she wouldn’t even sell on eBay in her opinion, the deal was perfect, she couldn’t just pass it up but how the fuck was she supposed to get out of an art block that she’s been facing for almost two months now?

She hadn’t realized she paced herself right into her room, maybe it was for the best because the first thing that popped into her mind was you. Curiously, she sat at her desk, same sketchbook, same spot, now though your environment had changed. 

You had curtains now, a pretty pink with a leopard print decorating it, though you hadn’t closed them. 

You sat in front of your webcam, wearing nothing more than a large t-shirt and your underwear. You felt lazy tonight, but you had a small fanbase to feed.

Sugama12 left a $25 dollar donation! -> you look so cute tonight. 

“Awe you’re so sweet, I’m still unpacking so no special outfit tonight. Can you guys forgive me?” You pouted to the camera, waiting for something to come in. 

user398760826: of course !!!

wetpussluvr9: flash us ur tits and maybe we will?

pinksilicone✓ left a $75 dollar donation! -> glad to see you back baby, I know ur hiding that delicious cunt from us. 

You rolled your eyes playfully “Penny,” you whined, you made mutuals with Penny when you first started, she taught you everything you needed to know about caming; also taught you how to handle such a crowd. 

“Fine you caught me, but you guys have just been so good to me for my first stream back.” You licked your lips, very obviously sneaking a hand between your thighs. 

“It just makes me so, I don’t know- horny.” You whimpered, pushing away from the desk in your rolling chair, giving your viewers a peek at your hand down your underwear. 

tealblu: ohmygoddddddd

oliveeeerrrrr: that’s so hot

titfckr: been waiting for this all day

Doubleaanderson left a $100 dollar donation! -> take ‘em off. 

You smiled, your eyes low, senses filled with pleasure. “Anything for you baby.” You giggled before doing so, your pussy on full display. 

“Ta-da.” You smiled, using your fingers to spread  yourself. “I’m drenched.” You whined. 

giggleshits14: so fucked out and so pretty, god I’ve seen what you’ve done for others

tealblu: slowdown, I can t type wit on e hand we ll

wetpussluvr9: I feel fed.

user398760826: squirting contest !!!

Doubleaanderson left a $150 dollar donation! -> cum, yeah.

pinksilicone✓ left a $350 dollar donation! -> fuck that baby, squirt, yeah. 

Thank god for Penny.

“Yes, mommy.” You whined happily, stuffing your cunt with three of your fingers. Pumping them in and out at a steady pace, your jaw hanging slack as your whimpers and whines grew louder. 

“Oh my-” There it was, the gush of sweet release. Your stomach caved in as you watched yourself come undone, your floor now resembling one of a swim deck; you had a mess to clean up later. 

pinksilicone✓ left a $100 dollar donation! -> good job baby! 

Doubleaanderson sent a $500 dollar donation! -> good girl. 

You pulled yourself back to your desk, missing the puddle of your own pleasure by inches. You smiled tiredly. “Thank you baby,” you tried fixing your now messy hair. 

“Now if you loves don’t mind, I have a mess to clean. I’ll come for you guys another time?” You smiled, many pings coming in as you blew a short kiss to the camera before logging off for the night. 

Ellie was astonished at the show you’d just put on, her heart was racing, the beat matching the one between her legs as well. Not only were you drop dead gorgeous in her eyes but you knew your body like the back of your hand, something about it made warmth pool in her underwear. 

She needed you, in more than one way, ways that would probably freak you out but god. It was beautiful. 

Maybe she should’ve stopped gawking, as you relaxed back in your chair, pushing away from your desk as you let out a long sigh of relief, you smiled to yourself. Slowly turning towards your window, you opened your eyes causing you to shoot up in your chair. 

Come to find out, you hadn’t closed your blinds that entire time and to your surprise there sat none other than Ellie at her window very obviously having watched your entire show from her window. 

Without thought you quickly got up and shut your newly bought curtains “I’m so fucking stupid.” You muttered to yourself as you held the curtains closed, you probably just scared off the girl of your nonexistent dreams. She’d probably label you a perverted freak, probably move out — seeing as she just found out she lives next door to a camgirl — tell her parents about you and they’d air your business out like dirty laundry to their neighbours. 

“Fuck!” You threw yourself onto your fresh spread. 

On the other hand, Ellie’s brain was moving like clogs. She sketched you so many times she couldn’t count them all, your pleasured face and your finger stuffed cunt. She imagined you in so many different positions and poses she couldn’t keep them bottled up, it gave her an idea.

She tried to sleep, but she couldn’t get you off her mind. She checked the windows to see if you’d opened your curtains, but still they remained shut. Ellie couldn’t help it, she got up around nine that morning, brewing a cup of black coffee and standing in front of a large empty canvas. 

“This is pervy.” She whispered to herself before begin the sketch.

Dina once told Ellie about a flower “Clitoria ternatea” also known as the butterfly pea, Dina explained that it resembled the clit pretty well. Like mother nature's very own pretty pussy in all its glory, searching up a few photos, Ellie shrugged. 

“Fuck it.” 

She was on a role, or so she thought. 

It took Ellie days to finalize the sketch, but once it came time to get to painting she was stuck. She felt as if she'd ruined the image if she added color to it, she was frustrated. 

She held the paint filled brush inches away from the canvas, hesitating. “Are you fucking kidding me.” She put the brush down before running a hand over her face, she huffed, staring at the sketch before her. 

The thought of you coming back to her, it brought back that warm feeling in her stomach and the clench between her thighs. “Mm- fuck.” She shifted, trying to fix her underwear. 

Still uncomfortable, still wet. “Shit.” She muttered, she took a moment to think to herself, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to-

“No, fuck that.” She began pacing, even peeked through her curtain to see what you were up to. Your curtains were wide open but the place was empty, just your two pups on your bed cuddled up together, sleeping. 

“Of course, she’s not home.” She muttered, walking back to the piece she was working on. It felt as if the painting had gotten bigger, as if when she turned her back it doubled in size. 

“No. No! It wasn’t this big before!” She grumbled, the flower was intimidating, the empty lines pleading for color. The white fabric seemed to be discolouring by the second, the image was distorting itself before her. 

“Fuck off, Fuck. Off.” 

She slammed her room door shut, shutting her curtains and dimming the room lights. Maybe it’s what she needed, a break from the brainstorming; she pulled up her laptop, ready to watch something corny and fall asleep hopefully. 

She sat at her home screen for a minute, her mind wandering to none other than you. She glanced at her curtains, she could tell your lights were still off; you hadn’t come home yet. 

“This is weird.” She whispered to herself as she opened her browser, switching to incognito and as if on cue she got a text from Dina. 

The Man (Dina): Nelson's found a showcase, three months away. 

her heart dropped. 

The Man(Dina): big spenders, big opportunity. bring ur best els, i know u can.

It was all too much, she wasn’t used to such high stress situations like this. A time crunch? She didn’t do that shit, it took her in total a month over the span of eight months to complete one piece and now she was pushing out orders like a machine? 

She sighed “Gotta loosen the screws somehow.” Ellie didn’t know where to start exactly, so she opened Instagram and searched your name. There you were, even your socials were pink — even if the layout was black, you somehow made it radiate a pretty pink.

Scrolling through your photos only made the girl realize that you were just as gorgeous online, there were thousands of people on your page you’d managed to rack up a solid fifty thousand followers. “Fuck me.” Ellie whispered as she sat up, moving her laptop into her lap. 

Her brows creased as she scrolled your page, eventually moving on to your stories which were way more lewd. She eventually came across a clip of you and Penny together “If you wanna see us kiss you should like, click the link!” Penny joked and you giggled, the two of you very obviously sweaty from your previous activities. 

Ellie knew better, it was an invasion of your privacy, hell she’d just met you — but it wasn’t a want at this point, no, it was a need. 

The link led straight to a pretty pink website, very obviously your page, it was an old stream.

You sat on Penny’s bed, making sure you were live. The comments came flooding in, asking questions about your new location and pretty lingerie set. 

“Is it live?” Penny asked, still fiddling with the camera, you shrugged. “You tell me.” You smiled.

“You bitch.” 

bushbrigade1998: omg is this a collab?

user1290347865: I know this room. 

pussygenie: You&Penny? Same room? This is about to get messy. LOVE. 

nightowl5: get on with it.

cl1tf1ndr: that red one piece is stunning on u

katkilla✓: Penny find a new bombshell? 

“Kitty? No fucking way!” Penny crawled into the bed next to you, reading the comments from your phone. “What do we owe this big surprise? You already know the answer to that.” Penny smirked at the camera.

katkilla✓: well??? introduce us!

So she did, placing a gentle hand around your throat as she told the audience who you were. “She’s such a good girl, I promise.” Reaching her thumb up and caressing your bottom lip gently. 

“So? What should I do with her?” She asked the camera, picking your phone up waiting for a response. 

venusclaire: GET, THE, STRAAAAAAAAAAAP

nightowl5: fuck! please!

user6969: oooo mating press! 

“C’monnnn, I know you guys can do better than this.” You learned that Penny ran a strict program, no matter how many comments you responded to, you never — ever — take orders from anyone that isn’t donating. 

Penny held your chin up with her free fingers, while her thumb remained inside your mouth, pressing against your tongue. 

glitterclirz left a $50 dollar donation! -> show us her boobs. 

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Penny smiled, putting your phone down in front of you both. Taking her now damp thumb and sucking it clean from any excess saliva, you both giggled. 

Penny slid behind you, moving your hair out of the way and resting her head in the crook of your neck “She smells so good, like warm vanilla.” She boasted before shoving her nose into your skin “Penny, oh my god!” You giggled, she undid your bra, letting the Lacey material fall before you.

“Oh my god.” Ellie whispered to herself, setting her laptop back on the bed and sprawling across her mattress as she began skipping through the video. 

She got to a point where you’d both stripped down, the camera was no longer mounted now in the hands of Penny as she fingered you open, your moans loud as you gripped the red duvet beneath you. 

“Slip me a third- Please!” You begged, staring up into the camera, your eyes watery as if you were on the verge of tears. “So polite,” Penny taunted, but she did what you asked. 

“Fuck.” You breathed. 

Ellie was infatuated with you, skipping further, the two of you now grinding against each other. The ache between her legs was unbearable in her underwear, yet she felt as if she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the screen; from you. 

The camera was mounted once more, but off to the side this time. You were on top, being heavily guided by the girl beneath you “Penny, oh my god!” If you weren’t crying before, you definitely were now. Your voice was high pitched and shaky, your whimpers loud and long as the sound of your two sloppy cunts making out filled the room. 

“You’re doing great.” Penny whispered to you, she knew you were overwhelmed but you had an audience to please “Just one more, I know you can, for me?” 

And as always, you did what was asked of you, Penny sat up to meet you, your skin colliding and breaths aligning. “You’re so pretty.” Was all you could get out before kissing your best friend as you both finished, you held on to each other tight.

Ellie didn’t bother to stick around to see the rest, if she wasn’t horny before she was now. Scrolling your page, you had a lot of content up, many playlists and popular videos which eventually led her to your most recent upload.

The stream from a few nights ago, she was too deep to turn back now so she opened it. She skipped ahead, getting around to you touching yourself beneath the desk. Ellie didn’t hesitate, flipping onto her back and stuffing a hand down her track pants and underwear trying to follow your lead.

Running gentle circles over her own clit before catching your hand moving a bit quicker “Shit.” She uttered through gritted teeth, picking up her pace with you. 

You eventually got around to fingering yourself, Ellie of course followed, sliding her slender fingers in and out of herself at a similar pace “Holy Fuck-”

She stared up at the ceiling, brows furrowed and her bottom lip tucked between her teeth as her stomach tightened. “Oh my-” she heard you whimper one last time but she kept going, feeling herself grow closer by the second. 

She said your name like it’d summon you, whimpering in between each call as her orgasm washed over her. It was like a shock of electricity followed by nothing. She blacked out.

What woke her was another ping from her laptop, she stirred in her unconscious state before rolling over onto her still open laptop. 

“The fuck?” She rested herself on her elbows, still groggy. Her laptop screen lighting up and reading 

‘5:43 AM’

“Oh my god.” She groaned, buried her head into her pillow. Which was interrupted by another ping, she turned her head just enough to see the notification, it was Dina again.

The Man(Dina): I know this is a lot, don’t overwork urself, or anything

The Man(Dina): I kinda need u alive to have a job, yk?

The Man(Dina): No pressure :).

Ellie was still too preoccupied from the previous climax she was coming down from to care, the fuzzy feeling throughout her body and shaky legs. She slammed her laptop shut before flipping over and sighing “I’m too fucked for this.” She muttered before succumbing to her ever most needed sleep.

Her dreams weren’t any help either, you were there, making sure she did everything but sleep in her dreams.

[httpsastral]

so you're telling me that in FIVE YEARS no one in Jackson got with him???? HELL NAH i don't believe it